On Lives and Ships and Sealing-wax

Today, I sang a song with primary children about following God's plan for me. It was only in the final minute of singing time that I realized how much the song was pertinent to me. Right now.

You see, I'm starting a new job soon. I'm leaving the last remnants of my Utah County family and heading south to work in a library. It's not terribly far away, but far enough that a casual dinner visit is out of the question. I remember moving to Boston about seven years ago, and how I felt during the plane ride into the city. I wondered what on earth I had done. How could I possibly start out a new life by myself? What the heck had I been thinking?

Thanks to good roommates and a very fulfilling couple of years of school, Boston turned out to be a good experience for me.

And now, here I am. Leaving family again to set out on my own.

I've wondered if I made the right decision accepting this job. If I simply wanted to go because I've been kind of unhappy at my current job and was just desperate to leave.

And then this song today.

I brought along my patriarchal blessing to primary today as a kind of visual aid for talking about what the song meant. Now, my patriarchal blessing and I have had a bit of a bumpy relationship. Some things it talks about happening, things I've desperately wanted to happen, have not occurred. And so I've avoided reading it, to keep from reminding myself of the unfulfilled promises.

But talking with the children today about it, I felt an affirmation that my life, even if it isn't one that I would necessarily have chosen, is not a waste.

I think sometimes we get caught up in the details of our lives. Our days are occupied with the rough things that happen at work, or the person that cuts us off in traffic, or feeding the dog, or cleaning up after the kids, or wondering if you can get through one more episode of that show before you have to go to bed. And I sometimes think that this is all there is.

But I remembered today that our lives, each of them, do have a purpose. That the sum of our experiences matters. That even the humdrum details, the teeth brushing and nail biting and doodling, as well as the moments when we utterly connect with someone, or have a great phone call with our siblings, or give a wonderful talk, or hear a child say, "I love you," are all part of it, that each experience matters, that we are becoming something great and grand and glorious.

I don't know if the choices I've made have made my life the best of all possible lives I could have lived. (I rather strongly suspect the opposite.) But I think even when I mess up, when I make mistakes about where to live and what job to have and who to love, that it never, never, never is a waste. And that of my silly, erroneous, ephemeral life, God can make something grand. He can give it purpose.

And that is a great gift indeed.

Presently Resolving for the Future

I'm not really one for setting goals. Even something as simple as 'brush your hair at least once a day' is destined to be followed for exactly 27 hours, after which I will brush my hair whenever I darn well please, thankyouverymuch.

I have this theory.

You see, we set goals in the present, expecting our future selves to be as on board with them as our present selves are. But, our future selves, when faced with the actual reality of having to do the thing present (but now past) self set a goal to do, future self (but now present) balks and decides that it's a much better idea to spend the afternoon plucking eyebrows and watching Star Trek: The Next Generation on Netflix and wondering where on earth all the cheesecake has gotten to. And the goal to volunteer at the doggie shelter gets swept aside. Until, of course, a future self which becomes a present self sets another goal for the future future self. And the cycle continues.

Past selves and present selves and future selves are not really the same people. Not exactly. And it's really always present self we have to live with.

My present self is kinda lazy. She likes sleeping and bumming around on the internet and playing video games. She does not like exercise, nor giving up her time for worthy causes, nor trying to reinvent her self.

So this year, I resolve to read books. As many as I feel like reading at the time. I also resolve to smile at my parents. And I resolve, most of all, to make snide remarks to future Beth about past Beth's atrocious spending habits.

Because seriously, did she think that dolphin necklace was actually fashionable?

On Beauty and Worth

This is a post I've thought about for many months. Actually, for well over a year, really. I think it may even be one of the reasons why it's taken me so long to write something on this blog. I've been mulling it over in my head, trying to figure out exactly what I feel about this, and how I can best articulate those feelings.

Let me start with an experience I had a bit over a year ago.

Women in our area of Utah County were asked last year to provide a choir for the General Relief Society Broadcast in September. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. For one thing, I got to sing with my sister (of whom I could write the most superlative things, and they would all be true), who also lives in this area. For another, the director of the choir was a woman who was possibly one of the most engaging personalities I've come in contact with. She managed to make every member of the choir feel as though best-friendship were an absolute possibility, if only there were enough time to spend with everyone individually. She was funny and wry and really, really loved us. Or, at least, loved us inasmuch as it was possible to love a room full of people that you didn't really know, but sort of knew because you were all Mormons involved in a really cool musical experience together.

Yep. It was awesome.

There was one event that troubled me though, just a bit. And it wasn't so much that I was troubled about the motivations of our director, more just what it told me about what we believe as a society in general.

