Adventures on Signing In
Thursday, March 29, 2007, 5:57 PM
How many times have I clicked that little box that says Remember me when I sign in to Blogger? Lots. Does it work? Not once, even though I've varied my sign on routine by typing in my information and then moving my mouse to the Signin button and clicking it. Mostly I just type and hit the Enter key, don't 'cha know. Yahoo remembers me. Gmail remembers me. Lots of other sites remember me, but oh-ho, not Blogger.
I got an e-mail from Kevin Bacon today. Yeah, the actor. He wants me to join a charity called Six Degrees along with his wife, Kyra Sedgewick ... along with Rosie O'Donnell, Ashley Judd and Nicole Kidman, to mention a few. At first I thought Kevin was talking about the degree of separation each person has from each other, about how we're all connected or related in some way. And I'm like, Huh, I thought that was NINE degrees. Ah, but then the part about the Create an AIM page soaked into my brain and the cynical girl inside said, Pffft, this e-mail isn't from Kevin, it's from an AOL marketing foo.
So I hit my Back button and eyed Yahoo's Featured story of the moment: Four Cures For Love Laziness. I thought about clicking on it, but then I saw the words Master the art of cyberflirting hyperlinked below and mouse-pounced. A disappointing read, to say the least. Do a spellcheck, proof to make sure my grammar is correct. Keep my first messages simple. Don't respond to messages after ten at night. Nothing at all about how to bat my eyelashes in text, how to simulate the act of maintaining eye contact, no juicy keywords guaranteed to elicit a response.
So I visited the Four Cures piece and read this article was also focusing on online communication and online dating. According to the writer, I should go for the gusto and e-mail four ho-
And this is the happy moment when Blogger kicked me the wazoo out of the cosmos, but somehow, someway, my Yahoo screen remained uber strong. And when I went back to Blogger, it didn't recognize me and I had to sign on again. It's rough, I tell you.
So, back to the Four Cures thing. Apparently cyberdating is sweeping the nation with broader strokes than eva. Yeah, I met my ex online and we traded e-mails and phone calls for about a month, but is that cyberdating? I used to think looking for love online was cheating--lazy--not to mention possibly dangerous to my health because what if I fell in love with a self-professed CPA, but who was in fact a cynaide salesman-slash-murderer?
I don't see how e-mailing four hotties (and how would I know who's hot or not, anyway? People lie all the time on their profiles, on their blogs and in their e-mails), and that putting myself out there in written communication with opened ended questions to a potential love interest is going to cure me of what the article writer calls dating dawdilitus. Wouldn't that kind of thing just perpetuate it? Shouldn't I make arrangements to meet someone at the library, musem or restaurant on the corner instead?
Ulk. Eighty-percent of me doesn't want to date, anyway.
Okay, time to get back to my writing. I've got 28 pages of loathsome crap for my shrink, the lucky girl.
In all the wrong places
I was looking for love in all the wrong places
Looking for love in too many faces
Searching your eyes, looking for traces
Of what.. I'm dreaming of...
Hopin' to find a friend and a lover
God bless the day I discover
Another heart, lookin' for love
A guy what's hot for a one night stand ain't looking for everlastin' love, luv.
Death in the mirror
Have you ever tried to prepare yourself for the death of your husband, wife, sister, mother, brother, best friend ... by acting it out? By trying to "hear" and "deal" with the news of their passing?
I'm not sure when it started, but these painful eventualities first presented themselves in my dreams three or four years ago. I'd wake up in the dark of night short of breath, feeling that the ground below me had turned into liquid mercury, feeling terrified and lost. I'd wake up thinking Oh my God, someday _____________ is going to die. It was like I was thrown forward in a life where I couldn't function.
A few times after these dreams happened, I began to think that maybe I could prepare myself, that maybe I could learn to swallow the worst of my pain when faced with the reality, that I could present a brave front ... because what are dreams for if not to warn me of what's to come?
I'm not sure how I got the idea--I don't know where the most the crap from my brain comes from, maybe from the organic Rice Crispies--but I started looking in the mirror to see how I handled the worst life could throw at me. My sister's death makes me look guilty. My father's death makes me look like a stone. Ken's death used to make me look like a gaping fish, and I'd have to drink a lot of water to replace what I lost through my nose. I was never able to see my face at the thought of Buddy's death (my orange kitty boy). Oogie's death made my eyes red and puffy, made my head ache, made me feel the absolute worst.
