Dear Neighbors

Uhm...sorry about the violin playing. Whilst it is true that I played the violin for like 11 years, I still pretty much suck. So my apologies for the screeching and sawing. It was supposed to be a concerto.

Use your imagination.

Love
me

Dear Quote about the Past

“History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”

Maya Angelou

Dear New York City

I love you!
me

Dear Leftovers

You caused me terrible gastro-intestinal distress last night. So for dinner tonight? I am trying you again.

...

What? Last night could have been a fluke. And it looks so yummy. There's no way it could happen again.

Total fluke.

Right?

Love,
me

Dear Scary Show That I Cannot Watch Again

You are a clever show, but after five episodes, I went to bed terrified. I tried to tell myself I wasn't scared and I even fell asleep. However, about four hours later, I woke up to the sound of three rhythmic taps. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have thought too much about the noise. I would have convinced myself that it was just some odd knock on one of the apartment doors in my building or something that fell and bounced twice. But five hours of serial killers, dismembered bodies, blood and swears, and what was a normal nocturnal interruption turned into the firm belief that there was a murderer lying in wait under my bed.

I tried to talk myself down from the fear of impending death. I reasoned that since I had been home sick in bed all weekend, the likelihood that someone had snuck into my home and placed themselves under my bed for what would amount to roughly 63 hours, was pretty slim. And yet...

Terror. I was in terror.

I took some deep breaths and listened to the silence. I could not hear breathing. Not one other noise was present. "It was just a TV show," I told myself. Myself was not persuasive and my subconscious was already on the horror train, as I now noticed that my blankets were wrapped around me burrito style. Apparently dreams of mayhem tormented me into a twisted mess. I declared myself ridiculous and ordered an immediate growing up mandate.

I then attempted to untwist the blankets. The light from my apartment complex parking lot shone perfectly on the raised sheets in such a pattern that instantly paralyzed me. I was certain that the light was like that black light the police in the show put on objects to see if there was blood. The patterns I saw confirmed that someone had been murdered, IN THIS VERY BED!

I was now wide awake. I tried to remember, again, that I was alone and safe and not in the clutches of a serial killer. I did eventually go back to sleep, but it took me four days to sleep soundly and unafraid of certain death.

It is for these reasons, then, that I cannot watch you, dear show.  I try to toughen up but I cannot handle the killings.

Also I don't think it is healthy that I completely identify with the feelings of that serial killer. Er, I mean, also it is really scary.

And I refuse to look under my bed.

me

Dear Reminder to Me

Hey. Try to remember:

There will be enough; enough time, enough love, enough olives. There will be enough.

me
you
we?

Dear Unfulfilled Dream

I think I would have made a great spy.

No, I truly believe it. I am certain.

I also know that I could say that to someone and they would say, you should do it. They would be encouraging and say I should do it.

And I would hesitate and do nothing.

I think that is lame. I mean, the spy thing isn't really an option, but I am always saying things I want or should do and then...crickets. Nothing. The worst part? I didn't even realize I was the sort of person who was all talk and no action. I thought I worked hard and got stuff done, and sometimes I do, but I don't take action on what I want. I thought I was being patient. I thought that I was waiting for things to happen because eventually they would. I didn't know the waiting would become a stalemate. 

I think the answer is just do it, but it really doesn't seem that simple to me. It should be. I know I need to just do something. But what and how? I know it's pathetic whining. I know there are people who live and people who would live if they were healthy and single. I am sorry that I am not doing more, but who cares about sorry if there is no change?

Hello, corner. I love the color I have chosen to paint myself into you. Fabulous.

Anyways...

I will do something. It will be fantastic, not in deed, but because of accomplishment. Or in deed, because I have done it in a fitted, black, bullet-proof suit, and heels; hanging upside down from the outside of a 125-story building after having saved Johnny Depp and THE WORLD.

me

Dear THE HOFF

I am sorry about your face. I just...

I'm...

You...

I'm just really sorry, man.

me

p.s. If it's any consolation, I loved me some Knight Rider.

Dear p-Phenylenediamine

I am allergic to a chemical! One that is found in hair color, oils, greases, gasoline, and some creams and dark-colored cosmetics. It is also in fabric dye, particularly of black and brown materials. Which is essentially my entire wardrobe.