Towards the end of our rehearsals, we were, naturally, doing pretty well, but still nervous that we would get up to the Conference Center and forget our notes, come in at the wrong time, or scratch our noses just right when the camera zoomed in on our faces. So, our director gave us a pep talk. It was, like her, funny and spiritually uplifting, and heartfelt and touching.

And she, like many people who are trying to help women to feel better, said to us something like, "You are all beautiful. You are all beautiful daughters of your Heavenly Father." (And you'll forgive me if my memory sort of...doesn't remember the exact wording. But that was the gist of it.)

Many women around me cried, and smiled through their tears, and I...felt troubled.

I so appreciated her effort to make us feel good about ourselves. I could feel that she did love us, and I felt that she was, really, connected to divine love, hooked into it and transmitting real charity. (Which is the only way you can, in my opinion, feel a deep and genuine love for a bunch of people to whom you have never actually spoken one-on-one.) I believe she expressed that love in a way that she felt would make us feel good. And I think it did work for most people.

But here is what troubled me: why should we need to feel beautiful in order to feel loved? Why does being acknowledged as attractive (and, really, isn't that what 'beauty' means?) make us feel valuable and valued?

I'm reminded of the many times (and I actually haven't heard it a lot in my current ward, which is kind of awesome, I think) when I've heard men get up during fast & testimony meeting and, during the course of their testimony, express their gratitude for their beautiful wives.

It's great, and we all feel good, and I'm sure the wives are aglow with the warmth of their husbands' regard, but...

But wouldn't it seem kind of strange if a woman got up to bear her testimony and said, during the course of it, "I'm so grateful for my handsome husband," or if women were instructed in the General Relief Society broadcast to be sure to tell their husbands that they are handsome? Because every man needs to be told that?

Not that I'm actually trying to argue from a feminism angle (although that wouldn't be a bad thing, just not the angle I'm choosing at the moment). It's more that I feel uncomfortable with this idea that feeling beautiful equates with feeling worthwhile.

There have been times when I've expressed to friends or family members that I don't really feel particularly beautiful. And, truth be told, I'm really not. I'm overweight, I have an oddly upturned nose (with pores the size of potholes), and my lips are kinda pale and weird (and let's not even talk about my ankles). These friends and family members have reassured me that no, I really am beautiful, and it's not external beauty that is important, it's inner beauty, right? And I do appreciate what they say, and the love with which it is offered.

And I believe what they say for a half hour, or maybe less. But, then, the belief fades, and I recognize the reality that I'm really not beautiful. Not that way.

Because guys, not everyone is beautiful. And I feel like that should be okay. A woman who has scars from years of horrible acne may not be considered all that beautiful. A man who's been burned, or is missing an arm, or teeth, may not be considered attractive.

(And I feel tremendously guilty having written the above examples, as though I'm denigrating the worth of these individuals, when in reality, I'm trying to free them from feeling as though they need to be beautiful in order to be loved. Or maybe, I'm trying to free myself.)

'But wait,' you may say. 'These people are beautiful on the inside. They're still beautiful. Everyone can be beautiful.'

That is very true. But I wish we wouldn't use the language of physical attractiveness to describe the goodness of a spirit.

Beauty draws us in. It is engaging. There's a reason why we call beautiful people 'attractive.' They pull us to them; we want to be near them. And I think it's wonderful if people are beautiful. It's fun to watch beautiful people on TV and in movies. It's fun when folks get dolled up and look all lovely for a dance or a date or a night on the town. I don't want to suggest that beauty is bad. I don't even want to suggest that men and women stop telling each other they think they're good looking.

I just want it not to be connected to our sense of worth. I want women to say, when they are reassuring other women, "You are all good and kind and worthwhile daughters of our Heavenly Father." I want men (and similarly women!) to stand up and express thanks for their spouses with phrases like, "I'm so grateful for my loving wife, for her dedication to the gospel, for her service."

And I'm trying to do my part, too.

But most of all, when I don't feel particularly beautiful, when I feel like the ugly duckling who grew up to be an ugly duck, I want to still feel of value. And worthy to be loved.

Conversational Angst

I always feel uncomfortable when I'm with a group of people and the conversation turns to dieting or exercise regimens, and how much everybody wishes they could lose those last two or three pounds.

I sort of feel like adding to the conversation with my own personal experiences. Things like, "Did you know that, if humans were like amoebas, I'd probably already have divided into two people by now? Maybe three if they were particularly svelte?"

