Stonefruit

A Little Passion with Your Disappointment

2008-08-21T23:01:00.000-07:00

School has officially started. It's a restart for me. The Biological Science class is fine. I don't understand any of it yet, but I didn't just graduate from high school, so maybe that's normal for those of us not working in a scientific field. My writing class is the true challenge. Because I know how to write, technically. I know what I consider writing. I have been an avid reader my entire life, as has every member of my family. It's made my tastes eclectic to say the least, but that has helped my writing as the years have gone by. I don't fit in anyone's genre and my work has never been compared to anyone else's. This could be a good or a bad thing, I guess. In any case, now I'm finally taking a class with a bunch of writers. My teacher has been published several times. Some of the students have already gotten a degree in English Lit or the like. Some of them have also published work, though I believe my teacher is the only one with a book under her belt. Some of them seem like little baby writers to me, still exploring, still excited more than scared. Some of them write like they've got something shoved in otherwise unexplored territory and though I don't think they'll be the ones dealing out harsh criticism, they won't be happy to be upstaged by anyone else. Some of them are just kind of there and lord knows what will become of them. It's an interesting mix of people. And I've noticed that people misbehave more online than they would in a regular classroom setting, so I don't expect it will always be easy to be involved. The good news is that I'm already writing more. I have three new story ideas, two that I started today at work. Flashes of memory keep snapping their little heads up in front of me shouting, "Look at me! Look at me!" They'd be annoying if they weren't so cute.

I'm going back to North Carolina for a visit next month, but I already want to write about it. I realized it would be good to write up a story about it, then revise it during the visit and once more after the visit. I think that will make it quite well-rounded. I don't know what the story will really be about, but I want it to capture the dark lushness of the Carolinas. That green vegetation so deep that it looks like it's going to either take you over or explode all over you. The sultry weather that crawls lovingly over your skin, surely trying to suffocate you with all its got. There is something sexy about the weather in the South, but the sexiness isn't human. No human can feel sexy with her hair and clothes plastered to her skin with sweat and her mascara running down her cheeks. But the weather is like a passionate lover that thinks only of herself. Swelteringly selfish bitch. I miss it and I don't. Being away from it, I remember it as warm full wet air that caressed my skin. I just know I didn't feel that way when I was there, but I wonder if the skinny girls like it better? Or do they wilt just like us?

Now that I've written about the warm weather, all I want to do is go to bed with the fan on full blast.

Such a Disappointment

2008-07-06T00:55:00.000-07:00

That's me. I have not been good about updating this blog-journal-y thing. Of course, unlike past excuses (laziness, forgetfulness, fearfulness, shoppingness...), I have a good one this time. Last month I made the decision to go back to school...again. Since then, I have been doing everything in my power to prepare myself (aside from signing up for classes, including filling out financial aid forms).

I finally joined the local library, both to save money and to have emergency backup internet access. I only joined a couple of weeks ago, but I already love it. I have already read and returned about a half dozen books and have a few more at home, not to mention the half dozen currently waiting in the hold rack for me to pick up on Monday. Although our library system in this county can never compare to the true love of my life, the Salt Lake City Public Library, I admit that I am very much impressed. I like that I can browse the entire county library system's catalog online and place holds for books or other materials that I want. I do not mind waiting while one location mails the book I want to the central location (where I go), as anything I am in a hurry to get I'd probably buy anyway. I am actually surprised at the good selection, but I suppose I shouldn't be, as it is a pretty big county. I also like that I can walk into the library, get my books off the hold shelf at the front, use the automated checkout and be out the door all in just a few minutes. In fact, I am so happy with the library that I donated three boxes of books to them last week (thanks for the help unloading and the dinner out, Merle).

Joining the library not only helps me stay away from Borders and Barnes & Noble, but thanks to the selection of various media, I can discontinue my subscription to BooksFree.com and lower my Netflix plan significantly. I'm saving about forty a month on those combined. And yet, I have to note that I'm a complete idiot for not doing this sooner.

As school will take up my free time on weekdays, I have also been taking care of doctor's visits. I have all my prescriptions in order and just had an eye exam. I'm downright proud of myself over this, as I usually procrastinate on anything related to doctors or dentists until I'm in pain (or nearly blind, as the case may be).

I have been working on prepping for my first science class in over a decade. My father has been extremely helpful with that. But it's still spooks me a little, it's just been so damn long. I might be adding to that this semester, so plan on seeing me even more freaked out if things work out that way. My father sent me a book called Schaum's Outline, the one for biological science. It's intimidating for me, but it's probably the perfect prep for an ongoing student. I actually had someone tell me the other day, "If you weren't good at Math or Science before, you're probably not going to be any better at it now." Yes, it made me want to kick 'im in the junk, but I refrained. Instead I told him that it only counts if you showed up for class in the first place. He thought that was funny and was oblivious to my irritation anyway.

Let me just say that negative crap like that is one of the reasons that I have not stayed in school in the past. I have let other people convince me that I am not smart enough (in one or two areas at least, if not in general) to go back to school. Or that I don't have the patience for it. Or that I am too old. Or that I should stick to what I know. Or...yeah, all kinds of monstrously pessimistic bullshit. What the hell is wrong with people? Why would anyone want to keep their friend down? I am so thankful for the friends I have who are excited for me to go back this time. It doesn't occur to them that I might fail, even though I have so much in the past. They're just supportive. And what's even better is that I have a few friends who are also back in school, so they can commiserate, as well as recommend teachers. This is not going to be easy, but I can see ahead more now. I have a goal in mind that I won't get into here because it's just too fragile to have someone rip it apart. But let me say that even if I find that it is not what I want, I can turn the courses that I take for it into another goal that is just as satisfying. And all naysayers: You can fuck right off, as SarahB would say.

Speaking of the lovely SarahB, she is going to help me with Math. I couldn't ask for a better teacher, even though it will be long distance.

So aside from struggling through Schaum's Outline, I'm struggling with Paradise Lost as part of an ongoing project (which will be followed by Dante) and reading my library books with a voracious appetite. I've gone through nine books in two weeks so far. I have not been getting good sleep lately, so the books help me pass the time that would usually see me in front of the computer or the TV. I'm much more likely to fall asleep while reading. I don't know what the insomnia is about. I assume it is a combination of the heat and the new neighbors.

Speaking of sleep, I should get to it. I leave you with a list of people I wish I could hang out with this week (a realistic one, that is):

Tam, Glenn and Stella
Rory, Chris, Dallas, Lucas and Everett
Merle and Co.
SarahB
My mum

Ah, almost forgot: My brother sent me a flag for 4th of July. A huge American flag with a certificate of authenticity. In the box I also found a lovely journal and a patch with Kenny from South Park on it that says, "You Sent Me To Iraq...You Bastards!" My brother rocks.

The Staying Power of Sheep

2008-06-09T19:29:00.000-07:00

Three things I bought myself today:
A pedometer
Another writing magazine
A small fan

One thing I wish I could get rid of:
Really noisy neighbors. And young. And white trash. Noisy and young and white trash. Awesome. I came back to California for this?

I had this great spurt of writing where things were just coming to me. Flow. It gets harder, you know. And easier at some point again, I assume. I hope. It's easier when I exercise more. Probably because I sleep better. Which is another reason I bought the fan today: so I can sleep through the night now that it's getting hotter (and the A/C is only in the living room, not to mention noisy as all get out). I'm already sleeping with no covers; I gave up on them after finding that I kicked them onto the floor every morning for a week. So yeah, exercise is becoming even more important now. I had a dry spell for a couple of weeks, but I was writing a lot, just not working out. Then the writing dried up and I realized that I had no routine anymore and became disappointed, as I had been doing so well. At least I didn't let it go for too long, got back on the horse, though not as strong as I had been. I can still do the intermediate Pilates, but I feel my body going back to being less flexible again. Today I had luck in that department, though. I got up, did my morning writing, finished my weekly check-in and did my workout. While I was waiting for my laundry, Jen called. Jen just quit smoking. Made herself an action plan and bought the patch. I think today might have been her first day, if not, definitely her first week. She wanted to see if she could use the gym in my building and I realized this was a great opportunity to do something good for me on my last day off of the week. We both used the elliptical and the treadmill and wished they had installed fans in the little gym room on the first floor. I realized that Bruce Springsteen is great for starting a workout, AC/DC will keep you going and Aimee Mann is perfect for the cooldown. We did about twenty minutes, then went out to the pool and jumped in fully clothed (well, minus shoes). It is not as nice a set up as I had in my last apartment, in Concord. But I sometimes wondered if the rent was so high because I was helping pay for the year-round heating of the lap pool. I always thought it was a ridiculous waste of energy, and the memory of it helped me appreciate how cold our little kidney bean-shaped pool here was today. Still, I couldn't help but miss that place in the context of exercise. The gym in the main building was gorgeous and had all kinds of equipment, even a balance ball. There were two televisions and A/C, they even had public restrooms that were well-maintained. The pool was huge and there were not only barbecues that anyone could use, but big open showers and a hot tub. It was beautiful and my apartment was mammoth, but it had no character and they now charge about $500 more a month for that apartment than the one I currently live in.

There are so many things I could write about here, but nothing's coming. I'm too distracted right now. I could feel miserable about it, but I am not going to be inspired every day, not with the way I live. I don't enjoy my job...understatment, I can't stand it half the time. I have spent way too long not taking care of myself physically and that creates a lot of unhappiness and will do so until I get it under control. I am learning how to appreciate what I have again, instead of just getting by with what I can. This is never easy, this process of processing. Learning to give myself time to do the things that will matter in the long run, like giving myself time to write every single day--this is a hard lesson that people generally have to learn over and over again through many years. We start something good and then we let things get in the way or we let someone's opinion bring us down or we just let ourselves get in the way. This is human. It might suck, but it's not abnormal. In fact, I think it's one of the few utterly normal things about me. I suppose I shouldn't take it for granted, right?

