i'd like to point out that i have made comments available ever since i started this blog, but apparently, interweb, you don't think you need to leave hardly any. you're wrong.
do you need some encouragement? here you go: the first comment i ever got. now doesn't that make you feel pretty good about whatever it is you have to say? the bar has been set.
now talk to me.
i'm having a really hard time not writing blog posts about writing blog posts. rationally, this seems like a lame thing to do. it's like watching the preview channel--a tv channel that's totally dedicated to other things you could be watching right now. i end up watching the preview channel when: (a) i am on vacation--the only time i don't have to settle for broadcast tv; and (b) the vacation has gone so badly that there's nothing to do except watch tv and desite having 900 channels, the best thing on is the preview channel.
nevertheless, 9 times out of 10 i have to fight not to write some kind of commentary on what it's like to sit down and think about the process of writing a blog entry. my mind says "cut it out, loser, this is stupid," and most of the time that's the end of it. but sometimes my heart says, "shut up mind. you can't even do math." this is a low blow, because my heart knows my mind is sensitive about its math skills--most socks are better at math than my mind is. but this typically gets my mind to slink off into a corner to sulk, and my heart gets total blogging freedom.
when that happens, my blog posts become this hybridized first-draft, controlled stream-of-consciousness, journaling kind of thing. writing that way opens the door to whatever my heart is mulling over at the moment, which lately tends to be writing. and since my major writing outlet right now is the blog, that's what i end up writing about. i don't know if that's bad or good. probably bad because i don't have a ton of readers. but it's good for my heart, because i really enjoy it, and my heart needs more good things.
but sigh. i'm starting to bore myself. my mind has stopped sulking in its pity corner and it's sending out loud signals that it wants a new distraction. so this post is over. mercifully. and satisfyingly.
to jamie, whose link to me on her blog last week gave me tons of traffic. clearly, jamie, you rock. and i still stand by my comments: you have a unique, natural style that i hope you keep trying to develop. people who can write, should.
thanks also to the shrinking mokey readers who have been checking me out more than once. keep coming back. your first impression was right: i'm awesome.
finally, to those who never checked me out at all, i guess i can't blame you. but i also hope you lose your keys tomorrow and have to get copies made, and i hope that your car key has that chip thing in it that is next to impossible to replace, and when you finally get all your keys replaced--and copied twice because you're afraid you're going to lose them again--i hope you find the first set in your coat pocket.
sorry--i wish i was a bigger person. but i'm not.
a long time ago, i ran across the path to freedom website when i was looking for information on putting a garden in the back yard of our little urban plot of land. we have about a tenth of an acre, and i was looking for ideas from other people who had grown vegetables and other garden lovliness in a small space. when i came across this site, my first thought was typical east coast cynicism: crazy hippies. but i kept reading because, despite my first reaction, my attention was hooked by the presence of actual facts on the website and well organized links to concice and compelling information about what these people were trying to do. suddenly, i wasn't cynical anymore. i love how california and the people who live there make you stop being cynical. well, not all californians, but the ones i like to hang out with.
turns out, the website people have a plot of land about the same size as ours in a neighborhood similar to ours, and they have made a mission out of turning that into a completely self-sustaining system. it not only provides the food they need, but it produces enough surplus that they have a significant business selling produce to local restaurants. they're honest about the fact that it is incredibly challenging, but they also have had compelling successes. after 5 years, they're still at it.
anyway, i think it's pretty cool. i'm not taking my house and my little plot of land off the grid, but it sure gives me a lot of inspiration when i look around my little back yard and wonder what i could possibly do to make it frutiful.
check it out.
-- i got good cereal.
-- did you get cheerios?
-- no
-- did you get life?
-- i'm not answering any questions like this.
-- what kind of cereal did you get?
-- blah blah blah blah blah blah rice and wheat flakes with strawberry blah blah blah blah blah.
-- *smile*
I almost made a terrible mistake.
Yesterday, Kara came home and said, “I want a date.” Then she looked at my face, which must have communicated something like “make me leave the house and die,” and she said, “No, tonight’s not good. Tomorrow?”
“OK,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
Today I came home second and found Kara on the bed sorting mail. I flopped down with a long sigh and waited for the cues that would let me know how much she still wanted to go to dinner.