Or, "Yes. My darn gravity well just keeps getting deeper and deeper. I think if I have any more of this chocolate cake, I'll probably become a black hole."

Or, "Hey, do you see this softball rotating around my middle? It's a small moon I acquired just last week. It's the latest in plus-size accessories."

But instead I sit there, looking like a human beanbag chair, nodding sympathetically as people talk about elliptical machines and only being able to muscle down two bites of the incredibly sweet dessert that I've already had two servings of. As if I know what they're talking about. As if we're even from the same universe.

My back aches all the time, my ankle twists with great regularity, and I will probably die of a heart attack at age 39. Now. Can we please talk about something else? Books, I hear, are very nice conversational topics this time of year.

Does it count if I just draw a picture?

Hi. So, I'm back. Sort of.

Truth be told, I'm not sure if I'll ever start blogging in the long form again. I might, though. I might at that...

But regardless of the future of this particular blog, I thought I'd direct you all to a brand new enterprise (of sorts) I'm starting up. It's a chronicle of the many adventures of Chobee and his friend Harry (the horse).

Here's the url: http://chobeeandharry.blogspot.com/

For now (until I figure out how to do all of this better), you'll need to click on the picture itself to get a larger (and readable) version.

This is something I'm doing occasionally in the evening when I have some spare time, and am sitting in front of the TV with nothing else to do. In short, I don't have any kind of an update schedule right now. This may change if I get more dedicated and all that.

Which, given the sorry state of this blog, would be somewhat...uncharacteristic of me.

Cheers!

Finding Old Stuff You Love > Buying New Stuff

With all of this being jobless and sort of trying to get myself to be productive but mostly failing at it, all the while watching my bank account dwindle to approximately $0.03, I have pretty much put a moratorium on the purchasing of goods. (Aside from the DS, that is, which I got with my Christmas/babysitting money and which, along with providing a great deal of entertainment, has also made it even more difficult to lift myself into the realm of productivity.)

I kind of miss the thrill of purchasing. You know, that little rush you get after you go into a store stuffed full of things that you might need but mostly want and you find that one thing that you've never seen before but you're absolutely convinced you'd love and you pick it up and carry it to the cashier and hand over your cash or card and get the item in exchange. Then you feel that little thrill of ownership, that sense that, no matter what the world takes from you, it can't take away this...ceramic unicorn, or Star Wars coloring book, or digital camera case. Because it's yours. Forever. Or at least until you break/lose it while moving to Minnesota.

But I digress.

It feels pretty great. For about an afternoon. And it usually feels better when the purchase is relatively small and you don't have the sense that you've just spent about 100 hours of your working life on something you kind of didn't want anyway.

Sadly, I have had to live without that new-ownership feeling for what seems like a long time. Unless, of course, you count the purchase of prescription medication, a cup of hot chocolate (paid for entirely with coins) at a local Barnes & Noble, or that secret stash of peanut butter M&Ms I bought on the sly.

But I've discovered something better, something that makes my acquisitional nature flutter with happiness. I've found that rediscovering old treasures is even better than getting new ones.

Because I've had most of my things packed away in boxes for almost eight months, many of my possessions are currently tucked away inside cardboard, all but inaccessible in their stacks in the corners of my parents' basement (inaccessible unless you have scissors, of course, and a sense of adventure and determination and a strong defiance against the fear of dust). The other day, though, I found that I needed some article that was still unpacked, and I hadn't made note of which box contained it. So, I found myself crouched in a storage room, lit by a single naked bulb, hovering over boxes with my tiny craft scissors shimmering in the half-light. Oh, it was an epic experience.

I sliced into the boxes and dragged forth their contents into the light, and as I did so, I began to recognize things. There was that geode with the pewter dragon glued inside! And my jewelry box, full of tacky, sentimental things that I hardly dared wear but loved to look at. And the bookends with ships on them, and the Chinese dragon I bought in New York, and the tapestry pillows and my gloves and the stuffed bean-frog with the little crown on its head. And. Well, in fact pretty much all of it was tacky. But I loved it.

And I got that fluttery, just-having-bought-something-great feeling. That sense of fond ownership, of familiarity, of things that reminded me not only of people I loved, but of myself as I was a year ago, or a decade.

And you know what? I wouldn't trade it. Not even for a nice, new bag of peanut butter M&Ms.

There has been a slight change.