So, I am allergic to life, meaning the outdoors is an enemy as are many fruits, vegetables, nuts and eggs. I had accepted the foods and if I avoid them, I'm fine. But I have noticed that I always feel awful. Always tired, always irritable and always sad. I have attributed this to me just being crazy. I didn't exercise enough or eat the right things. I wasn't sleeping well and refusing to see things sunny-side up. I was a negative person who didn't want to try and fail. Then! I decided to look at the facts. I took a step away from the feelings to pay attention to when I do feel good. My conclusion after monitoring myself over the summer times? ALLERGENS! Allergens are the key to it all. I thought I had discovered the cause of my omnipresent sadness: the same afromentioned allergens which are now making it impossible for me to be chic-ly clothed.

I had an allergist appointment to check my medication so I could go outside without a plastic bubble and decided I would present my theory. They confirmed the egg allergy and then did a patch test on my back to see if I was also allergic to chemicals. When they asked me why I felt I might be averse to chemicals,  I tried to sum up how my scalp often burned like the boughs of hell when I used certain shampoos and oils. Mascara was causing my eyelashes to jump ship. They agreed this was odd. The test was administered. The initial result: "Sorry weirdo. You have no allergies."

I came home sad.

SAD!

Why would anyone be sad to learn that they are not allergic to chemicals? Chemicals abound on the planet, so if you are cool with them, shouldn't that make you happy? Well, with no allergens, it means that the reason I am crazy sauce is because I am in fact crazy sauce. It's because I am not trying hard enough or just not being enough, enough. I was devastated.

I had paid attention to myself. I was noticing physical differences. My eyelashes were growing back without mascara! My scalp, my poor, poor scalp! All of that was just because I'm nuts? There is no real reason for any of this?

And that is when I was surprise attacked by Oprah and one of her farewell season Aha! moments. I am always looking for some reason to explain why I am the way that I am, which according to my self-assessment is secretly horrid. Or, possibly visibly horrid. I believe that there is something inside of me that is inherently wrong, like a malfunctioning chromosome or cell or DNA strand. Something can't be right because if it was, I would be fine. Instead of fine, I always feel...odd. I  recognized this need for an explanation as to myself and why. As I left the allergy clinic, I realized that I have to just accept who and what I am. I don't know the reason for my deranged times. This is it. This is me.

Except.

I don't really know what it means to accept yourself. I don't actually understand it at all. I mean, aren't we supposed to be trying to be better than ourselves? And aren't we always changing? Who is anyone anyway?

Oh, questions.

So, I had to go back for a final follow up and the doctor noticed that I do have a chemical allergy. I am allergic to one p-Phenylenediamine. Hooray! So, there is some medical reason for the insanity, but I am still insane.

And I am okay with that.
Right?
What?
Exactly.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.

me

Dear Revision

Some time ago I wrote a post declaring my fear of humans. I then stated that what I have always referred to as hating people was really a fear of people.

I revise this statement.

I do believe I have a fear of the humans, and I am trying to address this fear. First, because this fear is not helping me do and be what I want, and I am very tired of less. Second, because people are stupid and so why should I be afraid of something (or in this case, someone, anyone) that is stupid?

Reason two led me to my revision. As it turns out, I still do hate people. They are dumb. They are mean. They smell and they insist they are right when they are wrong. They push and they hurt and navigating life with the humans makes everything incredibly complicated, difficult and often painful. This leads to my next conflict.

I would like to be the sort of person who sends love out. Love to the world and to its inhabitants, even the animals. I do not want any of those lovely beings in my own personal living space, but I want them to have the love. I want them to be safe. I want them to feel worthy, to dream, to accomplish, to love others.

In the movie, The Secret Life of Bees, the beekeeper lady (beekeptress?) is teaching her new apprentice about bees. She instructs her on what to wear and her behavior and says, "Send the bees love, 'cause no life-loving bee wants to sting you." I keep thinking about that. Sending the bees love. They don't want to hurt you.