No, I have no desire to be "normal" if it means being unhappy. And from what I can tell, that's exactly what it means a lot of the time. The people I know who do things differently, who don't follow the pack, they have moments of despair of feeling unaccepted, but live most of their lives joyfully because they're not afraid to be joyful, even if it means that other people get embarassed. I know all kinds of people who are funny, who love to entertain, but they're pretty angry inside. I don't want to be like them. I don't want my bitterness to be the only means of entertaining. I want joy. I want to feel alive with happiness, not just because I can experience sorrow. I want to be different and be fine with it because I always have been different and becoming what other people want me to be has never brought me anything but misery. I'm not exaggerating here. I'm not like other people. I find it hard to believe that I should be. That anyone should be. There is such diversity in each of us, why would we want to be sheep? Who wants to follow someone else's rules? Live someone else's life. They accuse me of rejecting any chance of happiness and success by not following some kind of pattern. If one person succeeded this way, then so will you? It doesn't work that way! Not every writer has to have a degree in Journalism, English Literature, etc. Not every musician went to Juilliard (and even some who did, didn't turn out the way they were supposed to, but thank god for Aimee Mann). If I make myself live up to some sort of ideal like that, then I might as well say that I have to drink heavily to write as well as Bukowski or go through electroshock therapy to write songs like Lou Reed. Of course our experiences shape us, but we don't have to be beaten or cast off or addicted to heroin to be creative. And creativity has nothing to do with following procedure. I don't write to get published. I certainly don't write to get famous. I write because it's what I do and it's what makes me happy. Everything else is secondary. Everything else is the means to let the writing out.

I exercise so I can sleep, so I can be confident, so I can write. I eat well so that I don't make myself sick, so that I'm not distracted, so I can write. I watch movies and read books about a variety of things so I can be entertained, so I can learn, so I can write. Even going back to school is about writing. I don't know that I would be returning to it this fall if it weren't for the fact that I know whatever I take will help my writing. Whether it's Short Story Writing or Biological Science, everything I learn goes into my writing. And writing always makes me happy, even when I write about the things in life that are sad.

n. One who writes, especially as an occupation

2008-05-31T15:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes movies about writers make me so very angry. The idea of someone managing to eke out an existence only by the strength of their pen is very romantic. And there are, indeed, some people who manage it. But some films out there, usually romantic comedies, make it seem so damn easy. And maybe had I taken things more seriously when I was younger, been more constant, more driven, maybe then I would have been able to live off my writing. As it is now I cannot imagine what it would be like to be able to spend a week struggling with writer's block or developing a story, researching. That's just such a fantasy for me. To actually have time.

I write first thing in the morning, three full pages. Sporadically at work, either into a notebook I keep with me or a quick email I shoot off to my home address (missives). I write every night when I get home, usually working on the story I started at my dad's request (I finally decided to write an outline for it so I can work on any part of it and worry about the flow later). I rarely wake up in the middle of the night to write down dreams because I'm so in love with my sleep that I always want to get right back to it, but sometimes I'll bring a notebook to the bathroom, then go back to bed. On my days off if I have a moment to myself I can sit down and get a lot done, but I'm usually trying to see friends or cleaning or doing my laundry or the dishes...I actually get more writing done before and after work than anything. But imagine if I could write every single day, for the entire day. My friend Andy said that Stephen King writes for four hours straight every day. Oh, what a wonderful thing that must be. To pour yourself into the page daily and for such length. When I give myself one hour I discover so many great things, how fantastic would it be to have four! And not four squeezed desperately into the day, but four at any point I chose and with the knowledge that other things were not looming over me, needing to be done.

I always work so hard at my job. I have done so for pretty much every job I've ever had, even the ones I didn't like. My work ethic is fantastic...when it comes to employment. I don't know why I could never apply that to school. That isn't to say that I've always done poorly in school (though for a long time that was true). My last semester I had high marks, the highest I'd ever had, and they were difficult classes. But I didn't put my all into them. I wasn't motivated to be the best I could be. Even at the job I have now where I rarely feel challenged, I work my ass off. I've been trying to figure out how to apply that to my writing because I do not believe that it is too late. I want it too much and love it too well for it to be too late. Besides, it's not like I'm a middle-aged actress who still wants to be an ingenue. I can write at any age, at any time, anywhere. Being such a latebloomer, I'm fortunate in the art that chose me. And after all moments of regret (for there have been many), I am still resolved to start again and ignore the snarky voice in the back of my head that says, "Oh yeah, that's a new one."

So tomorrow is Sunday, my only day to get things done. I'll clean in the morning, work out, then I'm going to try to spend the rest of the day writing. For Monday brings my dear friend Andy, on leave from Iraq, and a day in the city looking for the perfect fountain pen for me and the perfect glass of Scotch for him.

Bound

2008-05-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

My father, who is always very supportive of my writing, recently advised me to try writing fiction, in addition to journals. Most of the writing I have done in the past has been autobiographical. I do not think that is what they mean when they say, "Write what you know." I had already been working on a story in my head while I was in Portland. Bits of it were in the writing I did sitting on Margaret and Paul's back deck, though those were unintentional--they just come out onto the page. That story is ever evolving, I think about it all the time. But it is not simple enough for a short story. There is too much that I want to do with it and I would never be happy asking less of it. Instead, I wrote a short story about something that I had wanted to write about for a long time. The death of a friend.

I am long past the anger it caused me and I feel a strange distance from the grief, as I had not seen him for some time. When I do think of it, I often feel that the grief belongs to those who loved him still, who were still in his life. I have never had any desire to write a story about the way he did, what came before it, what caused it, anything like that. So I took what I know and I turned it inside out and I created something new from it. Something that skims the surface of my feelings surrounding his death and my relationship with him, but cannot affect anyone who knew him.

This has always been my problem, though. I write about all of these things that have happened, but I never want anyone else to read them. I cannot endure them being in the hands of a stranger. There are all kinds of fears behind it, but not one of them is that the stranger will not like the story (which is unusual for me, I'm terrified of criticism). I am more afraid that it will hurt someone in my family. I have thought up hundreds of storylines based on my experiences and I have not yet been able to separate them enough from fact to not upset anyone.

That said, or that realized, it is time for me to explore both complete fiction and turning my experiences into something relevant for someone else.

And now I am being hurried out the door to meet friends for drinks last minute. Sorry this is not more thoroughly explained. More later.

Progresstination

2008-05-24T01:15:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, my stepmother gave me a book for writers called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. I took to it immediately and got through the first three chapters easily, enjoying the ride. Then I stopped. I picked it up again a few years later and did the exact same thing. For some reason, I just could not get past the third chapter. I did get something very good out of it, though: my first tool. It is the very first tool that Cameron offers and she calls it "the morning pages." The idea is to write three pages in a notebook first thing in the morning, before doing anything else. You can write anything at all and I clearly remember how difficult it sometimes was to get through those pages every morning. I remember mornings in my Grand Avenue apartment in Oakland, laying on my futon by the two big windows that provided my light and scribbling like mad until my hand was aching and that I never wanted to go back and read any of it because it was just not interesting stuff. The point is to get all the crap out.

Now I understand its use even better, after a long writing hiatus. I realize that I was keeping the crap thoughts around during that time because I knew that cleaning them out would mean having to think about what I knew was happening and I just did not want to deal with that. It was not procrastination, it was avoidance. I now have to wonder how much more I would have seen if I had allowed myself to and I find that I am not overly regretful about what I subconsciously did. But now...now I can pin down the stuff I do not need that is just floating all around me and let the good, satisfying ideas come. This one tool has served me very well, whether for my writing or just for living my life and dealing with the things that come at me.

My copy of The Artist's Way is still in storage...somewhere...so I decided to buy a different book by the same author, The Writing Diet. I made it through the first chapter. I am really not good at following directions sometimes. I have not given up, but I did realize that maybe I should start with something smaller. So I overcame my fear of writing magazines.

I have deliberately ignored this same section of bookstores for as long as I have considered myself a writer...so about seventeen years? I simply adore magazines: Women's Health, Everyday with Rachael Ray, Real Simple, Self, Mental Floss--my habit is pretty bad. I had decided that I would figure out which magazines I am really going to buy every issue of, then get subscriptions since it is so much cheaper that way. Women's Health is certainly a favorite. It covers everything I need it to and does not have the fluff that I find entertaining but useless. So there I was, in Borders, looking for a pocket-sized book for my trip to Portland and holding a copy of Women's Health; wandering through the magazine section. Being the sucker that I am for small cafes and good bookstores, I picked up a magazine with an article about "literary hotspots." It had reviews of just such places for writers to go and...well, write...in major cities. I glanced at the title of the magazine and realized, to my horror, that I was holding a copy of exactly the kind of magazine I had been avoiding for so long.

Let me explain how I felt, at the time, about these magazines. I felt intimidated. I felt sure that I would be overwhelmed by the expectations of the people writing the magazine--that I would fail all their "are you really a writer?" tests. I love writing so much and it feels so natural that I did not want anyone to tell me that I am doing it wrong or that I need some tool or kit in order to make it better. And although I would love to see something I wrote get published, I have no desire for the pressure of generating something for that purpose. I do have a certain order in mind and it dictates that one shall have written something worth publishing first, then try to sell it. Despite all these fears converging in front of strangers and most likely very clear on my face (more likely looking as if I had just realized that I had to get to a bathroom stat), I decided to suck it up and buy the damn thing.

I proceeded to pack it in my bag for Portland along with my writer's book and forget about both of them for my entire trip.