You know those times when you've been growing your hair out for awhile? So that now it reaches about to your lower back? And undulates in sort of half-fraying curls? And you decide, sort of on a whim, but not really, that you're going to get your hair cut? Really, really short? In fact, shorter than any previous cut that you can remember? Except for maybe that time when you were five and your sister was playing with your Mom's scissors and basically cut your bangs completely off? And you go to get your hair cut with your Mom and find a style that's pretty short, and is pretty much what you're looking for, but you're not quite sure if it'll work with your decidedly less sculpted face? And you get the cut anyway?

And it all turns out to be one big horrible mistake, and you cry all the way home and for the rest of the day?

Yeah. Today is SO NOT one of those days. (Well, everything up to the 'horrible mistake' part is pretty much 100% true. But not after.)

I have a new haircut. And it's short. And I likes it. Sorry I couldn't seem to get a decent picture of it, but the above at least shows you that it's short. Which is what I wanted. Because, for some reason, the hippie look just wasn't working for me anymore. Time to get with the 21st century. And time to start looking my age.

And time, frankly, to feel just a little bit more awesome.

A Lizardbreathian Year in Review

So, I only have about 33 minutes left of 2009 as I type these words. By the time I actually send my post out to rest on the thin strands of the interwebs, it will likely be deep (aka minutes) into 2010, and this year will be behind me.

So I feel like I owe you all, my tender and devoted readers (Hi, Jill in Romania!) a kind of recap of what this year has been like for me.

And I will do it with a list. Because. I feel like it.

1. Unemployment - So...the economy has been a little low lately. Although it's showing signs of perking, kind of like the plant you thought would be okay for the three weeks of vacation you took in the heat of midsummer with all the air conditioning turned off in your house, and you come back and it's basically a vaguely green puddle collapsed around its pot and you pour about a gallon of water over it just so you can tell yourself that you did all you could to save it, and so water seeps out the bottom and gets your tabletop all wet and after about a week one of the leaves starts lifting itself up just a little, as though the force of gravity was almost too much for it to bear. Yeah. The economy's been like that. And, unfortunately, although they're being used more than ever, libraries currently seem to be on the list of non-essentials when the funding pie is getting dished up, leaving the hefty slices to go to crazy things like fire departments and schools and stuff. (Ahaha. Of course I know that these services are essential. Pleasedonotsendmehatemail.) And the library gets that piece of burnt crust that's left over in the pan after all the other pieces are taken out. So, they're naturally not able to hire new librarians, so the recently graduated librarians (aka me) still remain jobless. Sigh.
   
2. Job Hunting - This has been my task for the past many months. Although, I have liberally sprinkled the in-between-hunts bits (and the avoiding filling in yet another lengthy and unnecessary application bits) with watching all five seasons of Lost and doing some freelance writing for my bro-in-law, who is a fantabulous foot doctor and is being way kind enough to pay me for it.
3. Whining about being unemployed and having to spend my time job hunting - This is an activity I engage in whenever people ask me how I'm doing. I'll kind of make a wry little grimace and then proceed to harangue them with anecdotes about libraries that are closing all around the U.S. and about how there are on average 2.5 billion applicants for every library position and that the human resources department are now using resumes as an alternative fuel source to save on heating bills. So, sorry folks. You know. If I've ranted at you for awhile. You're forgiven for clamping your ears shut and running away.
   
4. NaNoWriMo - I completed this for only the second time (although it was my second attempt as well, so I've won every time I've attempted it--yay me!) and I was, to put it frankly, totally proud of myself. Of course, I haven't touched the novel since. It's currently sitting at the point just after what I consider to be the most exciting scene I've written so far. So it's been kind of scratching at my brain, trying to get me to write it. And I'll probably give in. In January.
5. Family - Despite being jobless, and despite getting bouts of severe anxiety every time I remember that I have to pay over $500 a month now for the next ten years to repay my student loans (all this without a job...hmm...), I actually really, really love being here. I do get twinges of missing Boston now and then, particularly the awesome folks I hung with out there (shoutouts to school, work and church buddies!), but I'm loving life in the West. And I'm loving catching up on Gilmore Girls with my mom. And seeing an entirely adorable baby niece get progressively chubbier cheeks. In short, I may complain, but life's pretty darn good. So, I guess I can say 2009 was pretty darn good, too.
   

Airport tripping

I love taking people to the airport.

Except, I actually hate it.

But, really, I love it.

I love it because it's that last chance you'll see someone before they go off to Maine or Texas or Indonesia for a few days/weeks/months/years, and it's such a smorgasbord of teary embraces, promises to write (emails, nowaday, I guess...or texts) that really won't be kept (or if they are, by only one party), and maybe, depending on the identity of the driver and/or departee, some good smooching might go on.

Not for me, but hey--I recognize that it's a perk for some.