I do not believe that about the humans. Some do want to hurt you. I have watched enough Law and Order, oh and known enough people, to see that. However, it occurs to me as I type this, that I want to send out the love, not as much for the bees, or in my case, the wretched humans, but for me. Not doing that, sending out no love, crippled me. It kept me from becoming more. I am only now understanding this simple truth. All life needs love. It's the gig. All the love I have I can wrap around whoever or whatever I want, and keep it or share it; or write it or eat it or wear it. I can do that for me, so I can be complete. I can do that the way that works for me, in all of its horrifying awkwardness.

So, I am again trying to figure out how to do this. How to love and hate and be with the peoples and be myself but be better than myself.

Hmm.

Hello, literary trick! The revision is me.

LOVE,
me

Dear Another Stupid Epiphany

Why? Why oh why must you come around to my brain? And why can't you be something cool, like: Hey! I'm ambidextrous! Or, what do you know? I've got x-ray vision! I would even enjoy discovering that I have break dance powers which allow me to fight crime and big corporations.

And while we're on the subject:
.

me

Dear Blast from the Past

Maybe I am just silly sauce, but I thought this phrase had a positive connotation. I have now come to understand that the afromentioned blast refers to something akin to the shrieks of fire and noise accompanying the atom bomb.

Here is the thing. I do not care for the past. At all. And being revisited by it is just disturbing. The tricky part is that aspects of the past live with me and people from my past hover on the fringes of my present and I am still unsure how to navigate those interactions.

This past week, I was in a store near my old homestead. I had a mild panic attack. I used to be in that store once a week, easy. Buying things for a life I didn't want and couldn't see my way out of and am obviously not over yet, because being there again, just to get milk, was upsetting. I was glad there was no line and I could check out quickly.

Even though it isn't the case at all, and even though I know that it is just a store and a half-gallon of milk, being there felt like going back. I do not want to go back. That is why I left. I want to move forward and away. I want an in-tact heart and a peaceful mind.

I want to buy my skim milk without suffering heart palpitations.

I understand that everything that happens to us makes up a part of who we are, so I do not want to pretend that things didn't happen or act like it wasn't real. I just want to learn and heal and then go bye-bye.

Stupid milk.

Dear Cowardice

Here are some quotes about fear; food for thought if you will:

"Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future."

"Each time we face our fear, we gain strength, courage, and confidence in the doing."

“Confidence comes not from always being right but from not fearing to be wrong."

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.”

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

"Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.”

"Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is freedom.”

"Fear is the thought of admitted inferiority.”

“Inaction breeds doubt and fear. Action breeds confidence and courage. If you want to conquer fear, do not sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy.”

“Fear has a large shadow, but he himself is small.”

Dear Writing Exercise No. 1

I think you are a good thing, particularly if you are me and looking for a way to help organize your thoughts and develop a skill that could prove invaluable in job-hunting, social correspondence, and the future expose you hope to write on everything. So, that is what this post will be-an exercise, not an expose, sadly. If it reads (if there is anyone reading) as forced and not funny and weird, you have my apologies. Many of my exercises (physical or written) happen in a similar manner with comparable results, except there is also sweating.

The trick, for me, to blogging, is putting myself out there without sharing too much. It isn't too hard for me in that, I kind of live my life that way, but also really hard for me because when I write, I am usually better able to express myself than when I speak. I have said it before and I will say it again;:I am better on paper (and/or the interweb) than I am in person. This is not because I can edit what I say. It's because I have more clarity when I write than when I speak. I think this is because the writing is solitary and the speaking is with the peoples, and for me, this is a no-win combination.

I think I am afeared of the peoples. All people. I always say I hate people but really that probably is because I am scared of them. This admission, is a sad one for me. I never knew how much of a coward I was until recently.

I will immodestly say that up until about a year ago, I had kind of thought of myself as fearless. Moving away from home to a town where I knew no one, I thought was brave. Taking long drives alone. Doing my volunteer ministry by myself. Living alone. I thought all of this showed an inner strength and courage. Maybe it does, and while I am glad for those accomplishments, lately, I feel like they were just big scene changes in the play of my life where the 17 trillion fears I carry can continue to be acted out. Fear of trust and trying and failing and hurting others and not speaking up and looking dumb and being judged and on and on and on. All fears that keep me mobile and paralyzed simultaneously.