Luckily, I found myself bored out of my mind at work and I just happened to have my copy of Writer's Digest still in my bag. The first day I read a couple of articles, flipping to them at random, and enjoyed them. Then I found myself going back again and again, more interested in what these people had to say and what advice they could offer. Even without having any future plans to look for an agent or a publisher, it was interesting to read about that kind of search. Even the ads pertained to writers, which should not have surprised me, but did because I was not thinking that far ahead. Plainly, I will be subscribing to this magazine. Why? Because it both gave me some reassurance and opened my eyes to things I had not been willing to consider.

Years and years ago I was a poet in Santa Barbara doing well for myself. I had a regular venue for readings and a small group of fans which actually consisted of some people I did not know. Poetry is not something I do anymore, though I do like to look at my old stuff (I actually like it, surprisingly enough). The memory of how that felt, the thrill and the fear, is actually motivation enough to make me want to broaden my horizons. Don't get me wrong, I have no intention of buying the "novel writing kit." Despite my great love of list-making, I just do not make lists for my writing. Not of possible titles or character names or themes. I mean, I make lists of things I want to buy, things I need, things I want to look for online, I have a whole notebook filled with lists of everything imagineable. But NOT anything to do with writing. It is completely organic for me.

That said, I think it may be time to look at other tools. I cannot be organized by someone else meticulously, but I can use random things that have worked for other people and make my own system. I cannot know how much better I could be until I try to move out of my comfort zone. This does not mean that I will necessarily get past that third chapter of The Artist's Way or the first one of The Writing Diet. However, it does mean that I will have more resources and that I will take more risks to be better, to learn more and to not get stuck.

So, this is progress.

Sun and Beer

2008-05-22T13:54:00.001-07:00

You should all go to this website and watch the Crazy Dumbsaint recording because the guitarist (the one not singing) is my dear friend Paul (my dear friend Margaret's husband) and they're fantastic. Plus, that guitar Paul is playing--he made it his own damn self.

http://www.portlandnoise.com/?episode=3

In other news, I went to Portland. It was sunny. It was hot. I took pictures. I sat in the sun and wrote strange fiction about a dead girl and imagined a cool, quiet home for her and listened to Sun Kil Moon. I ate really fabulous strawberries. I walked a lot and slept in a cool, dark basement room that felt like the perfect shelter after spending all that time in the sun. I finished reading Persuasion and wished I had the movie version starring Ciaran Hinds. I missed Jen and told her so. I bought a wallet by Queen Bee Creations that I'm very much in love with. I bought cute little notecards and immediately sent them out to my mother and my brother with letters inside. I madea new friend, Miss Cherry, who likes to read my writing and inspired a series of letters that I look forward to writing each night. Then I came home and drank beer with Jen. The end.

Comfort

2008-05-05T01:17:00.000-07:00

I finished reading Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen last week and am now about halfway through Sense and Sensibility. I had not read Austen in a long time because she was so familiar and I wanted something new. Now I turn back to her because I remember that reading her made me feel smarter, question more, have to look at my dictionary often and laugh more than almost anyone else I have read. Though Jeanette Winterson will always be close to my heart, it is Jane Austen whose words stay within it. I find no greater source of comfort than each and every novel that she wrote. Maybe part of that comfort is that unlike with modern writers (Winterson herself, Augusten Burroughs, David Sedaris, Alice Hoffman, Dorothy Alison just to name a few), Austen rarely writes anything...unsettling. I may be reading about characters who endure sadness, but none of the sadness stays. I also realize (as I told Jen today) that I look forward the most to the descriptions of her most foolish characters (for example, Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice and Lucy Steele in Sense and Sensibility). Most writers seem to give a lot of energy to their unlikeable characters, but Austen's descriptions make you happy that they exist, though they exist to annoy.

But I meant to write of comfort today and the discomfort that often goes along with trying to find it...

There have been many times in my life when I have felt it necessary to do something rash in order to feel something other than what I have been feeling. Every time I was deeply wounded (emotionally, of course), I would do something significant. I twice got a tattoo, once got a piercing, once gave up vegetarianism and on more than one occasion left something behind that I would later regret (a job, a lover, a state). I fear I may have actually grown up enough to not run away from the way I have felt recently. That I will endure what I can, find comfort where I can and make a move to change my life when I can. Which is to say that it will have to be (I close my eyes and sigh as I say...) gradual.

I have recently discovered that being hasty has done me no favors. I have also discovered that slowly letting things go and letting new things in improves me. Two months ago I decided to start doing Pilates at a very easy level, beginning with fifteen minutes and moving one minute a day up to forty five minutes over the course of six weeks. I promised myself I would at least try to work out three times a week. I now do an intermediate level for at least thirty minutes five times a week and I rarely give it a second thought. In fact, I am adding in weight training and actually looking forward to it. This has started to wear my waist down and none of my pants fit right. This is meant to be good news. And for the most part it is, except that I am finally have to deal with the fact that instant gratification rarely happens (i.e. the pants I have from before also do not fit, they are still too snug). I am always so determined to have what I want as quickly as possible, but I have noticed that I generally get the nearest thing to what I want quickly because it is the first thing that shows up and rarely get exactly what I want because I have distracted myself with the weak substitute. Impatience has gotten for me many imposters and not much that is real.

And so I sit in my sadness until it is comfortable and I can wiggle around a bit. I let it sink in a little and I do not fight it. It will be my companion because of my disposition until I have everything figured out. I will not suddenly find a solution, act on it, and have my life resolved all within a few days. I once did truly believe that such a thing was possible. It is not. At least it has never been so for me. Spontaneity is lovely and there is always room for it in my life, but I cannot apply it to every aspect. I cannot just leave anything that I have right now, I owe myself to work things out slowly and carefully. To make the best decisions I can. At some point I'll wear the sadness down and my life won't fit right. But I'll be able to start another leg of this journey having given away all my old pants and wearing new ones that fit nicely.

Really, though, I do not feel the sudden optimism of hasty change that I have felt before, but what feels like long-term motivation. I want more than anything to feel excited and see that my eyes are bright in the mirror because there is so much possibility. But instead I take great comfort in the fact that the things I have pulled together are staying with me for a change. I am fond of my writing right now. I look forward to getting up in the morning and hashing out three pages in my journal. I look forward to whatever those morning minutes on paper will reveal to me each time, what will I learn today about my crazy self? I am happy to buy pens and notebooks and a very small dictionary because I know their value once again. When I read, I want nothing more in the world but to be absorbed by the novel. I have no desire to eat or watch tv or call anyone, I just want to sink in and when I sit down to do this I have a smile spread wide over my face. This is the same way I feel about writing in a journal when I am on public transportation. It is natural and provides such happiness. I take comfort in these things that I can do all by myself. That I need no one else for except strangers to ring me up at the book store and provide me with characters for my stories when I write. Although I have to admit that my work does very well at providing the latter (well...the more disagreeable characters, at least!).

Wishing Well

2008-04-30T00:14:00.000-07:00

There was a long decade or so of constant loss in my...younger years. Just when I would think that things were going back to normal, I would lose one more, in one way or another. And so, being human and therefore fallible, I created a protective shell. I struck off down the safest path. I pushed anyone out the door that I could feel anything for and I built my own little world. Sure, I got hurt just the same, but it felt different...for a while, at least. It felt safer. I was more sure of things, more in control. I began to feel smarter despite my mistakes. I felt there was reason behind the humiliation I put myself through because I didn't really want them anyway, so it didn't matter as much when they rejected me or just plain left. It still hurt, it was bound to hurt anyway, I'm too sensitive, get too attached--even to them. But it wasn't devastating like it had been before. And it was a huge plus that no one was dying.

And so I wake up here and I've created this body that is my enemy now. I have a traitor for a heart, a wishy-washy traitor at that. I've chosen to fill the void with sentimentality and find it hard to let go of even the smallest things.

I have no idea where I want to be. I missed California when I was away from it. I miss North Carolina now that I'm back. I miss Utah, South Carolina, New York, New Jersey, anywhere I've spent time. None of them feel like home and yet I miss them as if they were. Why? Why be sad that I have so many options? Or maybe the sadness is because it felt so comfortable for a while to have everyone in the same place, so I didn't have to decide where I wanted to be. People have always been my home. But now everyone is scattering, not to mention those whom I knew would be scattering because of their line of work. To Utah. To Italy. To Oregon. To whatever is after the war. And I could literally go anywhere. I have a portable job and once the future-Italians leave, I won't feel the pull to stay here that I once did. And part of me wants to pack up and leave now. Or next week. Or next month. Or next year. And part of me thinks it will just be the same thing over again. The same pattern. Discovery, bordeom, move on. Discovery, boredom, move on. Discovery, great deal of pain, long mourning period, move on. Yes, I break up with the places I live just like I break up with lovers. Funny that.

Directionless

2008-04-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with a friend last night and we found ourselves talking about being unhappy where we are in life. This could have easily been a depressing conversation, but it turned into something else. Commiseration, yes. But there is something about knowing you're not the only one who feels a certain way that makes it easier to deal with. I started this blog again after one such conversation with a different friend. So now there are a couple of people in my life who understand what I'm going through, as they either have or are dealing with it, as well.

Last night my friend pointed out to me that it is not just about where we're at mentally. We both live in the county we grew up in, which by itself is not the problem. The simple fact is that we're surrounded by ignorance and prejudice here that we'd forgotten about when we were moving around larger metro areas. When we lived in Oakland we did not encounter the fat prejudice that this place reaks of. Considering that I don't even remotely consider her fat, I was surprised that she'd felt it, too. But there it is, people practically hissing as you walk by, they can't believe you're fat, of all things. And here's the worst part--there is a higher rate of obesity here than in any metro area. There is a higher rate of ignorance, prejudice of every kind, just complete narrowmindedness. We know, we spent nineteen years in it before either of us even thought to get away from it. I suppose we thought it would be different now or we could handle it, but it is suffocating. I never felt like a fat freak when I lived in Oakland. I dated more when I lived and worked out there and I do remember my appeal to the other sex diminishing when I first moved back to this area. I can always see it in people's eyes. That quick judgement. And in a place known for it's methheads and white trash, it's almost comical. But then I realize that even if I lose all the weight I want to, I'll still stand out. She and I always have, though for different reasons. We don't act the way people would like us to here. We were always different, I'm sure it's why we were drawn to each other as friends in the first place. It's not a horrible feeling, to be an outsider. Not when you're comfortable in your skin, as we once were.

