Beware the 'Zilla!

Having reliable internet access at home has made a huge difference in my life. Yes, I caved and stopped relying on unreliable others. Now I can do all the important stuff I need to do, like finally confirm that, yes, the woman in my one Pilates DVD is indeed the actress who played Kathy, Buffy's evil roommate! Critical stuff like that...

You might be interested to know that the monster that lives in Lake Merritt in Oakland has been named Merrittzilla . I find it kind of cool.

One benefit of the aforementioned New Bed is that in moving the dreaded Old Bed (which I gave away on freecycle) I found the ring I have been missing for many months now. The one that a student noticed was missing from my finger, which made me feel like my students watch me a little too closely, perhaps. But anyway, it is back on the middle finger of my left hand, like it had never been gone. Yea. I feel that my good luck begins now.
It's weird because I'm restless, kind of, but I don't feel like going anywhere. Usually when I feel this way I just want to go somewhere, anywhere. But I don't. I want to stay home, but in a new kind of way. What would be a fresh, interesting new way to stay home? Probably I will just read my Amy Hempel book. I actually haven't just stayed in and read in awhile.
I put up some of my pictures from NM on the post a few below.

I have a new bed, and it's lovely. It's all about newness - new bed, new mattress, new sheets, new quilt. Newnewnew. I went with a quilt because no matter what preventive steps I take (tying the corners, mild sedatives, etc.), my duvet always slips out of its cover and I get all tangled up in it. It is a really gross feeling somehow and I'm DONE. Anyway, I love my new Bed plus Accessories, even though I keep bumping my knee on the corner of the frame. That's just my bed's way of reminding me not to take it for granted. Really, it's more than a bed. It's a receptacle for my hopes and dreams. I can tell my bed anything and it won't judge me. I am trying to stay on its good side by not filling it with magazines like I did my old bed. I got up and put my magazine in the living room last night when I was ready to turn off the light. I want to be a good steward of this bed, you know? I made it today and even tucked the quilt into the sides because then it looks very modern and streamlined. I propped the first set of pillows against the slanted headboard and then I propped the other pillows, the ones with the shams, over those. It was very responsible of me.

Did I mention that the quilt is reversible? The other side is orange!!! This is why I picked out sheets with red, orange, and pink stripes. The quilt was $48, marked down from $200. Because it's reversible, I consider each side to have cost only $24. The real savings will be in better sleep from not having to wrestle with it all night like I did that stupid duvet.

So, that's what's new with me.

Big Brother figure wanted

Blogger is taking an agonizingly long time to add photos today, so I can't be bothered with it for the last post right now. Maybe I'll put them on my flickr page one of these days soon.

The last post is really, really long. I don't expect anyone to actually read it. I think that was more for myself.

I have committed to writing 20 minutes a day. It reminds me of a post from last summer, when I was writing every day and, basically, laughing at Hemingway. He had what seemed to me to be ridiculously easy writing goals for himself. But here I am, unsure whether I can actually manage 20 minutes a day (or a cumulative total of 100 minutes a week). I sure as hell have the time. I have vast acres and long swaths of time. But I also have a bad case of ennui. Ennui cripples me. How do I shake it?

My favorite bar in Detroit is Cliff Bell's. It's so fancy and beautiful. I had been there before, but never to see music. Jen and Deborah and I went to see ladies play music Sunday night. There are little tables with chairs to sit in while the music is playing, which seemed exotic. It also seems like a natural/inevitable progression in my life. I may suddenly be too old to go to bars where I have to stand up to watch the music. My pins enjoy a break now and then.

Last night I watched the Wilco documentary, I am Trying to Break Your Heart. It added melancholy to my ennui, although I'm not sure why. So now I have melennui.

I think it has to do with the creative process, and people living their real creative potential. I feel like I flee from my creative potential, or that it inhabits my home in the form of dust bunnies. At the retreat, the vast, epic chunks of time were motivating, not frightening. I think, sadly, that I feel like I'm not quite real if I'm alone too much. I need to know I'm being watched or something...

Winter stories

Happy Groundhog Day! I totally forgot about it, which is unlike me. Apparently, there will be six more weeks of winter.

That's a little less daunting to me today than it was yesterday at this time, when I still had this apprehension hanging over my head. That apprehension reached its natural apex around 6:15 yesterday evening, near a dumpster behind the Berkley Front.

See, I take one major spill every winter. I can't predict how or when, but I always know it will come, usually in front of a bunch of people and/or while wearing a skirt. It's a lot of what-if to live with. Once it comes, though, the pressure is officially off, and I can be all nonchalant about snow and ice.