The good news: because of the big scene changes I seem to not fear taking, I know I can conquer the 17 trillion other fears. The bad news: because I have been carting around 17 trillion enemies, I am a little weak and it will be hard to challenge them. I expect much crying, on my part and possibly that of others.

The revelation of all of this and the inspiration for this exercise, is that it is okay. The fears and the work and the crying is all part of it, if it helps in the conquering and in being able to support others in doing the same. This is a monumental insight for me, because fear number three is fear of myself-my fears, my feelings and the accompanying weeping. I have always thought that I was not long for this earth and if I was, it was just a temporary stop until finally I was committed to an institution. When I have a day of sadness, I always think it means I am weird and messed up and really just the most awful person there ever was. Then when someone tells me that I am in fact messed and awful, it reinforces the belief of my impending institutionalization.

Interestingly, these same people, all have issues, too. They have sad days and difficult times and are not always beacons of sunshine and hope. When it happens to them, they give themselves a break and say, it is part of it. So, I have decided to do the same. I am not completely deranged, I just had a sad day. They occur and sometimes they teach me something, like I need to slow down and get rest and read a book and think. Sometimes they just suck.

If it helps me figure out more about me so I can be better for myself and others, then that's good, too. If I don't have to fear me as much, then I don't have to fear the peoples. Then my play can undergo a major re-write and when the scenery changes, only 15 trillion fears take the stage and I can carry them with more strength, skill, and love. Maybe even do a little musical number.

I am me.
That is all.

Dear Boy's Calves

I notice you more in the summer months on account of it being hot and boys are wearing shorts. What stands out to me is the two extremes: really, really skinny calves and gigantic calves.

When I see the skinny calf, I wonder how anyone could possibly call them calves because there are only bones. There are no muscles there and I think that were my legs to touch those skinny-calf legs, the boy skinny calves would be crushed, and then I would have to drag him around to wherever else we might need to go.

My thought on the gigantic ones is, how in the world are you walking around on those things? Do you wince in pain when going up the stairs? Do you cry when you realize you must lift the calves and walk around but since you are a dude you choke on the tears and chest bump yourself into a wall, screaming: "C'mon calves! We can do this! We're gonna walk. Bring it, calves! BRING IT!!!"  In short, they look painful and also intimidating.

Finally, calf and its plural are weird words to say. Go ahead, say them. Weird, right?

Love,
me

Dear Island I Someday Hope to Own

To me, you are everything.

I know that is a lot of pressure for one island to carry on it's own, but I have to be honest. All of my hope is rested on you. All of my hope rests on you. Every dream I have is fulfilled because of you. Just knowing you are out there, somewhere, waiting for me, helps me get through life.

I long for your sandy beaches and non-existent bugs. I ache for the caress of your easy breezes blowing in from the south. I awake each day with the hope of seeing you shine like the diamond you are; aglow in sunlight, paradise and our love.

To only see your strengths might say to others that I am infatuated, that our love isn't real and that it won't stand the test of time. To those who would hate on our love, I say: "OUT! OUT! You haters of purity and passion! I condemn you to exile with people!"

We shall be together in our solitudinous amour, enduring all tropical storms and power outages. Our hearts will burn electric and fuel our life and my laptop.

I want you, island. I want you for the promise of an allergen-free life. I want to breathe you in. I want to breathe. I wish to eat fruits and vegetables. I wish to document my life with an ink pen; not define it via the expiration date of my epi pen.

I want to spend a day without answering the repetitive questions of the assuming, the condescending, the demoralizing masses who won't read or listen. I don't want to see the short shorts with the materials from the pockets hanging out underneath. I don't want to hear the off-key singing of the loud and misguided. I will not miss the smelly graduate or the woman in the pink Cadillac with the pink stickers on her back window proclaiming: "I'm a bad bitch."

(I want to take just a moment here because I was quite bewildered by the sight of this lady. First, did she mean she was bad, like MJ bad, meaning good, but full of bad-arse-dness? Was she shamed into driving this car with it Pepto-pink lettering because she was not in fact any good at being a bitch? Frankly, she looked a little uncomfortable whilst driving. Maybe that was the shame, maybe she was sitting on her bad pistol. Either way, really? I mean, you really need a sticker to tell people that? And doesn't a pink Caddy take some of the sting out of said proclamation?)