I remember being told once to not let other people drive me away from something I was interested in. The truth is that people are what I write about, so I want to be surrounded by people I find interesting and even inspirational. I want to live in an area that has actual culture. This area claims to, but when I think about going to see a play or a small show, I look elsewhere. I look for a place with diversity and this place has never appreciated that.

By the time my friend left last night I felt more optimistic about my future, about the things I've decided to do and about me not being so much the lone freak anymore. I also started thinking about what I considered inevitable a long time ago--moving away from here. That is to say when I'm ready, when I actually have a plan, it does need to happen.

The expectation is that I will stay in my current field and my current residential area. The reality is that I have to go where I'm going to be happy and so far both have only managed to keep me floating. I thought they were both okay because I wasn't miserable, but how the hell is that good enough? I want to be happy. I believe I have the right to give myself that much. All the expectations from others that I'm faced with are based on a general personality, not on my own. Generally a person will be happy if they have a job and a roof over their head, but is that really enough? It's enough to not take it for granted, but is it enough forever? No. I mean, hell no. There is so much more to life. There are so many things that we can make happen, why would we settle? Why would I stay here when there are so many experiences out there just waiting for me? Because it's safe? Because I don't want my family to worry about me? That's no way to live a life.

I look at what my brother did, in his thirties, when he was directionless. It scared the hell out of me that my quiet, sweet big brother would drop everything and join the military. None of us saw that coming. And yet it was exactly where he was meant to be. It is the right place for him. I've never seen him happier. Every time I talk to him he is just so excited to be doing exactly what he is doing right now. And you wouldn't believe the opportunities that he will soon have available to him. He found his path. Isn't it obvious that I haven't really found mine? So then why would anyone want me to stay here? Like this. Barely making it by. Scrambling to find something interesting to keep me from falling off the edge. Why?

No decision is set. I won't submit myself to another upheaval like the ones from the past. But if I sit here thinking this is all that's left for me, I will keep dying a little inside every day until there's nothing worth remembering anymore. And we can't have that, can we?

Oh Yeah...That

2008-04-24T01:34:00.004-07:00

I just glanced at the last post I made in February and realized...oh...this has been coming on for a while, hasn't it? It just never felt like this before, so I didn't recognize it as the same. I guess it's not the same. The culmination perhaps? I was supposed to start over before. I was supposed to begin again after I left Whole Foods. When I became a dispatcher. When I moved to Fayetteville. When I came back. When I could find the time. I just never did. Never made the time to change. Scared of it, as always. Not afraid of the upheaval. Not afraid of learning a new place. Not afraid of new jobs. Just afraid of getting what I want. Afraid of disappointment. Afraid of disappointing myself. Fear should not be such a constant in anyone's life.

I did notice tonight that I suffered a range of emotions while I was at work that I haven't been having outside of it. So backward. I was rabid-dog-angry at one point (I wanted to punch someone in the face, really I did) and had to put on my headphones before I lost it. Not fifteen minutes later I was laughing so hard my face flushed bright red and I couldn't get out an explanation to my co-workers (when I did, they laughed as hard as I did, at least). I had moments of contentedness, listening to a mix I made to write to and doing no-brain-required data entry. Getting things done always brings me some kind of happiness. I got irritated a few more times by ridiculous things someone was saying and had to bite my tongue. But I left feeling fine. And then I drove home, that simple, straight ten minute drive. As I passed through the second stoplight on my way back home my face went slack and I stopped caring again. I shrugged to myself and realized I wouldn't sleep well again tonight. I thought about how I seemed to get my appetite back again a little tonight, but then remembered that right after I ate I felt queasy and like my heart was beating too fast and trying to come out of my throat. Like being choked up without the emotion. I find that I'm just trying to keep myself busy until something passes. Until this something leaves me alone.

At least I have music.

The Secret Life of Daydreams by Jean-Yves Thibaudet
Empty by Ray LaMontagne
A Comet Appears by The Shins
I Feel It All by Feist
Down Boy by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Pills by Gary Jules
Pioneer to the Falls by Interpol
Flume by Bon Iver
Square One by Tom Petty
Dawn by Jean-Yves Thibaudet
Teardrop by Massive Attack
Fidelity by Regina Spektor
Intuition by Feist
Let Me Know by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Black Wave by The Shins
Rest My Chemistry by Interpol
and all of In Rainbows by Radiohead

If you know Revaz or just want to know who inspired me to make my somewhat melancholy little mix, go to: http://revaz.el-oso.net/2008/04/ or click on the title of this post.

Restart Sucks

2008-04-23T12:52:00.003-07:00

Beginning all over again feels good for about the first five minutes, then reality sets in and suddenly you realize just how much work is ahead of you.

I write every morning in one journal, a black fancy leather one that actually has the word "journal" embossed on the cover. It sits on my kitchen table/desk and the moment I'm done with breakfast I start writing until three pages are filled. Sometimes I'm in a mood and it's easy to fill them. Today was a little lazy at first, but then I thought about a teacher I had once who wanted to be involved with me and that tied into so many different things that I was done before I knew it.

I write in a reporter's notebook at work, a medium size black ideal-for-a-lefty place to scribble. I write in that whenever I have a moment or if something occurs to me that I feel the need to write down. Last night I sketched someone's mugshot because he had such a notable face, then felt bad for thinking a criminal was exceptional looking.

I write in yet another journal at night, a pale blue paperbound notebook, no spirals, that has a built in band to keep it closed. My best writing is in there, my end of the day writing, my no more crap blocking me writing. I put dreams in that one, too, though only one has really made it in there so far. I like this one best because it also contains memories played out like works of fiction. Perhaps it is my embellishment journal, at least more so than the other two.

I have what I think of as a decoy journal, as well. Years ago my then-boyfriend was snooping through my things (we hadn't been dating long) and found a small spiral notebook of mine. He opened it, expecting all my secret desires and sick fantasies would be waiting for him inside. It was a collection of lists. I think he was not just disappointed, but a little horrified. I stopped writing lists for a while after that, thinking there was something wrong with me. But then I realized that the lists had been helping build and strengthen my memory and I hated doing without them. So I did without him instead. (My real journal was in that bag, he just stopped looking too soon.)

Last night I looked up writer's workshops and class schedules at the local community college. I only have two consistent days off every week (the third is every other week) and since one is Sunday (when no one offers anything), I only have Mondays available and then every morning of the week. I hate getting up early. I like my half-days of rest or routine and the idea of going back to school is not appealing when I compare it to sitting here, writing. But I will have to make a decision that I don't want to make. I've already pretty much decided that Mondays are better for a workshop, as I won't be going to a local one. If I'm going to end up in Berkeley, Oakland or San Francisco, I should make a day of it. I don't get out enough to not do that. So then school...right...something I've never been entirely good at. And I won't have the luxury of taking English Lit classes this time around. I simply don't have the time or money to take a class I don't need. So it will be Math, Science or History...perhaps two of those. The workshop will offset the possible dreariness for me. But thinking back on it, I didn't enjoy Math and Science before because I was rebelling against my father. As that is no longer an issue, and in fact he and I discuss at least Science quite often (the medical research part), I may actually enjoy myself. I'm not promising myself anything, but I'm thinking I should be a little more optimistic about this. I shouldn't look at it as a job I have to do to get by. I already have one of those.

A Quick and Dangerous Letter

2008-04-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

I was just looking over the small amount of writing I’ve worked on over the last couple of years. I can’t bear to open up and read these pieces, I just glance at their titles, document names on my laptop, and I know two things to be true. 1-The letters are well-written because they’re meant to help other people. 2-The writing is bare, but not raw. It’s the least bit of effort and with very little flow. I did not lose a part of me. I did not forget how to write, although I have spent quite a bit of time trying to convince myself that this is the problem. The truth is that I was created to write. Regardless of whether or not other people like what I write, what I will write, I was meant to do this. Nothing else in my life makes as much sense.

I have a long memory that has served as a device to torture me over the years. And the need to analyze everything, also torturous. Let’s not forget my terribly active imagination. Ah, and my intuition. I see more than I should and more than other people are willing to admit, I always have. It was described as being “hyper-sensitive,” but it is still a talent in a way. These four things have hurt me over and over again throughout my life. There have been times when I wished I could just forget something. Times when I wished I could let it go instead of trying to unravel the mystery. Times when I wished I could just see things for what they are right now and not imagine what they could be. Times when I wished I had a thicker skin and couldn’t tell what people were thinking about me. If I could have had those wishes, my life would have been easier. Last week wouldn’t have happened the way it did. I also wouldn’t be able to write for shit.

My worst flaws are my greatest allies when it comes to the one thing in this world that I feel I just have to do. The one thing I love no matter what is going on in my life, no matter how I feel.

Let me explain what the past week was like for me.

Early in the week I got sick, some sort of stomach virus I thought. I stayed home, reading books that I love and sleeping a lot. When I returned to work I felt more than anything that it was the last place I wanted to be. I do not hate my job, but I don’t love it either. It is the first job in a very long time that I have not enjoyed in some way. Knowing that made me want to get up and run out the door, never looking back. I fought the urge. But when I got home, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in my apartment, in a chair, trying to watch a movie and felt lonely. Lonely in a way that leaves a mark.