Okay, the depression part of this was supposed to be less at this point. I was supposed to be laughing now. This is a kind of funny thing I do, trying to act out the loss of my loved ones to see how well I might deal with it all ... but the truth is that there is no way I can prepare myself. And I wish I could.
This was supposed to be a funny post. A funny post. A funny post.
I am Spiderman
Take the Superhero Personality Test
Considerate Visionary revealed
In the meanst, I shall compare my present findings for the sake of posterity, and when I read this a year or five from now, I will laugh myself into a runny nose.
Your imagination, self-assuredness, and knowledge of the world combine to make you a VISIONARY.
You have clear notions of how things could be, and the confidence to try to make them that way.
You enjoy having a routine, and prefer comfort and familiarity to risk and adventure.
You're not afraid to let your emotions guide you, and you're generally considerate of others' feelings as well.
I'm too tired to do the considerate pondering part of this. Maybe tomorrow; I'll consider it.
I sat at my computer, staring at the satellite image of my old stomping grounds and I started remembering stuff. Some of the best times I remember happened on my blue and white bike cruising around the parking lot that surrounded the pool and club house. A bunch of us would play Village. We had to obey the red lights (whoever was standing at the corners of the parking lots wearing the red t-shirt), we were often pulled over by the cops (whoever was wearing the sun glasses) for running those red lights, and we had to pick up the little kids from school (they rode on the handlebar of our bikes). Ah, good times, good times.
A bunch of us held a play once at the end of the building on the left. We wrote it, staged it, then acted it out. I forget what the play was called, but the highlight was the candy we threw at our audience.
It looks like the playground is gone, which is a shame. I remember tying blankets from swing to swing, which created a cocoon for someone to get into. So...theoretically, one person could swing in the cocoon while two others swung on the swings. It was crazy fun.
And I remember when we were out-of-school-for-the-summer kids too young to go swimming by ourselves, so we'd stand outside the fenced area of the pool and try to catch some stranger's eye, the better to beg them to watch us swim. (I only remember one person ever falling for this scheme, but Oogie shot down that idea. She was such a mean, mean, mean mom.)
So anyway, a bit of nostalgia tonight. 319 East Hoover. Fairview Court golf course (it’s called something else now), and that dilapidated wooden house on the golf course that was haunted--that scared the heebie-jeebies out of us--is where McMillen Health Center is now. Just another playground lost.
Long live Hoover Drive.
Bicyclists on the sidewalk behind me. There I am, moseying along, arms swinging, pondering how best to split an atom and all of a sudden, this whoosh of air hits the back of my neck and a streak of dark zips by me. Yee-freaking-owl!
There isn’t much better than a stroll down a sidewalk littered with cigarette butts. Even better are lipstick-smudged cigarette butts. Mmmmm, mmmmm. This is why anyone visiting me must check his or her shoes at the door, and shaddup about it.
Girls who don’t flush during their time of the month. I’ve been unlucky enough to espy this revoltingly nasty funk twice in the last couple of months. It makes me want to Superglue the female’s pants on (God help us all if she’s only wearing a skirt). Sure, it could be an odd occurrence by two different people. If that’s the case, I’d be totally okay with public restroom discrimination: Those Who Flush and Wash Hands, and Those Who Don’t Bother.
Anyone who puts me in the uncomfortable position of having to ask for their share of money. This especially goes for rent, and is one of the reasons why I now live alone. Money is difficult for me to talk about under the best of circumstances. Don’t make me have to remind you of your obligation. (Also, it’d be nice if the downstairs neighbor slept in her own apartment, but I can see how that might be asking too much.)
Nitpickers. Some people's habit of nitpicking make them judgmental by default. They seem to be happiest when cataloging and complaining about every piece of negligible crap the rest of the population could care less about. When he or she inevitably steps on toes, it's called “mothering” instead. Can you spell c-o-n-t-r-o-l i-s-s-u-e-s?