I just want to be with you. I want to wake up glad for the day from a restful night. If I itch my shoulder, I don't want to cry out in pain because I had been so tense for the past hour that scratching hurt. I want fresh food, respite, and you.

Until we are together, caro mio.
With undying love,

me

Addendum

The walking must be paying off a little bit after all because this past weekend, whilst I was doing some shopping at the Wal-Mart, my underwear kept falling off. Not just rolling down, but literally I would take two steps, try and hike them up under my bra, take two more steps and then they would cruelly descend again. I tried to hurry through the store but reached a critical time after I had my purchases and my keys and no free hand to keep my drawers up.

I am now looking to determine the exact moment I became white trash.

me

Dear Going for a Walk

You're funny.

I originally started walking in an attempt to force myself to have quiet time. Just me and the outsides and my thoughts. The side benefit of this was that walking is exercise which I also need so I can stem the impending stroke.

The walking was supposed to help me practice being in the present. My hope was that more time in quiet solitude, without the distractions of music, interwebs, movies, etc., I could re-connect with who I am and what is important to me.

This has proven more of a challenge than I'd realized.

First, my mind is going all of the time. I try to get myself to center my thoughts on the present, on the walking, my breathing, the scenery. But this is what happens:

Dear God, I hate being awake. It is early.

Focus. PRESENT!

I am walking. I am Sherry and I am walking. Look at my feet taking steps. My feet.

I would like a pedicure. That would be nice.

My shoes are kind of tight. I will have to set aside some time to re-lace them because I think the problem is...

NO! Be present. Be....

I got these sneakers at that trip to Minnesota.

Wow. That was a long time ago.

I felt kind of like a weirdo on that trip.  Why do I have to be so weird?

Minn-E-SO-TA. Ha! It's fun to say that word in a silly voice. MINNESOTA!

Oh.My.God. I hate these pants. How can I weigh the same but my pants never stay up? Is it possible to be simultaneously too big and too small for my pants?

AHHH! Please pay attention. Look at the flowers. All of the flowers.

They are pretty. I wish some of my plants would live instead of die. When did I become the harbinger of death?

Hey look! A trash can. It has a sign: NO DOG FECES.

That is weird. Why wouldn't you just say poo? No one in this area is going to know what FECES means.

Ha ha ha.

Oh! Yikes! Why do people who walk their dogs think they own the stupid sidewalk. Stupid people. Stupid dogs.

FECES! I bet people will think FECES is a Spanish word. They will think that they cannot throw their dogs in the trash can. Hardy har. Then, if they are like the kids at my work, they won't read the sign and out goes Fido.

Who am I?

And it continues that way for an hour. On the upside, the hour goes quickly and you would not believe how much more of the crazy I have seen. The clothes people wear outdoors is outstanding. What people constitute as pets blows my mind.

One morning I saw a man walking a dog. He headed out of his house at the same time his wife was leaving for work or an appointment or something. The dog's leash was incredibly long and kept getting wrapped around the man and woman. Sometimes the woman would have to walk under the leash as the man held it over her head and the dog sniffed for the perfect spot. They walked together this way, the three of them, awkwardly.

Another morning, around 9:30 a.m. or so, a woman was pulling out of her driveway. I jogged past it so that she could pull out. I heard her say: "I don't usually see someone walking so early..."

Early? I don't really think 9:30 a.m. is that early. What time does she get up?

Anyways...

I think the walking is still good for me, even though I haven't quite achieved my goal on greater peace and self-identity. I have gathered more stories, and maybe that is part of it. All of those stories, seen through my eyes, contribute to the person I am.

I walk.
I cannot stay in the moment.
I know what FECES means.
I am woman.

me

Dear Banana Cream Pie

Oh. My. Goodness.

I love you. So much. I awoke this morning with a hunger only you could fill. And as I get ready for bed, you are the only one I want to be with. There is so much to say about you. Your sweet filling, your whipped topping, and your crust. Oh, your crust. Graham cracker deliciousness cradling your smooth banana goodness.

I didn't know when that stranger in the grocery store told me to purchase you just how much you would impact my life. You see, I had walked past you a few times picking up frozen pizzas, vegetables and ice cream. I barely glanced your way. And then that woman, that glorious guide to dessert happiness, walked past me and asked if I knew you. I did not.