I’ve been single for a really long time and, honestly, it hasn’t really bothered me. I recognized a few years ago that I didn’t have the best taste in men and am, for the large part, better off alone. I decided that when I can make a healthy decision for my romantic life, I’m allowed to have one again. I have worked hard on that. I’ve changed my lifestyle to be healthier and tried to have a more positive attitude (even at work). So this loneliness came as a great surprise. At first I thought that maybe my mom was right, I really do need to “get out there” again. I actually believed that this overwhelming feeling of sadness was a void that could be filled by the right guy. But then I looked around at what I’ve made of my life and realized that I don’t like it. What kind of person would I attract right now? Not the kind I would want. My life has been too chaotic the last two years. I have no direction as far as my career goes. I’m in limbo in so many aspects and that is exactly the kind of person I would attract. Someone as directionless as me. That is the last thing I would want for myself.

With that realization, the melancholy (I hesitate to describe it as depression) started to grow. I tried to make it go away. I tried to concentrate on movies, phone calls from friends, I even spent a lovely day with my friend and her daughter. I enjoyed myself, so I couldn’t fathom why it felt like something was wrapping its arms around me when I wasn’t looking and dragging me down again. Lower each time.

I have been sad before like this, but it was always for a reason. A clear, defined, undeniably good reason. Someone walking out on me. Or having to walk away from someone when I knew it wouldn’t work. A lousy fight with one of my parents. Grieving for a friend or family member. Of course I’d be sad. Of course I’d feel lost. Of course I’d get over it eventually because time would fade the memories and give me new perspective. But this…this was like drowning. I was on the phone with my mother having a great conversation about Italy and suddenly there were tears sliding down my face and I didn’t know why. I forced myself to sit down and eat three times a day, but I wasn’t hungry. I would think I was and make food and then sit and stare at it, with no real desire to eat it, no real joy to be had from it.

And so, I did the one thing that I remember always helped me through everything else. The one place my heart is always okay. I sat down with a pen and a notebook and started writing. I wrote for hours, pages and pages of questions and suggestions and memories I didn’t particularly want to deal with. I let every demon loose and then I pinned the suckers down like insects in a science project, one by one. I felt a little better after the second night of doing that, but there was still a gaping hole sitting there inside me, kind of groaning and I sank onto my bed, closed my notebook and thought of someone I lost a couple of years ago whom I wished more than anything to be able to talk to again.

I don’t know if that was what changed things. Or if I just needed to work out the knot in my head. But I finally came to a few conclusions.

I cannot be depressed the way other people are. I have to fight. I can’t stand being sad like that. I may lose myself in fits of it, but I find it unbearable to be in the grips of something so out of my control and I am a strong enough person to tell those feelings to fuck right off.

I cannot NOT write. It is totally natural for me to sit down and pour everything onto paper (and I do mean everything). When it felt unnatural, it was because I was not letting it out. I was afraid of things I had to deal with, afraid of hurting more. I didn’t realize then how much damage I was doing, that I was making it worse. I didn’t want to write about what happened in Fayetteville. I didn’t want to write about being directionless for years. I didn’t want to write about not knowing what to do with myself or how to deal with my procrastination when it came to fulfilling any of my dreams. I didn’t want to write about the people who told me again and again to be realistic and find something stable. I followed their directions into this mess, but it’s still my fault. I can no more give up writing than I can give up breathing. I wish I had understood this sooner, at least in the way I do now.

I cannot quit my current job, much as I want to on a daily basis. I’m single and in my thirties, I can’t just leave. I need the money for rent, I need the benefits for my health, and I need the stability until I can figure out a direction to go. I have no desire to stay on this career path, which I know will break my mother’s heart and make her worry. But even she has to admit that when it came to seeing loneliness on her daughter’s face; the first thing she suggested was a writer’s workshop. Whether or not she wants to admit it, she knows where I belong as much as I do. Though I would love nothing more than to runaway and make something of myself as a writer, I can’t run this time. I’ve spent too much of my life making those kinds of decisions and they’ve never led me anywhere good. As stifling as this job is, it is the foundation that I have to have right now. It’s simply where I’m at until I can sit down and plan my next move. And that move has to be followed by others that lead in a logical direction towards a goal that will make me happy. I’m so very tired of being unhappy. I know it must make me a bit unpleasant. I can see it on your faces; hear it in your voices. I’m trying really hard not to be disappointed in me, too, because it doesn’t seem to really serve anything.

But here is my best conclusion. I have everything I need to make myself happy. I am entirely capable of it. My patience may be thin these days, but I’ve always had endurance. I’ve spent the last seven weeks slowly rebuilding muscles I forgot I had, becoming stronger and healthier through diet and exercise and I haven’t given up even though I’ve really felt like it a few times. I’ve given myself the role of being responsible for a few people on the same path (to physical well-being, I guess), because there is no better motivation for someone like me. If I can do that, something I have never had passion for before, how can I go wrong with the one thing I love most in the world? I may never get paid for it, I may never be published, but I will write. It is the one thing I am absolutely sure of. Knowing that has been enough to make the melancholy step aside and let me breathe again.

Unlikeable

2008-02-16T23:57:00.003-08:00

I did not think that in my thirties I would still have "firsts." The first time I really punched a wall (badly bruising my knuckles). The first time I said I was sorry just to end a fight that I knew I couldn't win. The first time I backed down without feeling I should have. The first time I felt like I never want to get married and not just as a passing feeling, but a firm belief. The first time I realized that a lot of people love me, but I don't feel particularly liked by the people I love. The first time I was hollowed out with sadness and couldn't find any way to make myself laugh or even try to escape it.

I have known so many things in my life, but I have never known this emptiness. I have never failed so miserably to make things better. Sure, I know how to make things worse and then better--but things just keep getting worse this time. I can't fix it. I can't fix me. Worse, I gave up. I just want to go away without moving an inch. I don't feel the desire to run or to hide, I'm just drifting. If I can't be me, if no one can stand it, then tell me what I'm left with. I had this silly idea that no matter what we are, our families will accept it. But that isn't true. They'll love you, but they actually don't have to like you. Can I live with that? Maybe I'll learn to. It just doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like love. It feels a lot like being loathed. Like irritating everyone. Like being insufferable and unlikeable and undesirable. And maybe I've been all of these things before, but I was never aware of it in this way. What I wouldn't give to not be aware of it now.

Day Glo is Never the Right Shade

2007-03-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

Why are antibiotics always such bright colors? All the ones I’ve ever taken have been vivid colors, garish may be a better word for them, only I think that adjective only works when speaking about middle-aged women who are pale and insist on wearing brightly colored mumus…but I could be wrong. I’m not even entirely sure how to spell mumu. When I was nineteen I got bronchitis for the first time. I took three different kinds of antibiotics, each producing a worse allergic reaction than the last. The first were bright green and small. They gave me a rash across my abdomen. The second were bright pink and quite large and I liked to sit them with the last ones (which I was no longer taking) and think of fake watermelon-flavored gum. Bubbalicious, I think. These ones gave me a rash from head to toe, even on the palms of my hands and soles of my feet which resulted in my first experience with Aveeno products and how it felt to be immersed in freezing cold water. The last ones were bright yellow and, fittingly, made me vomit for six hours on and off. In any case, the current ones are hot pink and oblong. They don’t make me sick at all, just a wee bit tired.

Thick vs. Thin

2007-03-07T12:17:00.001-08:00

I like the feel of thick-wale corduroy, but prefer the look of thin-wale. Thick is for chairs, blankets, cozy long coats and hats trimmed with fur. Thin is for pants, like my favorite pair of deep red cords that I bought from Abercrombie & Fitch in San Francisco Shopping Center for fifteen dollars while shopping with Jessica years and years ago. When was it? She was visiting from Chile. She wasn’t yet married to Cristian. Maybe she hadn’t left for Chile permanently yet? I can’t remember. I just remember shopping with her that day. That I hadn’t been there before, though it was bound to become one of my favorite places to visit in the city, both for its plethora of shops and its close proximity to Union Square. I remember that I’d never shopped in an Abercrombie & Fitch before then. In fact, I’d only recently heard of them and all I knew was that they were decidedly unaffordable. But Jessica is the only person I’ve ever met who is stiff competition for my stepmother, Margaret, at finding a bargain. Because of this undeniable fact, I went into the store with her and looked at the sale rack. Looking for pants in a women’s size 14 was not easy back then (yes, it is easier now, but only now that I no longer wear that size), so finding a pair of pants in my size on the sale rack was exciting. Having them fit so well and feel so good, was wonderful. Getting all of that for $15 and knowing that the original price was closer to $70 made them unbearable to part with. There are other memories attached to them. Memories at Sarah and Lisa’s house involving Dave and lots of liquor and accusations of someone being a bad lesbian. I’m not saying who, though.

I Heart Alka Seltzer

2007-03-05T11:45:00.000-08:00

I seem to remember that a while back I was actually a pretty decent writer. I wrote all the time, it was just part of me and it couldn’t be ignored. I got all my frustrations out through it and I looked forward to it every day. As with anything you love and then neglect, my writing has gone downhill. I haven’t lost it, I know, I just don’t use it enough. I keep myself busy with all these other things that don’t matter instead of taking a minute to write. And when I do write and then read it later, it sounds so damned melodramatic. Don’t get me wrong, that’s certainly a part of my personality, but not to the extent that it’s become. There’s another element, though. My mind isn’t stimulated enough. As much as I know a lot of intelligent people, they almost always want to talk about the military. Though I find this interesting, it isn’t what I do for a living and I gradually tune it out. I haven’t been reading enough since I got here, I haven’t been challenging myself at all. Can we say that it changes now?