I hate taking people to the airport because, inevitably, bad airport karma comes and surrounds me like the dust that orbits Pig Pen. If I am the one doing the departing, this means multiple days of delays and foul weather that threatens to strand me in Omaha, Nebraska until 2012, when the world's going to end anyway, so it won't really matter anymore. If I am the one doing the driving and delivery, this means that A: The actual travelers will misremember their departure time and thus leave for the airport a full hour after they should have, or B: There will be a massive accident on the freeway that backs traffic up for approximately 400 miles. (Although, I gladly and gratefully admit that it is much better to be caught in traffic than to be in the accident that caused the traffic. The one today was a doozy.) This traffic will make the driver (me) frustrated, snippy, and also reckless, and the travelers will try to calm me with words of comfort and possibly medication.

So, to my dear sister and bro-in-law, I say this: I really hope you enjoy your few days away from the doldrums of regular life. Also, I'm sad we didn't get that teary farewell as you left, since by the time we finally got to the airport, the combination of our lateness and my crankiness made you ready to pretty much rocket yourselves out of the door the moment I pulled up to the terminal. (Glad you remembered to snag your luggage.)

Also, I will be more than happy to drive you or anyone else to the airport at pretty much any time in the future. Except, I think I may in the future demand that we leave a full 24 hours in advance. Just to be safe.

Sometimes a lack of posting means I will give birth to a novel in a month.

After perusing my blog stats, I've realized that my readership has dropped down to virtually zero. For the one reader who still checks this blog, (or possibly two? Are you a reader out there, person from Romania?), I wish to send out this apology:

I'm sorry.

You see, I've been a little occupied this month. I was in Colorado for some of it, during which time I accessed the internet only once and realized my unread emails had accrued enough mass to collapse into a supermassive black hole that is even now sucking in the entire internet, and from which I only just managed to escape with my life.

Also, there was that whole Thanksgiving thing, which involved a massive amount of time and energy. Energy which was expended on corralling and entertaining a tornado of children (I believe that's the official phrase for 'a group of children,' isn't it?), consuming vast quantities of turkey and pie (not together, just so you know), and playing fiercely competitive domino games with the adult family members (and one niece, who is even more competitive than the grownups).

In short, it has been a wholly awesome month.

However, there has been one more thing that has kept me from blogging, namely NaNoWriMo, which required all of the writing juice I could squeeze out of myself. (Writing juice is a lovely deep caramel color, with sweetness like honey and just a faint hint of lemon zest. And sometimes garlic.) So, you see, I had pretty much nothing left at the end of the day to squirt into the blogosphere. (That...that actually sounds pretty disgusting. Eugh.)

But now, behold, I have returned. And what's more, I have returned...

A WINNER!

Behold the mighty winner's trophy for those who vanquish the terrible NaNoWriMo beast and...

*Ahem.*

Sorry. Got a little carried away, there.

Naturally, my novel is nowhere close to being actually finished, although I crossed the NaNo finish line at rather an exciting point in the story, so I'm pretty confident I'll see this thing through to the end. (Unlike my last NaNo novel, which has been gathering virtual dust in a corner of my computer for the past three years.)

So, my blogging should be back on schedule, now. (That is, I'll blog when I darn well feel like it, and not before.)

And also, HUZZAH! For I have won! And maybe, maybe someday, I may actually be able to hold the novel in my hands, coo at it a little, and read it aloud as a punishment to misbehaving children.

And I will love it, and squeeze it, and call it My Debut Novel

Those of you who know me (basically pretty much anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis) may know that I am, for the second time in my life, participating in the annual 30-days-of-madness that is the NaNoWriMo experience.

I got involved for the first time back in 2006, when I was working full time and contemplating a future career as a librarian (which I am still contemplating, by the way--I'm just contemplating with an MLS in-hand nowadays).

I took on the challenge of writing 50,000 words in 30 days (it works out to an entirely doable 1,667 words per day, which is roughly 6 pages (give or take, depending on how much dialogue you put in versus dense descriptive passages) of double-spaced text in a word processing document.

Not bad, and as I mentioned, totally doable. However, I avoided getting involved in 2007, and the November of 2008 was possibly the most intense semester I had while getting my Master's degree. So you'll understand why I didn't feel that any textual creation that was not directly linked to how to create a storytelling kit out of felt and rhymes about monkeys was going to be beneficial to me.

And I got all 'A's that semester, as I recall. So the novel-that-might-have-been was sacrificed on the alter of the GPA gods.

But.