"Oh my God," she said. "Sooooooooooooooo good."

She didn't do you justice.

Sometimes you find your true love on your own. You choose each other; your eyes lock and you just know. Other times, you need a little nudge. Someone else has to help you see what you might otherwise have missed. I shudder to think of the emptiness of my life had that woman not led me to you...to love. Every grocery trip before led me to this moment, to you.

Thank you for being you and for letting me love you. Please don't ever leave me.

With ardent passion,
me

Dear Exercise

You are quite possibly one of my least favorite past-times.

It really used to bother me when people said how much exercise helped you. All the ENDORPHINS will cure whatever ails you: cold, stress, depression, facial ticks. It bothered me because I had no such endorphin rush. Often after I exercised I wanted to cry. This seemed the exact opposite of ENDORPHINS.

Lately what I have seen as the benefit of exercise is the ability to move. I cannot believe how incredibly stiff and feeble I am. When I exercise, I am able to get out of bed in a timely fashion in silence. When I do not, the time from horizontal to vertical increases exponentially and is accompanied by moans, creaks and desperate pleas to the heavens for help.

The other perk has been that I have obtained several exercise videos which entertain me immensely. You know how they say pick an activity you like to do and then "exercise" within that activity? Well, I like music and I like to dance. There are myriads of work-out videos wherein one sashays, sambas, mambos and quick steps themselves to thin.

The thing about these videos? Despite the kind words of whatever instructor, I am not a professional dancer. And five minutes watching you do a complicated routine doesn't translate to me being able to do it. So, for many of my videos, I am just laughing. Standing in my living room, dressed in sweet gear, laughing my head off. Laughter is good, but it does not a size six make.

The other thing with these videos is because they are for beginners and amateurs, the instructors use non-technical phrases to help us learn the steps. My first work out video for the dancer in all of us was one with Paula Abdul. Paula before the drugs and the Idol. And Paula did a fancy move where you crossed one leg in front of the other and used alternating arms to push out in front of you. As Paula taught and then danced with you she would call out:  "One, two! Get outta my way!" That always cracked me up and sometimes in the lines of groceries stores I want to do that dance move and call out Paula's phrase.  Other choice phrases:

"I cannot see you, but I am sure you are doing great."

"This will be complicated, but just have fun with it."

Actually, all of the videos say that last one. And I do have fun with it because the whole thing is completely absurd. My second dance exercise catastrophe was a lady who would Latin-dance-me thin. The best part of her video was that she was gorgeous. I mean, completely and absolutely gorgeous. And the camera man must have thought so too, because the video is mostly close-ups of her face. Which would be fine if I was sweating my way to a thin forehead. I was not. I was learning dance steps. Dance steps I didn't often see because we were looking at the beautiful lady. And she must not have known they were only showing her face because while I was staring at her white teeth and glossy hair, she yelled out: "NOW! Pay attention to the change! Are you ready?!"

I was not. I had seen no change. Also, this goddess, did not in fact speak English very well. My most loved part of her video is when she is doing the cool down and says: "And now we are going to stretch, because those muscles? They needs dat." Magical.

My current favorite is a Dancing With the Stars workout. First I love that they aren't really pretending to be helping you. The women are wearing high heels and twirly skirts. Second, I love that the one guy abruptly ends his dancing segments by standing straight, throwing his arms up in the air and taking a deep breath. Finally I love their toning workout at the end because it is practically impossible to do, not only for me but for the women in the video. Oh they are putting on a brave face, but that one part, where Max says the girls can do the girl push-ups but the men will do man push-ups? You can totally see the sigh of relief on those chicks' faces.

My only concern is that the toning portion is really a challenge for me but since I am trying to motivate myself, I make myself do the moves even when I am physically unable to do them. Two weeks ago this resulted in me bent face down on the floor with my legs crossed behind me, cramped up and unsure how I would unlock myself and get ready for work. I "rested" there for a minute and something loosened and I was free, but I had a slight moment of panic when I considered that someone would have to find me twisted that way, unable to move, praying to the god of firm abs and buttocks for mercy and a massage.