People with control issues. Leave your brain in bed, you won’t need it with the controllers of the world—they don’t think you have one, anyway. No, forget that. Avoid these people at all costs, as they will demoralize your spirit quicker than piranha feeding on a cow that’s fallen in the stream.
Goose vs. Gander. The obvious inference, plus anyone who publicly does something they warned me against doing. I witnessed this type of situation last May and responded via an anonymous comment in a blog that prompted an entry of mine. This person knew who I was, so I didn’t consider myself anonymous, as my comment would make sense only to the blog writer. But the writer ended up deleting it rather than calling me on it, which is a shame because some good might have come from it.
I’d write more, but I’m playing it s-m-a-r-t.
If I was really smart, I’d ignore the events that bring these peeves to the fore, but I feel like kicking back this time.
Not a pet peeve: people who underestimate me
Because I’d like to, you know. I’ve always had a fascination with sexay heels. I remember the first pair I ever wore—they were brown suade straps and belonged to my friend’s mother, whose foot size I shared. I was thirteen years old, not allowed to wear makeup or heels, not allowed to say the word damn--I was actually pressing my luck by saying darn--and I only made $5.00 allowance a week. Who knows what Oogie would have done if she’d seen me under all of that purple eyeshadow and teetering on kiss-me-gently pumps. I’m only here to share the tale today because my girlfriend’s mother was a pastor’s wife and so didn’t own fuck me pumps, and because reading this entry will be the first my mother knows I ever did this.
It’s been years since that day at the mall, but I still remember the horrah of wearing heels. I got a good taste of what was in store for my feet just on the walk from the car to the mall entrance when I lost the feeling of sophisticated sexosity on the side of the curb, which somehow shrank back from my shoe and made me stumble and look like an ox. Thank God I didn't fall, because we went in through the theater doors, which were right next to the arcade ... which was where all the boys hung out. Apparently heels only looked light and graceful. Apparently they hurt like hell. I didn't know how anyone could last a day in them (still don't).
Not long after that, I decided I was better off without heels. And so I took the shoes off and carted them around by their straps, wearing holes in my Legg’s nylons and setting new beauty standards for teenaged girls everywhere. But what a rude awakening it was. I couldn’t even be bad and like it.
Them thar are Victoria's Secrets anklestrap wedge sandles, bargain price: $58
Playing the game
I guess this is a good reason why people say a girl needs to find a guy to love her before she gets too old—so when he sees her at the age of sixty bawling over the frayed edge of her favorite kitchen towel, he’ll mop up the snot on her chin without a flinch … because he remembers doing the same thing for her when she was thirty and lost her marbles over that Liberty Mutual TV commercial. Hmmm, maybe I should date, before it’s too late.
Nah. Maybe next year.
I know nothing stays the same
But if you're willing to play the game
It's coming around again
So don't mind if I fall apart
There's more room in a broken heart
Want to hear it?
I've had a couple of opportunities to date, but I keep shying away from having to go through it all because I mostly don't want to be in a relationship. I wouldn't mind some of the time, but I can't see how shaving my legs regularly is a good thing because my hair grows in darker and coarser.
I'm still on Celexa. Tried weaning myself off (without doc's ok) and had panic attacks. Or maybe preliminary hot flashes? I don't know. I'm confused. Story of my life. WWOD (what would Oogie Do)? She wouldn't share this quandary here, that's for sure, but she'll get a kick out of reading this. Hi, Oogie!
Still love my job. Next month will be my one-year-anniversary on that job, and July 1 will be my two year with the company. I can't believe it. What is it about growing older that makes the days seem longer, yet not as memorable and long as when I was a kid? Did I really have that much do nothing time on my hands?
I miss Ken. I miss Buddy. I miss everything about my old life (except for the scared girl I used to be), but Ken and Buddy Cat routinely haunt my dreams. I wonder when it's going to stop.
My feet hurt. All this walking takes a toll. I need to soak 'em and saw 'em. You know?
I don't know how Dolly Parton can stand it.
Equal opportunity Monday
When ten o'clock rolled around, I was feeling this side of beastly: headache, stomach ache, eye ache, an unholy taste in my mouth. I didn't even drink a half cup of coffee and I always drink at least a cup so I don't end the morning slobbering and snorting all over my keyboard.