This year I am free from (almost) all constraints. I have no job. (Which is still making me tremble with terror every time I remember that loan repayment is steadily marching toward me, but I manage to avoid the remembrance as much as possible.) Well, I have no job aside from some writing work I'm doing for my bro-in-law (thanks, nameless B-in-L!). But it's not such intense work that I can't take the time (particularly during my peak writing hours from about midnight to 2 or 3am) to pound out a few pages of novel every day.

So I'm doing it again. That's what I'm saying. (In an admittedly (and typical) roundabout and pointless fashion.)

And I'm rather wholly excited at this point. The first day, I wasn't sure I would even start the thing, although I had an idea that I had worked out a few weeks in advance.

The second day, I despised what I had written (aside from the first two pages--those were pretty good) the way an advanced alien culture despises war-torn Earthlings in science fiction plots.

The third day, and the fourth, and fifth and now sixth, I have found that what I'm writing has some good bits. Some honest-to-goodness fine bits of prose, mishmashed together of course with a bunch of really crappy prose. But there are, nonetheless, pieces to be proud of. And the writing of the thing gets easier every time I sit down.

I even find myself thinking about the plot on the toilet. Surely that is the sign of a dedicated novelist!

So last night, I discovered that the fine folks at CreateSpace have donated their resources to the foolhardy souls who undertake the NaNoWriMo challenge. They have offered to, for free, print up a proof copy of the finished book of all NaNoWriMo winners (who sign up for an account, of course, and put together a pdf file of the finished (or pseudo-finished?) novel).

Which just. Blew my mind a little.

So, I can not only write a fabulous, earth-shatteringly, (cliche-ridden) amazing first novel, but I can also get a copy of it. Printed. To hold. In my hands. And lend to relatives who will read the first chapter and kindly suggest that I look harder for a librarian job. And try to sell to others on Amazon.com.

I know it's self-publishing. I know it would not really make me a for-real published author. But, oh, my dear soul. There is something so appealing about the thought of holding my own book in my hands.

So much so, that I think I'll finish this year's NaNoWriMo too. 40,000 words to go, baby.

Multihairticulture

I had a dream last night that I had multicolored hair. And I'm not just talking about the kind that's peroxide-blond at the tips and mahogany and/or steel gray at the roots.

No. I'm talking about the kind that's Bubblicious pink on the left, lemon yogurt yellow in the middle, and ICEE blue raspberry on the right.

And you know what? I looked fabulous with bright blue hair. Seriously. I thought to myself in my dream (in italics, as thoughts go), I should get my hair colored blue all over. That would look awfully nice.

So, I'm pretty sure I'll do that. I wonder if it would finally make my primary kids think I'm cool.

Okay. These are just cool.

Humans love novelty. And having a good time. Even if it means performing tasks we normally consider onerous.

Observe:

The Bottle Bank Arcade Machine:


The Piano Staircase:


And The World's Deepest Bin:


Thanks to Auntie for the original link!

And thanks to the volks at Volkswagen for the awesome creativity.

Eureka!

I've had a breakthrough.

A brainy, genius, overwhelmingly intelligent bit of an idea that will, I am sure, solve all of my problems.

Or. Well, not.

But it's not a bad idea. And I'm pretty darn sure it'll work for me.

It all started with last night, when I had an in-depth conversation with my lovely sis, in which she encouraged me to tackle the things about my life that are bothering me (like, say, sleeping in until an hour or so before late-night TV starts). She's a good older sis, folks.

Anyway--the problem was that I tend to be resistant to talks like that. Or suggestions like that. As in: picture a mule the size of a dumpster truck, who is leaning against its lead rope and also sitting in mud up to its haunches. That is me.

So I had to figure out a way to trick my mule-self into actually doing something productive. And I came up with this visualization that just CLICKED, man.

Here it is (to-do list items have been altered to protect the not-so-innocent, i.e. me):


Okay. Awesome, right?!? (Er, you should be able to click the image to get a bigger version so you can read what I wrote & stuff.)

So, this is my Shelf o' Priorities, or stuff I feel I want to improve or accomplish. It can be as specific as a task I want to do (such as getting a dog) or a general self-improvement goal, such as smiling at more babies. The size roughly translates to how important I think something is. Items on the lower shelf are ones I feel prepared to deal with/tackle right now (thus they are more accessible). The items on the upper shelf are things I know I want to improve or do, but don't feel quite ready to deal with yet. The cloudy thing is an overarching goal that I want to work on continually while doing everything else.

This visualization seems like an especially good tool for me, simply because I tend to feel overwhelmed awfully quickly when I start an internal list of all the things I want to change about myself. I get so overwhelmed, in fact, that I pretty much can't do anything except lie on my bed with a cold compress and think of better days. Or possibly play video games.