I am going to keep trying to exercise. For the laughs and for the hopes to make my body strong. Strong enough to get out of bed, climb up and down stairs, lift my own purse and reach for things on top shelves without toppling over because of my complete lack of core strength. This will be a battle because I detest exercise. But battles burn calories, too right?

"Pay attention to the change!"

me

Dear Quote Which Speaks the Truth

Here is what you said:

"Sometimes the anguished screams of trees awakening from what they thought was the sweet peace of death keeps me awake at night."

When I read something so spot on, so in sync with my own feelings, I am deeply moved.

I am so glad Spring is almost over. It is a terrible, terrible time.

me

Dear Feeling Like a Lady

I don't really consider myself a girly girl. I am not a tom-boy but I am not the giggly, dress in pink type of lady either. And I am sorry to admit, that I have never admired the girly girls, much. I think it is a shame how much we make people be all one thing and none of the other. There is so much that makes up a person, a woman.

I am thinking about the sort of woman I want to be and one aspect of that is one who is being able to make myself feel delicate. When you take care of yourself sometimes it is hard to remember to take care of yourself, you know? And in some point of my life, I came to the false conclusion that to be strong meant that you had to not be feminine.

How wrong I was. So now, I am working on a new understanding.

For me, there are small things that contribute to feeling like a lady and I enjoy them. Today it was my new soap which made luxurious lather and smells sweet and wonderful. It was called Buttercream Cupcake. (Is there a more divine name for soap?) How could I not feel soft, feminine and pretty with such a soap?

So smelly soaps, pretty earrings, sparkling nail polish, all of that reminds me that I am more than capable; I am also a girl.

And girls rule.

love
me

Dear Hair

Seriously.

I don't even have enough words to express how I feel about you. I have written about it before but really, I don't like you. I, in fact, HATE you.

For months now, maybe years, I have wanted to cut you all off and just start again; a hair do over. Then, for some reason inexplicable to me, last Thursday, I got up my courage and I shaved it all off. I went to this little salon down the street from my apartment and for $11 (including tip), I freed myself from my battle with you.

I think the biggest reason I did it is because I no longer want to be bound by fear.  I don't want to be all talk and not live because I am afraid, even of a hair cut.

So I called this shop that advertises haircuts for $7.99. They told me on the phone that they weren't very good at cutting African-American hair, but I didn't flinch. I wanted it to be all over.

I might mention here, that I used to absolutely love going to get my hair done. I loved having someone else wash my hair. I loved being able to feel my scalp again after a relaxer or how shiny it looked after it had been straightened. It made me feel different when I walked out of the door; prettier, brighter, better.

Then, after a particularly poor decision to put blonde highlights in my hair, I went to get it fixed. And there were two wonderful women working on my hair. And they were getting excited as my deranged blonde streaks were replaced with a uniform color. Health and prettiness returned. I couldn't see yet how it looked but because they were so excited, I also got more excited.

They finished and turned the chair to the mirror. I looked at myself for just an instant and quickly looked away. I understood at that point that I wasn't any different when my hair was done. And my love affair with salons ended. I now viewed appointments as necessary to keep my from looking homeless, but not the transforming, special-treatment it was before. The spell had been broken.

Getting my hair done was now a mission. And at this time, that view served me well.

At first, I was determined; walking from my home to the salon. The stylist started with scissors and I felt calm. Until she took out the clippers. I felt a wave of panic and almost asked her to stop, but I had committed myself: no more fear. And then it was all gone.

I came home and fell apart. I CUT YOU ALL OFF! Besides the vanity aspects: Is my head an attractive shape? What can I possibly do with it now? Does this mean I wear big earrings to emphasize that I am a girl? Does this mean I wear smaller earrings to not play into the fact that my hair is as short as a boy's? Do I look too masculine? Too much like a cancer patient? Too much like I am just one more work week away from doing myself in? I was overcome by doubt. Useless doubt really, because there was no going back at that point. It wasn't like I could go back to the shop and ask for my hair and commence Operation Follicle Reattachment.