I got sick last week, a nasty chest cold that isn’t ready yet to go away (i realize that the last time I posted, in November, I also had a chest cold, but no job at the time). At first, I just slept a lot. Then I watched a lot of TV. Once I’d exhausted all the shows I’d recorded, I turned to the History Channel. How could I have forgotten how much I love the History Channel? And when I wanted to get off the couch, I picked up the books I’d been meaning to read and actually read them all. The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood. Weight by Jeanette Winterson. As much as I wish I hadn’t gotten sick, my brain feels better than ever. This town can suck your soul dry if you let it, it’s devoid of culture. If you can’t get out, you have to find another way to stimulate your brain or you will end up an empty shell. And no, I don’t feel the least bit bad about how much I hate it here. At the same time, can you think of a better place for me to go back to school? Seriously, no distractions, how perfect is that? I have just enough to do here to keep me sane during what little down time I’ll have between work and school. I have friends to leave town with and kids to play with, even after the soldiers leave I won’t be entirely alone. But we’ll all have things we need to be doing, so this is good.

On entirely another note, I received some sad news from my friend Jonathan the other day. Most of you don’t know him, we haven’t even seen each other in about a decade. But he is still very important to me. His daughter, Tuesday, is very sick and the whole family is having a really hard time. Even though you don’t know him, I need to ask you to take a moment during your day and think of him and his family. Pray or well-wish or whatever it is that you do to invoke hope.

In This Case, New = Good

2006-11-09T07:37:00.000-08:00

Being sick when you have no responsibilities is actually fine. Sure, it sucks to be sick no matter what, but at least I don't have to call in sick to work or get notes on my classes. I'm being positive about my current sickness in that I believe I won't get sick again for a long time which leaves plenty of room for healthful looking for a job and checking out schools. I have an appointment on Monday to tour Methodist University and meet with an admissions counselor. They're also trying to schedule some time with the head of the writing program for me, but that's up in the air right now. On Tuesday I have an interview with the local PD for a records clerk position. It may not sound exciting to anyone else, but I'm fucking ecstatic over the idea of working again.

If I get over being sick by tomorrow morning, April and I are going to take a bit of a road trip. We're planning on going to Charleston, South Carolina, for one night then driving back up here to Wilmington to check out the beaches. I miss the ocean, though there is a big lake nearby (Lake Rim). It's not the same. Everywhere I've lived has been close to the ocean. When I lived in Santa Barbara, I couldn't go anywhere without driving by a beach and we spent our summers only taking small breaks from it. Supposedly the coast isn't far from here, we just haven't had a chance to go look for it. I need to see the coast and to work again in order to feel human right now.

The Truth About Lying

2006-11-01T06:25:00.000-08:00

A long, long time ago I was very much in love with someone who lied to me about most everything. Despite discovering this for myself, though for a long time I had no one to back me up, I stayed. I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest over and over again, but I stuck it out. I was convinced that if I held on, everything would turn out right. That I could forget what happened and we could start over. That it didn't matter that she was seeing someone else and lying about it. Of course, not knowing the specific details made it easier for me to deny that it was over. She certainly wasn't ending it, she wanted it to last until she was sure about her other woman and had a new place to live. This had always been her pattern, another thing I was rather in denial about. When she finally left, I had torn myself apart and had let her convince me, though briefly, that I was just plain crazy and she hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, she had me and many others convinced that it was entirely my fault that she had left me in the way she did. That none of it was planned before and I simply drove her away. Then the whole story unfolded as people I worked with started coming forward to tell me the truth. She had been seeing this other woman for a few months. In fact, she would often drop me off at work and drive my car over to her other woman's house to get laid. She almost got caught one day when I was really sick and she had to come get me. I was too sick to realize it should have taken her longer to get there. She had been telling people she worked with a mixture of truth and lies about me so that when they saw any of it was true, they assumed everything was. It was about a year before someone finally told me about that part, until then they had all believed it and hated me for it. Despite all this, I missed her. Despite everything she did to me, I almost wished we were back together. And it sickens me now. It sickens me to think that there was a point in my life when I let someone pull that kind of shit with me and completely get away with it. I did go through a few years where I hated her and now I am past it. I had to contact her last year because of a lengthy background check, to get her updated information as an old roommate, and it was a nice conversation. But I've been watching a very similar drama unfold here, I've even been a part of it somewhat. And I just have to shake my head sadly every time someone tells me something new about it. But I don't feel sorry for either party, I did, but now I'm starting to think that they deserve each other. Given all the things I did, I probably at some point deserved the person who lied to me and I'm sure we both got our fair share of crap from that relationship. But these two, I just can't believe the things I've seen and heard. It doesn't make me want to gossip or even bother with them anymore. I just want them out of our lives. I want them to stay the hell away from my family. I want nothing more to do with them. I made a mistake by getting involved in the slightest way, but I'll not make that again. Whatever sympathy I had for either party is gone.

I wonder why we allow such things in the first place? I understand that every relationship has compromise, whether we like it or not. Some people think that love is all about pain and jealousy and vicious fights and repeatedly breaking up. What is that? I understand that my ex-girlfriend was the most memorable of my relationships, but I think it may be more for the amount of pain she caused than for any really love put in. Yes, I loved her, more than I've loved most of the people I've been with, but that feeling may have been amplified by the fact that I knew I was losing her and I can't stand to lose in that way. I think the truth is that my greatest loves are the people who were kind to me, the ones I feared the most because I knew how much more damage they could do by leaving me. With her, leaving me was the best thing she could have done, she was doing me a favor. Sure it didn't feel like it, but once I got over the initial grief I just felt so relieved. I started eating again (thanks for the sammich, Glenn, I'll never forget how good it tasted) and suddenly my life was mine again and I took full advantage of that. The following few years were pretty fabulous. I was active and happy and dated a really nice guy who I would have fallen for, but he was moving soon, so we never got that far. I was at the top of my game. These other people who treated me with respect and kindness, the ones who said I was beautiful when no one else had said it to me, the ones who put up with my often short temper, the ones who still cared about me even after it was over, I owe my life to them. They brought me up and never stopped. The other ones, the assholes (and there were many) they brought me up and dropped me on my ass. They left me feeling worse than I ever had before, too much fucking contrast.

So why do I fear the good ones? Why do I fear that I have so much more to lose with them? Why on earth do I have this stunning attraction to people who are sickening, perverse and totally unworthy? It's not about what any of us look like and I know that I am not free of sin by any means, but I know there is good in me and I assume that the good deserves good from someone else. I just can't stand to my open my eyes and look for it. The fear gets me every time.

Rodrigo

2006-10-20T12:19:00.000-07:00

Most of you know that I spent a lot of time with my mom and her horses before I left California. I decided well over a year ago that I needed to overcome my fear of horseback riding and my slight fear of horses. I decided, after attempting riding, that I needed to do groundwork with a horse, get to know the way they react to things, what they do and don't like. My mom offered her horse, Rodrigo. I spent several months learning how to groom him, feed him, put the harness on, the saddle, the bridle. He came to like me quite a bit and would often lean his chin (and his heavy head) over my shoulder while I watched my mom ride the other horse, Navarro. He wasn't always easy to work with, but he made me laugh because he was such a snob. He wouldn't do anything for you unless you really knew what you were doing. I've been driving around Fayetteville a lot lately and once in a while I see a horse, if I drive far enough into ranch land. Seeing them always makes me miss Rodrigo.

My mom called today to tell me that Rodrigo died on Tuesday. He just lay down in his stall and died.

Zzzzzzzz

2006-10-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

Bored bored bored bored bored. Lacking in social skills and money. Happy with tuna salad on crackers and sweet tea diluted with water. Achy from the cooling wet weather, but stilll grateful that it's not going to be warm anymore. Excited about Autumn in the Carolinas. Future road trips. A possible two-day trip to Charleston in November. Applied at a temp agency today, finally gave in. Doing dishes and laundry and vacuuming and trying to keep organized and neat and helpful. Looking for jobs online and applying every day. Keeping myself from going anywhere because the money I do have can't be spent on the things it will inevitably be spent on if I drive anywhere around here. Sick of Fayetteville. Of the feeling that everything is too small when it's really too big.

Flamer

2006-10-14T19:56:00.000-07:00

Another unemployed, uneventful week. I applied for six more clerical jobs yesterday. I reorganized my room yet again today. At least tonight we got to go out for a bit. We went to a barbecue at a great house with a huge backyard. There was a bonfire, which is a bit scary with a bunch of soldiers adding cardboard boxes to the pit. One of the guys from J's unit brought his seven year old daughter, who was adorable and took a liking to me quickly. We roasted marshmallows together...until the flames got to high, at least. I also found a road-buddy for future day trips around North Carolina. He's one of April's friends and is also from the Bay Area. The last time we drank together, we sang Journey's "Don't Stop Believin" at the top of our lungs at the recently opened Irish pub. Good times. It's nice to have someone around who misses the same things I do.

Marine

2006-10-09T19:23:00.000-07:00

It was a long lonely boring weekend. The kids were in South Carolina visiting April's grandparents with her mom. They got back late on Sunday, so I did nothing social until today. But today we went to Raleigh. We ate at the Cheesecake Factory and everyone laughed at my nose-wrinkling as I tried to drink a Campari and soda to rid myself of heartburn. It's either pain or bitters, I picked the latter. We walked through the huge Crabtree Valley Mall and shopped for Chrismukkah cards. The sky was blue when we arrived and grey with rainclouds when we left. The weather was perfect for a scarf and hoodie and my favorite boots.

I called Glenn on the way home and demanded that he move here now with Tam and Stella. He said I only love him by default and I understand, my love for the girls is quite huge, but I've loved him since I was fifteen and I've never chosen to stop, despite our differences over the years. If nothing else, there is a chance that we're going to meet in Savannah, GA. Our friend Phil lives there and Glenn's brother, Scot, is going to meet up with us, as well.