But this way, I can keep track of things I want to do or change without feeling like I have to do everything right now. For instance, I know I'll want to stop playing with stuffed animals sometime in the future, but right now I'm going to let it stay on the shelf. It's still there so I won't forget about it, but I don't have to take it down until I'm fully ready.

Also, I'm only allowed to take maybe two or three things off the shelf at a time, tops.

Once I've got some of the bottom items under control, I'll move stuff from the top shelf onto the lower shelf, making room for other goals on top, or ideas for future improvement.

Anyway. This was kind of a breakthrough for me, so I wanted to share. In case it might help any of you.

Oooh! Maybe I should put up a square that says, "Become Motivational Speaker." Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's a goal I could live with.

Leaking

I seem to be having trouble with water lately.

I spill it, inhale it, and otherwise do things with it that were not ever meant to be done by a human being. Ever.

Like that time when, using the convenient in-door dispenser on our refrigerator, I held my cup in long enough to do a scale model recreation of Yosemite Falls, soaking my hand, my shirt, and temporarily resurrecting Lake Bonneville.

Or when I attempted to swallow a bit of that saliva that accumulates in the mouth (come on now--let's not pretend that gross things don't exist, or that you don't do them) and decided to inhale rather than wisely blocking the passage to my windpipe (kind of like when you breathe in right before biting into a donut covered in powdered sugar and wind up curled up on the floor having spasms for half an hour) thus possibly resulting in the cough I've had for the past two weeks.

Or just now, when, bringing my cup (a different cup, for we have many) to my lips, instead of pouring fresh quaffs of delightfully chill'd water into my parch'd throat, I instead poured said delightfully freezing water down my front, resulting in a sodden mess, from which I was somehow able to squeeze more liquid than had actually been contained in my cup at the time of spillage. (The laws of physics do not apply in situations like these.)

I know I am not the world's most graceful person. I do not do graceful things like ballet dancing (although my niece somehow seems to have The Gift for it), or moving through a room like a whisper from a butterfly, or balancing stacks of books on my head (instead I read them, people). But I still cannot quite believe how clumsy I seem to be.

And how very, VERY dangerous water has become.

My lack of a job is starting to interfere with my night life.

Some of you may be shocked when you read this entry, namely because I did not indulge in Pirate Speak during the writing of it. Or at least not much. Arr.

But try to rein in your discontent for a moment. I wish to write of a matter of vital importance.

I am sleeping really weird(ly?) lately.

Not that my dreams are odd, or rather are no more odd than usual, but my sleeping schedule seems to be slipping further and further away from the norm (as defined by what normal people do during normal hours of the day, as opposed to what imaginary people like me do).

For instance, take yesterday. I woke up at 11am. As in eleven o'clock in the morning. I ate breakfast while my parents had lunch. And then I played video games. (So much for job hunting.) And then I went to bed at 4am this morning. And woke up about five minutes before noon today.

For a while after a moved home, I was still on Eastern Time. On early-rising ET, even. When I lived just outside of Boston, I would frequently get up at 6am so I could get ready and out the door and on the (unpredictable) T and arrive at work on time and have the library all nice and open when patrons started showing up.

So, just to point this out to you, I would frequently get up at the exact same time that I went to bed this morning. So, basically the slippage has now shifted me ahead the amount of one entire sleep schedule.

Not cool, me peeps. Not cool. Especially because when I start sleeping this late, my dreams get really lucid and. Disturbing. Like ex-boyfriends visiting a woman in a prison and killing her with fishing tackle and leaving her for her little boy to find. Oh, and same dream: day-old soft-serve ice cream cones that have somehow retained their shape, but are room-temperature and stale.

So, no more domestic (in-prison?) violence in my dreams, please. No more stale ice cream cones. I needs to get me a job. Pronto.

Nothin' to see...

It's nearly 2 o'clock in the morning. And I'm sitting here at my desk ("my" being a metaphorical term standing in for the phrase "my parents'") catching up on my Google Reader feed and ruminating on the latest episode of Lost I've gotten to (post-popularity-ly).

And peeps, I'm staring down the barrel of a gun that has a terrible message written on it. "You're, well, you're kind of dull," it says, etched in its metal sides. Which is a kind of difficult thing to read, since I'm staring down the barrel and all, and the sides are at an oblique angle to my field of vision.

Also, that is a really awful metaphor.

I wish there were things I could write about. But right now, my life consists mainly of filling in the same information into numerous application forms for jobs I will never receive replies from, watching Lost online, catching up on all the years of video gaming I never got as a child, and (when life demands it) doing laundry.