Last night was the night. One minute, chatting with Alice about how we both are wearing high heeled boots in the snow and ice, the next moment, on my ass in a giant, cold puddle of slush. I cut my finger and bruised my hip, but the worst part was the total soaking of my jeans. So Alice and I went into the bar and found Deborah and Tim, where we learned that Tim had also fallen into what sounds like the same puddle, getting his jeans similarly soaked.

This past week, I only worked two days. It went like this: Sick day, snow day, work, work, snow day. Winter is the time to be a teacher. Also, summer.

not heeding advice of bag

Sheesh, it's been a long time since I've written. Now I'm avoiding finishing report cards, and thus very motivated to update my blog...

So, here's part of why I haven't been writing. When I bought the bag pictured, before Christmas, I kind of thought of it in a light-hearted way. I didn't think I would really be contending with any serious freak-outs or anything, just the usual small worries like, "Now that I'm used to driving with gloves on, will the steering wheel seem too slippery come spring, when my hands become bare again?" That one comes and goes every year.

In fact, the bag gave much-needed advice. It's too bad I didn't think to look at it more often. It all started with this sinus infection that was buried deep between my eyes, in some head cavity never before discovered by science. The head cavity, in all its infected angriness, began to play tricks on me by messing with my balance and making it hard to turn my head even slightly without needing to get my physical bearings all over again. This made driving hard. I kept starting to go places and then having to pull over all upset because the road was sort of swimming in front of me. In this way, I failed to go to Chicago for a second time, and feared I had some psychological disorder that prevented me from driving, or that I was flat-out going crazy. Finally I connected it all with the stabbing pain between my eyes and got medicine.

Life was good with medicine, for awhile anyway. Then after a few days the driving symptoms started to return. My gloves maintained their good grip on the steering wheel, but inside them my hands were going numb. It's not good to drive with numb hands. I felt dizzy and reality was somehow distorted. I felt fearful of the other cars, unconnected to the other things on the road. At night I would wake up with a racing heart, a horrific headache, tight lungs, numb lips, searing heat under my skin, tingly legs, and other exotic treasures of the body. I couldn't sleep, and when I did, I had nightmares. I was terrified much of the night, and spent a lot of time wondering if I should call 911. I knew I was going completely crazy and I wanted to hide it as long as I could.

Then I forgot to take the medicine one day and it was like I was human again. I didn't make the connection until after I took the next dose and had a worse freak-out than ever.

Then finally, duh, I put it together and realized that I was allergic to the medication (on whose website every one of my side effects, including "fear," was listed, some of them with the comforting words "Seek emergency medical attention immediately!" Oops.).

And I'm not crazy! I can't believe how exciting it is to not have numb hands or fear when I drive, not to feel that a freak-out is imminent.

Don't freak out! OK? OK!

T

blame it on the black star

i tried googling "colt" to find an image to fit my mood, but instead of finding a frolicking young horse, I mostly found guns and boobs, plus some sports team. What do boobs have to do with colts? I guess they have to do with anything. To be clear, i feel coltish, but like a young horse with long and energetic legs. My legs are actually relatively short, but that's not how I feel.

I gambol, not gamble.

See, any time I flirt even briefly with any kind of romantic entanglement, I feel like I'm killing all of the best parts of myself. Then I let go of said entanglement, and I feel coltish, free again. I tried really hard just now to make an artistic photo showing this clash between my true self and romantic crap. I tried to pose with a Godiva chocolate over each eye (i have a box of 48 from my doomed date on sunday), to comment on, you know, how these "romantic" gestures are supposed to cloud my vision, etc. But all the pictures just came out hilarious. Strung together, they would actually be a pretty awesome statement on my typical Friday night, after a nap, plus wine, and why I am still and probably forever single.

institution, served sunny-side up

God, I'm really not a Francophile or anything, but now here I am listening to old Stereolab, with their French/English singing. I like the lyrics to this one:

Originally this set-up was to serve society.
Now the roles have been reversed that want society to serve the institutions...

The whole song is that, pretty much, again and again. Now I'm feeling bad about going to Old Navy today. That seems kind of like serving the institution. But I needed a bathing suit. Today I learned that it's very, very difficult to buy a bathing suit in July, one of the hottest months. Eventually I did manage to get one, once again by serving the institution. Target. I keep meaning to stop going there, and there.