I haven't seen Phil in years. I can't wait to meet his wife and child. I believe he has a daughter. And I've heard so much about Savannah from my mom. She bought me a painting there that now hangs in my bedroom.

Tomorrow I'm going to apply for clerical positions at Fayetteville's City Hall. I should have done this the moment I got here, but I was convinced that I should work a small-time retail job. Little did I know that the retail stores wouldn't take a second glance at an over-qualified Californian. Silly, silly rabbit.

I love the smell of my free Aquatanica Marine Body Tonic sample.

Honeysuckle

2006-10-05T11:44:00.000-07:00

It is important, when you're feeling the way that I currently do, to find the things that bring you some small amount of joy. The taste of stonefruit, the smell of honeysuckle, the way the air changes when Autumn comes. You can feel it, smell it, watch the leaves change from green to red, yellow, orange.

Decorating for Halloween. Watching dumb TV shows with my brother while trying to guess the endings. Hanging out in the sitting room with my sister-in-law, gossiping. Long distances and short road trips by myself. Hand-writing letters. Opening the mailbox to find a card from a friend.

If I keep all of these memories, these joyful things, at my fingertips, maybe I won't think about everything I left behind. All that I knew. Everyone I miss. The ease of being there. The truth is that I was stagnating, surrounded by familiarity and safety nets.

Retail Hell

2006-10-04T19:29:00.000-07:00

I wish I could say that I'm happy with my experience living in the South so far. Unfortunately, I'm not impressed with my retail experiences here and you all know how I feel about retail. For one, the customer service sucks. Don't get me wrong, people are friendly here. But the people who work at the chain retail stores are largely not interested in what you want or need, they're just passing the time. They rarely make much of an effort (notable exceptions are Barnes & Noble and Bath & Body Works) and are even downright rude sometimes. Returns are the worst, I've been treated with complete contempt both times I returned something to Target. I do finally have some furniture, thankfully. But I knew where to shop in California for good stuff. Here I went to Ashley Furniture and ended up with a bed that I absolutely hate. It looked great in the store, a simple black platform bed. I said I wanted something inexpensive, but nothing so cheap that it's made of particle board. Something easy to deal with. The lady sold me something made of compressed wood that comes apart into about nine pieces if you take the mattress off and one of the plastic pieces comes loose. And it's heavy. And you can't move it without taking it apart. And so I cried when they told me that once it's ordered, I can't exchange it for anything else. I didn't cry on the phone, I cried while I was trying to move the bed closer to the wall and it kept falling apart. I do have plans for it, though. As soon as I can afford to buy a boxspring and a metal bedframe, I'm going to take that piece of shit bed somewhere and have it set on fire.

I also bought a lamp at Target, which I brought home only to find out that the cord had been cut. I'm returning that tomorrow and I'm not getting a new one just now. I don't think I can handle the disappointment of another crappy purchase.

I have to say, though, there are stores that I like in Fayetteville. Maybe not everything I could hope for (no Sephora, for example), but they have Linens N Things, Target, Home Depot, Bed Bath & Beyond, The Gap, Old Navy and Barnes & Noble. It's really not that bad. Not to mention that anything I really need I can get online, including groceries, so I can't really complain about the availability of good places to buy things. I don't actually have any money to shop with anyway. Although a few good restaurants wouldn't hurt.

I still haven't been able to find a job. The bookstores aren't interested and most of the other retail places aren't hiring. There seems to be no administrative work available at any company I'm even remotely familiar with. There seem to be some clerical openings with the city or the local PD, so I'll pick up an application at City Hall next week. For now, I'm attending bartending school for a small fee and looking forward to the job placement section of that program.

It's strange, but I live more for the weekends now than I ever did when I was employed and living somewhere where I actually knew people. But my weekdays center around the following: cleaning the house, unpacking, running errands and job hunting. At night, my sister-in-law cooks wonderful dinners for us, then I clean up, watch tv and go to bed. But on the weekends we lounge around and hang out, go shopping, explore the area, and drink with people from their units. It's a good mix and I like all the soldiers I've met through them, which is really saying something. Everyone is friendly and polite and some of the guys are such gentlemen, even when they're very drunk. The first girls I met were great. I met a second group a couple of weeks later who aren't really friends with my brother or his wife and they were downright slutty. But then I met a couple of ladies from my sister-in-law's unit and I really liked them.

In short, everyone I've associated with is in the military and they're all at Ft. Bragg on weekdays from 6 in the morning until at least 5 at night, often later, so I don't see them. I'd say that I'm going to make an effort to befriend some non-military people, but that seems to only leave the military wives (who seem nice, but not necessarily more available) and...well, I don't know who else that leaves. It's just a bizarre place. I think once I start school everything will be much better, although wherever I go in Fayetteville, I'll still be surrounded by soldiers.

Not So Great Expectations

2006-09-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

I know, it's a lame title, but it is fitting. I am noting that my expectations are always a little off. Either I have too many (for myself) or too few (for people I date). The latter is not yet relevant for this blog, thankfully. I have been in Fayetteville for just over a week now and I am already going crazy because I feel like I am not doing enough. I only know soldiers and they are very busy people and even though everyone is really friendly here, it's only in passing so far. I guess the difference with California is that when someone is open with you, it usually means you're going to become better acquainted, maybe even friends at some point. Here, it's the norm to wave at your neighbors and make small talk while you're shopping, but past a certain point people are actually a bit inaccessible. Of course, this is not a typical southern town, either. Fayetteville's nickname is "Fayettenam" because there are about 35,000 people in the military stationed at neighboring Ft. Bragg. Many of them live in Fayetteville (pretty much anyone who can afford to because living on base isn't all it's cracked up to be). So here is how things are going:

I have a desk. That is my furniture. And it's actually not mine, but it is mine to use. I currently sleep in the guestroom, which is fully furnished. I have looked at two huge furniture stores in the last week and think I can find good furniture for a good price, but my previous employer (yes, you, Contra Costa County!) has not paid me yet. They thought they lost my check, but now they're saying it should arrive by Monday. Since I quit on August 25th and I know for a fact that my paperwork was processed on the 30th, it is beyond me how it makes sense to them to not pay me for so long. They insist that they need not abide by California Labor Laws because it's a government job. What a load of crap. In any case, it's taking equally long for the last place I lived to return my deposit, but they are actually allowed the three week period. So, I have no money. Any that I did have went to buying necessities at Target and Best Buy. So I'm really organized, my hair is dyed, I have mouthwash and there is a full length mirror on my closet door (though it doesn't hang straight because I had to put it together myself...stop laughing, Jen).

I have applied at two bookstores. Barnes & Noble was a given. It's a nice store that I'm familiar with and I love me some books. I also applied at Books-A-Million, which is supposed to be the third biggest bookstore chain (I don't know if Borders is 1st or 2nd on that list) in the U.S. I have also updated my job searches and resume on both Monster and CareerBuilder. Oh, and I've checked Craigslist and iBraggle for job opportunities. There isn't much out here.

I was supposed to go to Georgia with Jason and April this weekend to hang out with April's family (grandparents and cousins). Instead, I'm job hunting this weekend (online and out there). And researching schools. And feeling very much alone. And exercising a lot so that I won't feel like shit when I go to bed after sitting on my ass in front of the computer for hours on end (like I am right now). Nothing feels like enough. Food doesn't particularly taste good right now, I haven't figured out what that's about yet. My teeth hurt. How do I manage to be stressed out when I'm not working or paying rent or going to school? Is it just my natural state to give myself an ulcer?

I know this is weird, but I just want a nice little part-time job doing something non-supervisory and meeting people. And I want to take a few classes at the local community college while I interview at and apply to colleges in Raleigh and Chapel Hill. Maybe I'll feel a lot better once my paycheck arrives and I don't have to worry about money anymore. So far, I think my original plan of getting into a college FIRST and then moving here was much better. But sometimes things work out in weird ways and you take what you can get. And maybe I'd feel a lot better if people didn't think I was a freeloader. I wasn't expecting that. I lived alone for nearly a decade and worked so many jobs and now I look a loser. It kind of sucks, all that hard work means nothing now.

I miss you guys a lot.

Park City Showcase of Homes

2006-09-04T14:40:00.000-07:00

Note: The title of this entry is also a link to the site so you can see pictures of the homes...I think. #1 was my favorite.

Today my stepmom wanted to go look at this showcase of homes that Park City has every year. Multi-million dollar homes. I went along for the first four (there are fifteen total). Each house had at least three floors. One had a waterfall in back. One had a kid's playroom that had a low arched entrance and was painted pink with trees and flowers. I think every kid should have a room like that to play in. Some of the houses had some really amazing tile work, fixtures, nice bedding, etc. And the windows were all over-sized, amazing views of Deer Valley and all of Park City. I was amazed, however, at some of the things I just hated, some obviously cheap work that had been done or just truly ugly furniture/fixtures. One house had a photograph of the owners looking lovingly at their dog in a field of grass and this picture was HUGE. Imagine a picture of me and my cats lounging on a lush green lawn that would cover your entire bedroom wall. No one wants that, I'm tellin ya. I may be exaggerating a bit...let me see...the framed picture was the size of a big-screen TV. There, that's about right.

I have now become a house snob when it comes to interior decorating, but I would still never want to live in a house as big as even the smallest one that I saw today. Can you imagine how much more of a mess I would make?

Recycled Letters

2006-09-04T14:27:00.001-07:00

My friend Dan liked this a lot, so I decided to copy and paste it (with a pinch of editing) instead of re-writing the experience yet again. Here goes...