But Kara quickly perceived that I was wiped out and cranky, and she muted her excitement so I wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. Even though I knew better, I interpreted her quietness to mean she wasn’t too keen on dinner anymore, and I felt safe enough to say, “I don’t want to go. I’ve had a crappy week, I have a ton of writing to get done, and I’m exhausted. I really just want to eat here. If you don’t want to cook, that’s fine. We can just order in.”
Silence. Crap.
“You wanted to go. You’re upset, aren’t you?”
“… I’m … disappointed … I’ve been looking forward to … I understand. You’re tired and stressed and even though I want to go, I know that a lot of the stuff that’s going on is out of your control. It’s fine if we order in. Just not pizza.”
I almost took her up on it. I almost settled for an unsatisfying take-out dinner from a restaurant neither of us wanted food from and an evening spent working on inane projects in separate rooms.
But I kept chatting. And as the conversation went on, I knew that what I wanted most in the world was to make Kara happy.
“OK. I feel better. Let’s go.”
“What about your work?”
“It’s OK. I’ll do it later.”
“I’m skeptical that you really want to do this.”
“No really, I want to go.” And I did want to go.
We went. We had a great dinner. We agreed to buy a dishwasher. It was a really nice mid-week date. Now I’m tired, but not exhausted. I’m busy, but not overwhelmed. Most importantly, Kara’s happy. And so am I.
Nights like this show off the difference between one year of marriage and six. And that makes me excited to see what 30 years can do. Stay tuned.
when i was very young, i wanted to be a teacher. the reason i wanted to be a teacher was that i wanted a teacher desk. i was fascinated by all those drawers and dividers and pen holders and knick knacks. later on, i stopped wanting to be a teacher, but i never stopped wanting the desk.
so, when i got an office with TWO desks at my last job, i thought i was pretty much at the pinnacle of my career. some days i would switch back and forth from desk to desk, just to point out to the universe that i had everything i wanted. apparently the universe thought i was getting cocky, because one day my job and my two desks were downsized. suddenly, the dream was over.
or was it?
yes it was. my next job--which i still have--was in cubesvilleland, and it came with exactly zero possibility of an office. nevertheless, the universe decided i could keep some small measure of privacy. i ended up working across the aisle from "the library," an empty cube that was used as a communal dump for books and papers that no one wanted. since there are a grand total of three actual offices on my floor, working across from the library was about the most private situation i could have asked for, and, even though i only had one desk, i was relatively content.
until last fall, that is. last fall the universe decided to spice things up a bit by bringing new girl to cubesvilleland and plopping her down in the library. suddenly, with new girl in the library, i was facing a problem i had never anticipated. and i'm still dealing with it.
the problem isn't new girl herself. she and i get along fine. we have a similar sense of humor. we went to the same college. new girl and i are good. the problem is that instead of working across the aisle from the library, now i work across from a person.
and you can't pick your nose in front of a person.
yep, nose-picking: everyone's dirty little cover-up. i'm convinced everyone does it and we're all going to keep doing it until humankind meets its ultimate demise. i guarantee that every time you pick your own nose, there's someone else three rows down doing it too. but, for better or worse, our society makes sure that most people would rather fart in an elevator than be caught picking their nose.
i'm no exception. i'm not an avid picker, and i'm definitely not an eater. i'm just like anyone else--from time to time, things get stuck up there that can withstand even the mightiest, windiest blow, and it takes a little prodding to get them moving. i have a box of kleenex and a garbage can to keep the process sanitary. and when things get dicey, the men's room is right nearby. when the need arises, i have everything i need to get things taken care of. but now i have something else that makes the whole process more complicated: an audience. and i don't like it.
from now on, i have to turn around and see if new girl is there. or in an emergency, do a quick check to see if she's looking my way. all those years working in my office and across from the library i could forget my inhibitions and go to town anytime. if i wanted to, i could have stuck my finger up my nose and left it hanging out until it was needed. but no more.
so here's to one more thing i've traded in for job-security and benefits. just like my second desk, the salary that was really tied to performance, and that satisfied feeling at the end of a day doing a job that actually mattered to the future of my employer, the freedom to pick my nose is gone. and that trade is looking more and more like a bum deal.