Once, in my bon vivant days (DAMN YOU, FRENCH!), I gently yet boldly stalked a non-local singer after a show. I made my friends, two guys, drive around the block a few times to give me some time after I spied said singer in the restaurant below the club. I just sat down with him and chatted him up and ordered a drink. We got to talking about Detroit, then I recommended a book to him, and he asked me to write it down. I found a receipt in my purse and wrote the info down on it. He got all disgusted and said, "Old Navy?! You shouldn't shop at Old Navy." I stammered something about cheap clothing and a tight budget (all on the backs of third-world children, his point). I lost all my cool at that point. Then I saw my poor friends at the window, gesticulating madly. I guess they had driven around the block one time too many.

"Serving the Institution since 1999": My new t-shirt.

By the way, I still listen to that guy's records sometimes, but only while wearing my sweatshop-free, 100% organic hemp, Parisian-designed outfit that was delivered through carbon-neutral transportation (trans-Atlantic rowboat, multi-state relay race, Detroit rickshaw, slingshot).

Your Miss Montgomery

I really need some new clothes, especially for work. I don't know what happened, but I almost literally have nothing to wear. What the hell did I wear last winter? I don't want to know. Anyway, the same few pairs of pants keep reappearing in a rather predictable cycle, and I'm just waiting for one of my students to point it out. This is not an unfounded fear. Comments so far this year include, "Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?" (I had worn nothing even remotely similar); "You wear those earrings a lot, don't you?" (So? They're just earrings. It's not like they have to be washed. Plus they're super cool earrings!); "You really like that outfit, don't you?" (No, not really); and "BLUE? You never wear blue! You wear black!"

I don't want to end up with a reputation like that of Miss Montgomery, of St. Andrew's College, the private school outside Dublin that my sister and I went to. She was the headmistress, and also taught some of our classes. And she wore the exact same outfit every day! I mean, we had uniforms, but the teachers didn't. Some were even almost stylish (I'm talking to you, Miss Kelly; your clothing choices almost make up for the cruel things you said to me during field hockey practice!). But Miss Montgomery wore the same head-to-toe-gray ensemble day in and day out. I don't remember other kids talking about it, but I sure as hell noticed. Or maybe my mom pointed it out. It still comes up in conversation to this day.

So, yeah, I'm trying to avoid that sad fate, a fate not quite as bad as the jumper, but comparable in tragic connotation. It's just overwhelming to need a whole bunch of clothes. Clothes are not cheap. There are about 5 things that I need in the $100-$150 range right now (including Windows for Mac; a haircut & highlights, already; a plane ticket that I'm not going to end up buying; some FLOR tiles for my home; and shoes, running and other). I've not managed to procure any of those, so a heap of clothes seems unlikely. Maybe I should just start with some damn pants.

She said with slouched back, from the edge of a mussed bed

Today it was like I had no muscles. I was tired. Exhausted. Depleted. Spent. At the library, I looked at the staircase to the second floor and wondered, "Can I do it?" I did do it, it turns out, but the library jaunt (which is not the right word, since it implies jauntiness) was followed by a long time in bed unable to do anything. The sky grew dark. I still hadn't gotten out my lesson plan book. The sky grew darker still. I hadn't written my 28 thank you notes to my students. The sky got really freakin' dark, and I hadn't gotten my school things ready for tomorrow. Finally I dragged my muscle-free bones out of bed and accomplished the three above things in amazingly good time. I'm going to get back into bed now, and hope that my muscles come back. It takes not only muscles, but energy, great bolts of energy, to get through the first day of school after the "holiday" break...

(I put "holiday" in quotes because it's a funny euphemism. Our school calendar totally revolves around one set of holidays only...).

Oh, and as I fall asleep, I'm going to listen to the first podcast from season 1 of the Ricky Gervais Show! I bought the first season from ITunes today and I'm excited. I haven't heard any of it, but I love him so.

ONE MORE THING: I feel like the tide is starting to change. People like me are finally getting some credit, some power in this society. We are the shameful neighbor, daughter, cousin, friend, sister no longer! Now we are somebody to look up to! What do I mean? Well, in the last few weeks I have acquired the following new pieces of information, based on Science:

1. Slouching is better for back health than sitting up straight.
2. Unmade beds are more sanitary than made beds.
3. Neatness in the workplace is actually a sign of wasted time and money, whereas messiness in the workplace is, paradoxically, a sign of productivity and the basis of many a EUREKA! moment.