9/01/06:
We left Concord yesterday (Thursday) at 915am, seen off by Jessica and Cristian. The medicine we gave the cats to calm them on the trip didn't work (they spat it and foamed it all up before we even left), so they yowled pretty much nonstop the whole way. Ricochet was loud and terribly behaved, of course. And Frankie managed to escape her carrier twice (the first time while I was driving, so my dad had to deal with her until I could find a place to pull over). I took Ricky for a walk at one of the rest stops, but it only helped for about ten minutes, then he started in again. We stopped almost every hour, trying to
figure out if the cats needed water or food or to go in the litterbox. None of the above. They just hated being confined and in motion (either one by itself was fine). I tried holding each of them on my lap (even though it's not safe for them), but they wanted to explore the car and mostly sit on my dad's lap while he drove, so that didn't work either. Pampered little mofos.

I can't recall the names of most of the towns we stopped in, but the last three were memorable.

Winnemuca, Nevada: Had the prettiest McDonald's I have ever seen. The bathrooms were pristine.

Elko, Nevada: My dad said that Elko would be desolate. probably wouldn't have more than a single gas station. So when we went to get gas just off the freeway and saw a Smith's (the same grocery store we shop at where he lives), he couldn't believe it. I didn't see the rest of Elko, but what I did see was decent. The Smith's had slot machines at the front, which is always weird for me. The guy in front of my in the checkout line started a conversation with me about my road trip (it's so obvious when you've been driving a long time). It turned out that he had been in the military a long time ago (which I guessed because he asked a lot of questions but gave really vague answers, I'm getting used to this with people in the military). After we left, I commented to my dad that usually people aren't that friendly with me unless they want something. It was a nice change. I now realize that a dark bruise had been growing on my cheek where the dentist had been gripping my face
while he put in my crown on Wednesday. There is a possibility that the guy at the store thought I was a battered woman. I know I probably shouldn't find this funny, but I do.

Wendover, Nevada: The last city we went into (in Utah we only went to rest stops) is right on the border of Utah and Nevada.
It's pitch black on the highway, but as you go over the hill approaching the border and there it is...the last place you can gamble before you enter Utah...or the first place you can gamble when you leave it. It goes from blackest night to practically daylight there. An abundance of neon and the huge TV screen on the Peppermill sign with colors so bright you could just about puke. It's a small place, but it is chock full of casinos, gas stations, restaurants and hotels, each and every one of them garishly lit up. Leaving Wendover at night is actually a bit depressing, as you descend back into the darkness of 80 East.

Have I mentioned that the rest stops in Utah are beautiful? They are so clean...I just can't get my head around it.

Anyway, we arrived in Park City, Utah, at my dad's house at 1230am. We were exhausted and pissy and we still had a whole car to unload. But my stepmom insisted on us taking the bare minimum in and going to bed, and that is just what we did.

Recycled Letters

2006-09-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

Leaving California

2006-09-03T20:22:00.000-07:00

There are so many stories to tell about my last month in California. They are all swarming about in my head right now, little quips and lengthy tales, but it's just too much to put down here. I have to say this, there were some people who were so generous with their time during the last month that I do not know how I will ever repay them.

Since I was fifteen years old, I have had two best friends: Glenn and Jessica. Through the years we have each changed a lot and we have certainly had our ups and downs, but they are family now.

Jessica moved back from Chile with her husband, Cristian, in July. She was with me when my dad called to tell me he thought I should leave sooner. She watched my rollercoaster emotions over the next month and did everything in her power to help me prepare for the move even though she already had more than enough to handle at home. There were so many times when I was at a loss for what to do and Jess whipped out at least a dozen options for me. She set up a garage sale at her grandma's and let me bring my stuff, too. She sold books and cds for me while I was still working. She and her family bought a ton of stuff from me to help me out with the cost of moving and helped me get rid of many things I didn't know what to do with. She took me to the dentist two days before I left so I could be drugged for that horrible experience (I have some serious swelling and bruising on the right side of my face from that lovely visit). She was at my apartment with her mom, Vicki, the night before I left, helping me clean and came back with Cristian the next morning to help me make sure everything was out of the apartment before we left, not to mention helping me drug the cats for the ride (well, we tried). She was always available, always willing to do whatever and even motivating me to do more. She was always up for spending time with me since we knew that it was getting shorter and shorter. It blows my mind that she took so much onto her shoulders for me.

Glenn's first child (Stella Jane!) had just been born when he and his wife, Tam, offered to help me ship most of my packages to North Carolina. They did this for me twice: picking me up in their car, helping me load the heavy boxes and taking me down to ship everything while getting their discount. As far as the move goes, this was the most amazing thing they did for me and I owe them so much for it. But the way they truly made me feel like family was when they let me hold Stella only a few hours after she was born. I won't be there to see her grow, but I did get to hang out with her a lot before I left. These are the memories I will carry in my heart until I can see her again.

I have known Jen since I was nineteen and we weren't close for a long time. But we somehow came together and realized we share a vey twisted sense of humor (if nothing else). Before I left Oakland (and after I got laid off), we spent so much time together that we wanted to kill each other and yet didn't know how we'd ever live apart.

Jen was constant support through all of this, checking in regularly and trying to spend time with me when her work would allow. I'm happy to say that her catering business is doing really well and that her little sister, Megan, has joined the business. They and their mother, Kath, have also treated me like family (as if their weren't enough women there already). Jen was also there, helping me clean, the night before I left. And when I said how depressing it was going to be to sleep alone in that empty apartment for my last night, she volunteered to sleep on the floor, too, so I'd have company. We stayed up late cleaning and packing after everyone else had gone and comisserated in the morning when we could barely get up off that damn floor. It was hard to say goodbye to her. And it was the first time I had to do so since we became so close years before.

Obviously there have been a lot of people who helped me out with moving, packing, etc. and who have been really supportive. I just wanted to take the time to note the three (other than Tiffany D.) who helped me keep my sanity. I don't think any less of the people who couldn't come by, I'm just astounded at the amount of help I got from those who did.

Now with immediate family, we all have a certain level of expectation. We assume that they will help (even though they won't necessarily), because we're related to them. I could never have expected the things my family did for me this Summer. Jason and April gave me a place to live so I could return to school. My dad volunteered to travel with me and the cats (!) to make the move easier (not to mention having a huge hand in the planning). My mom checked in with me every day to see what I needed and how I was doing, not to mention supporting this move even though it breaks her heart (as well as mine) to be so far away. My mom also shocked the hell out of me when she took me home Wednesday night and started cleaning the apartment in her work clothes. She stayed for several hours, cleaning the kitchen shelves and helping me pack, dressed in a beautiful suit and heels and socializing with Jess, Vicki and Jen. I miss her so much.

In the beginning...

2006-09-01T20:44:00.001-07:00

I haven't posted to this kind of blog in a really long time. My writing has gone downhill in the past year, what with my life being turned this way and that and no one at the wheel half the time. I am hoping to exercise that atrophied muscle with this blog, as well as update all my friends from California (whether still living there or not) as my little journey continues.

Here's a recap:

Last year I lost my job at Whole Foods due to a few people making some stupid decisions and positions being eliminated. This was, of course, a very good thing. It didn't feel that way at the time, but I did realize that I would have stayed there indefinitely out of comfort if they hadn't given me the boot.

I was unemployed for a few months, then temped in Richmond at the DA's office while applying to a dispatcher at the Sheriff's Office. I got high scores and managed to impress my employers at the beginning, but the training wore on me not to mention my co-workers, so I left after only four months. They liked me enough to see if anyone else in the county would take me. I got lucky and ended up transferred (only a week of pay lost) to the Civil Unit. I was there for a few months and realized that it was a great inbetweener job, but I couldn't possibly stay. It wasn't enough of a challenge and I like a challenge, boy do I ever.

About two months ago I was out to dinner with my friend Tiffany Dow and deep in conversation about the paths we choose to take. Tiffany had just been given two opportunities she was pondering: one to buy a business and the other to display her art in New York. Those are long stories, but you should know that she's doing quite well with both (though a bit stressed out). I told her that I knew I didn't want to be at Civil anymore, though it was fine for the time being. I had been wanting to go back to school, but I always had to work full-time in order to afford my rent, so I could never take more than a couple of classes. I figured at the time that Civil's lack of challenge might mean that I could take three or four classes and not be overwhelmed, but I was still worried about money. There is more to this story, more agonizing and debating options, but in the end what happened was that Tiffany persuaded and pushed and maybe even nagged me in the friendliest of ways to get off my ass and change my life. She was both the inspiration and the catalyst for what happened next.

I began looking at schools in California, but I kept thinking how much the cost of living has gone up. So I looked at Oregon. Then Washington. Then I thought how nice it would be to go to school in North Carolina and live within a decent drive of my brother and his wife (who are in the Army stationed at Ft. Bragg). After a week of research, I decided to finally tell my family what I was thinking about. My mom completely supported the idea. My dad was skeptical of some of it, but liked the general idea. (This is typical: My mom is spontaneous and my dad is cautious, it's a confusing combination.) Then I called my brother, Jason. He was very excited for me and when I told him that I was looking at schools in North Carolina, he paused to tell his wife, April. With barely concealed glee, he then offered me a place to live if I attended a school in NC. I thought he was crazy. I thought they both were. I thought they were just being nice. I thought it sounded too good to be true, could never work, etc.

Two weeks later I told my friends that in October or January (depending on school) I would be moving to Fayetteville, NC. There were some pessimists, but the majority of my friends were surprisingly supportive, especially when they heard I'd have a place to live rent-free. At the beginning of August, the plan changed drastically. Suddenly it wasn't about getting accepted anywhere, it was just about getting there and getting started. Very very scary and sad in some ways (leaving my family and friends in California), but it made sense. I didn't actually choose to leave at the end of August, I just submitted to my father's plan because it meant getting a lot of help from him and truthfully was a better way of doing it. It hurt more, yes. There are a lot of people I didn't get to see before I left, a lot of things I didn't get to do.

But here I am. In Utah, with my cats and three full suitcases, spending a week with my dad and stepmom before we fly to North Carolina, my new home.