Lucky for me, my antacid kicked in. But then I went to lunch. I'd brought spaghetti with thinly sliced hotdogs. Yeah, seems gross, but I learned this trick from someone else. Still, one should not ingest spaghetti sauce and hotdogs if one has a tetchy tummy. I spent the afternoon secretly cringing and giggling over the weird sounds my stomach was making. Ohhhh-weeeeee-ewwwww, said my stomach. God, why does our office have to be as quiet as a tomb?! I kept sending documents to the printer so nobody'd hear my body sounds.
It's been a weird Monday. I was cold one moment, hot the next. Dog tired mid-morning, and bushy-tailed by late afternoon. I even did a load of laundry: sheets, because they're easy. And now it's time for bed.
I can't stand the excitement.
I used to handwrite everything. I still have a callus on the middle finger of my right hand from where I held my pencil in a death grip, even though I haven't handwritten anything substantial in over fifteen years. I preferred light-lead pencils that were little more than stubs. They fit in my hand perfectly and I could easily write for hours, forgetting that I was writing. I miss the smell of pencil lead and shavings, but I don't miss the pain in my hand or fingers or neck or back. Yet, I used to be able to forget all of that while writing and oh, those magical days of complete concentration when I could write with abandon, without worrying about how the words read! I know most of it was awful now, but back then the writing gave me a sense of completion that nothing or no one else could. Now it's a struggle even to write a paragraph, even though I know I'm a much better writer. My internal editor is no longer my friend, it is my worst enemy ... and it doesn't like sugar lumps, my singing or this chair I'm sitting in.
When I used to handwrite my stories, I began by copying the last page written so that I would get caught back up in the story. In this way I could tighten what I'd written and make it better, which spurred me on. I also had this thing about my pages being neat; if I had to change a paragraph too much (erase it more than once, or draw lines through it), I'd rewrite the entire page. My letters, my handwritten print, had to be neat. I took pride in it.
It's different on a computer. I can write faster, move one paragraph to another page in less time than it used to take to wad up a piece of paper. It's easier to write on a computer, but not necessarily better, though I won't go back to handwriting. For one thing, I don't have the right kind of pencil and for me, the pencil is all. I also don't have the college-rule notebook paper with the faint colored lines, nor the right table height. So I guess it's the computer monitor and keyboard for me, and a driving need for The End or bust.
Save the cheerleader, save the world.
On to page 25.
Sometimes when I'm sitting in a chair, I'll stare down at my thighs and wish that they wouldn't spread out that far. I remember first noticing this in the seventh grade, probably when my thighs were little more than sticks. But I used to raise my legs up (while sitting) until I was on my toes so my thighs wouldn't spread out, so I wouldn't look fat.
My black Mary Jane sneakers rubbed my ankles raw on the way to work this morning. Every step I took, I was saying ow, ow, ow in my mind until I made myself stop because focusing on the pain was making it worse. So I thought about being spanked instead.
I think Depeche Mode's Michael Hutchinson (who's dead now) is the most sexy male singer I've ever heard. His voice makes my pulse do the funky chicken. sigh
Uh, no to whoever did the search for Should I tip the Vons delivery man? Vons says they don't accept tips, even though they won't hire the delivery guys full time ... which means no benefits. However, they do say the delivery men can accept gratitude and smiles. I say give 'em a Coke and smile. Unless they're an hour late, that is, then give 'em a bottle of water and pretend to swallow a story of backup delivery woes because after all, you don't really know and traffic in LA does suck eggs.
I am so glad I'm not in relationship. I don't have to worry about misunderstandings, losing my temper or of someone losing his temper with me, there's no worry about someone else, and I am free to do what I want when I want. It's liberating. Lonely sometimes, but then I am not faced with an emotional situation that makes my body want to devour itself from the inside out. Which is what relationships tend to make me feel.
Sometimes I feel like Fate is sending me in the footsteps of my past mistakes by making me confront those same mistakes in others. It's eye-opening and humbling and gives me a greater sensitivity and understanding about the pain of someone else's anger and misunderstanding. But it still hurts, still makes me tremble in fear and shame like a scared little kid being scolded in front of the entire third grade class.
I'm learning. Growing. Accepting. Acclimating. Today, I am at peace with the girl inside. And tomorrow, I will do the laundry.