I'm so happy! Who the hell needs muscles? I have the world!

on christmas eve eve eve

Lately the thing to do at gatherings of ladies is to take silly pictures of ourselves. The ladies left just now and I still have the taste of smoked cheese and spanish wine in my mouth. how i love the ladies. so i got to think of how i say merry christmas, how i myself express that sentiment, and i thought i could do it verbally, like "merry christmas" or "joyeux noel" or "meri kurisumasu" or "god jul." or....OR i could let a picture do the talkin'. one of these images could show up in a mailbox near you, in the name of the birth of jesus or whatever:

super groovy

For Christmas, my sister and I bought my dad a thingie that lets you load old slides onto your computer (promise I'll pay you my portion soon, sis. Yep, reeeeeal soon). She's been loading some on ahead of time (promise I'll come help you with that one day reeeeeeeal soon). Most of our family photos are on slides, after all. Just because there aren't a lot of photos around doesn't mean my mom and dad didn't love me. It's just on slides, see? My parents did take pictures of me, even if it seems like they didn't. The loved me and they did take pictures. Tons of them. Just tons. Millions, probably. They weren't "too busy" tending to the needs of my overscheduled older sibling to point a camera at me. No sir. They were crazy about me and wanted to document every moment. And here is proof. Of course, in this captured moment, I'm putting something in my mouth. Most of the pictures are that way.



Mostly I like to look at our living room. My mom was super groovy then. I like the guitar propped in the corner, ready to be brought out on a moment's notice for a rousing chorus of Puff, the Magic Dragon, or Leaving On a Jetplane. I do really like that lamp, too. I'd put that lamp in my home.

lots to do at night

I'm scared to complain to people sometimes that I'm tired, because the conversation may end up going this way:

Tired? Well, what time did you go to bed?

Umm, around midnight, or maybe a little later.

And what time do you get up?

Oh, about 5:50 is when my alarm goes off, then I lie there for a little while thinking about how tired I still am.

I see...what pressing obligations prevent you from going to bed a little earlier? Kids? Work? Chores? Studies? A second job?

Oh, well, like, last night I had to look up pictures of famed designer Tapio Wirkkala, and there are other nights when there are other really important things like that I need to do, like look at the all the different cover art for the Moomin books through the years, or I have to look for an important piece of paper of some kind that I just then remembered about. Plus I can't go to bed without reading for at least twenty minutes.

Maybe you could start reading around 10:00 or 10:30.

(blank look)

***
Look how awesome looking Tapio Wirkkala was! He was a Laplander and the quintessential ruddy finn, by the looks of things.



I thought I had pinkeye, but I don't. So unless something else highly contagious enters my life before tomorrow morning, I guess I'll be going to school, and I guess I'll be trying to teach about government against a background of frenetic christmas anticipation.

Is there any way to GIVE myself pinkeye, do you think?

"Oh, yeah, I was going to start reading my book at 10:30, and be dead asleep by 11:00 with my clothes for tomorrow laid out and everything, but then I had to get up and, you know, do some research online about contaminating my own eye..."

Good night, then.

P.S. I like Cat Power, although somewhat against my better judgement. There is one song on "The Greatest" that centers around the line "I hate myself and I want to die." I like the song, not because I hate myself and I want to die, but because it's spooky and dark. Anyway, I read in an interview with her that she really was suicidal when she was making the record, and now she's feeling fine and adamantly doesn't hate herself or want to die, so now when she sings that song, she sings, "I don't hate myself, and I don't want to die." Why would anyone say, "I don't hate myself, and I don't want to die?" Doesn't just not singing it seem like a better idea?

Ha ha!

Someone made me feel really crappy about myself earlier today, and hence I'm enjoying a bit more wine than I normally would on a Tuesday. Plus, I am not with my students tomorrow, but at a workshop all day. So: a second post just to say....

HA! I laugh in the face of typos. As I was self-obsessedly re-reading the cleverly titled post "Flinging things around," I noticed a typo, in whose face I laughed. I mistakenly wrote, "All week I want to send time there," instead of "SPEND time there." It got me thinking: How great would it be if I could send time to my apartment? Like, if I was at the dentist, or the gym, or school for a certain number of hours, it would earn me a certain number of minutes or hours which would be sent with free shipping to my apartment to use there? That would be awesome.

Are the polls still open? I'm voting for whoever is going to make THAT happen!

Sigh. Sometimes the badly typing fingers really know what they are doing!

I do it because I have to

Two thumbs WAY up for cool kids who bring to mind long-forgotten talents and gifts. Today I was tapped and turned around to find the tapping fingers positioned like this. I used to position my fingers the same way, to make time move faster as I sold movie theater tickets.

I just thought of all my movie theater coworkers. That was high school. They are probably all harried moms and dads now, maybe feeling a little old. Meanwhile, I'm posting pictures online of my fingers twisted up funny.