I think the blogging spirit consists of two main parts. First, one needs a topic. Second, one must have a desire to share said topic. And I haven't had much of either lately.

But, ne'er fear. I'm sure something will come along sometime (in its vague sort of way) and I'll be somewhat more inclined to spout somesuch stuffs.

In the meantime, I'll try to think of stuff to share.

Like crazy dreams of flying around a crowded shopping mall. Or my adventures in cookie-making. Or my belief that my mother and I may be recovering from swine flu.

See? Even the dull (and yikes--really whiny) occasionally have things to talk about. Sort of.

Hi.

So, I'm not here to be clever.

You may be disappointed, as some of you have come to expect from me (quite erroneously, I must insist) some pithy, witty writings based upon my life's times. (Not 'lifetimes.' That would be silly. I don't believe in reincarnation.)

However, peeps have been bugging me for ages (i.e. about the past hour) for a blog post.

Very well. I will provide sustenance for the masses, despite my writing deficiencies. I will pour sweet words upon your aching brows (sorry--just got an image of a medieval herbalist dumping alphabet soup over someone's forehead) and anoint the Balm of Blogging(TM) in your wounds.

You luckies, you.

So. Here I am, in Utah, hanging with my folks and my 18-year-old brother, who is soon to leave the nest (the same nest to which I have just returned) for a brighter, better life as a starving college student. (O, good luck, my bro.)

This will mean, of course, that I will be the only child left living at home. This will have been, I believe the third time (possibly the fourth? My memory of college is getting a little hazy--good GAS, I'm old) I have done so, and I have to imagine that my parents (in the privacy of their own room, of course) have started to realize and discuss just why Heathcliff Huxtable got so fed up with his own offspring.

Yes, I am in my parents' basement. Yes, I have no job. Yes, I do play video games. Yes, I am over 30.

Oh. My. Heavens. What have I become?!?

I must retire and weep.

But fear not, hope lieth on the horizon. Yea, it verily risetheth muchly bright morningish. Ly.

In short, I have a phone interview with a local library system on Tuesday. So, kindly keep your fingers crossed for me (but not if it means cutting off your circulation--seriously people, use some common sense!) so that at least I won't babble like a rabid monkey during said interview. Avoiding that would, I believe, raise my chances of getting hired. Slightly.

Righto. Now, I will leave you with a picture of a pig rooting in the mud. And that is all I will show you of my vacation to the Carolinas. Because I don't want to bore you. And pigs are kind of cute. In an ugly sort of way. Also, you cannot tell from the picture just how stinky this pigpen was.


Tata!

Here's a rundown of my last few weeks:

I have recently done a lot of nothing much. And before that, a lot of sitting. (While thousands & thousands of feet up in the air, but still, I was occupying myself with looking out the window and listening to the woman next to me sing along to the Michael Jackson memorial concert. And occasionally peeking into my novel. (For some reason I have a hard time reading on planes.))

And before that, a lot of sitting. (While in a car, then on a beach, then back in the car.)

And before that, a lot of sitting. (While in a car which was meandering through the positively gorgeous Great Smoky Mountains National Park.)

The in-between bits were actually most excellent, with time spent with my fabulously wonderful (or wondrously fabulous?) D.C. friend, learning about the history of the Cherokee, getting sunburned on beaches with ponies and dolphins in the distance, then visiting notable D.C. sites, such as Ford's Theatre and the heartbreaking Holocaust Museum.

And now I play with children and contemplate searching for jobs. But mostly I'm not getting anything much done. I'll buckle down and work on stuff later, I'm sure. Maybe when the little nephews go down for a nap.

Well, I'm off.

I leave Boston today. This evening, to be precise, at approximately the same time a major thunderstorm system is supposed to get up and going. We'll see if I actually leave on time.

I have swept my room and dusted my furniture (and in the process gathered together a pile of dust bunnies that, combined, would probably equal a small child in weight--it's, er, been a long time since I've swept under my bed--eugh) and have packed my bags and am currently stuffed with food that I've been desperately cramming down in a vain attempt to eat up the last of my groceries. Alas.

And now I am waiting for the right time to go down to the T and hop onto the train, hauling my suitcases behind me and hoping against hope that they won't go over the weight limit and that the airlines will accept a backpack as a personal item. 'Cause I don't think I'll have room otherwise.

So, I'll update y'all later. Probably once I'm all through tripping around and have safely ensconced myself in my parents' basement.

I know you'll miss me.

See you on the other side!