Then I realized, as I was doing breathing exercises to calm down, that what I was really scared about was how exposed I now was. In my warped way of protecting myself, I have always kept parts of how I really feel hidden. And sometimes, I could hide behind you, too, hair. You could speak for me even if it wasn't the true message of my heart. But with you all gone, I felt like who I was would be out there. Because I have always wanted to be free of you. Free of old school beliefs that long hair is the only way to be pretty. Free of the work and time and pressure to style and have you look nice. Free of all the costs associated with taking care of you.

I recognized that this change of fear on my insides would show up on the outside. Everyone would see. And everyone would comment. I couldn't act like it didn't happen or was nothing because for me, it was something.

To my surprise, people were complimentary of the haircut. And I was surprised by how many women told me they wanted to do the same.I suppose that speaks to the idea that the closer you become to your true self, the happier you are and that reaches other people.

I hadn't meant for the cut to be an emotional statement really. It was more of a challenge to myself to feel the fear but do it anyway. I had grown as a person but I didn't necessarily feel pretty. I didn't feel ugly but I didn't walk out of the salon feeling more feminine or attractive; just more like myself.

I felt freer the next morning when I washed my hair. IN THE MORNING. And then went out in public. It was wonderful. A dollop of shampoo and the fresh spring breeze on my head. It was exactly what I had wanted.

I am learning slowly, what is beautiful to me. Redefining the sort of woman I want to be. I am glad for the learning even though the process is not easy.

So here is me with the cut:

* My hand is there is such a way as to showcase my latest absurd ring.

Thank you, hair, for the teaching.

me

Dear Middle of April

I am at the halfway point of the the struggle that is you. I am still trying to do the one new thing a day, though it hasn't been going as well as I thought. I got sick so that lowered my drive to try new things. There have been the food things:

first batch of homemade muffins
black bean quesadilla
baguettes cooked in olive oil, spread with brie cheese

more personal growth things:
better self control at a work meeting
calling out the crazies on their manipulation
better awareness of my feelings and needs

and the most crazy thing:
I cut off all my hair (more about that in a different blog)

What I have learned in the last two weeks of new things is how afraid I am and how much I think about what other people think of me. I am not pleased with either discovery. I really really no longer want to live my life concerned if others will like me or not; or really, love me or not. Because it all does come down to what I feel makes me unlovable.

I have this feeling of a brick sitting on my chest. I feel like I am just waiting for the next bad thing to happen. I never feel completely relaxed and I don't like that at all. I miss feeling calm.

I can respect myself if I am unappreciated or if no one really understands, but I can't respect myself if I stayed afraid and didn't try. I am trying with the new things, but I still feel stuck. I want to move on. I want to move away.

I want to figure out what I am supposed to be doing. I want the season to change.

me

Dear First Week of New Things

You proved to be more of a challenge than I had realized. I'd thought that within the ebb and flow of life, I would easily happen upon new things but there were three days this week when I really had to scramble to find something new.

Before I recap the week, let me state that it might seem that the obvious thing to do would be to make a list then of new things and do one each day but I don't feel comfortable with this. I want something to feel a little spontaneous and I want to feel waves of courage when presented with an opportunity and for whatever reason making a list of new things to do feels strict and then I will feel obligated and the adventure, joy and confidence I am hoping for will be replaced by drudgery and resentment. That having been said, I am not opposed to suggestions; just the hard enforcement of new things. I make lists all the time; I don't let myself live. You, as new things, are a careful attempt.

Here is the summary of new things for me this past week:

Monday
I made my first gin and tonic. I did not follow a recipe as I was pretty sure it required the two ingredients in it's name. I have had gin and tonics before, but I have never made one for myself. In the ones others have made for me, there is usually lime. So my gin and tonic were the two staples and a splash of sweetened lime juice. I will say that it was perfectly refreshing and I indulged myself in a few of them the rest of the week. It was great.

I will add here that I don't want all of my new things to revolve around food, but I suspect many will include them. I never really cooked much before and I am allergic to life. But as I have been really working to lose weight and find other food options, I am enjoying cooking. I think it is helping my sanity. I know it is helping my budget. But I will work to make sure all of the new stuff isn't just about meals. Which brings us to the rest of the week:

Tuesday
I did an at-home sleep study.

Here's the thing. In my early twenties I had years where I barely slept. As you might imagine, I do not look back on that time with any fondness. It was terrible. Terrible. It has improved recently except for this fatigue I have which is unlike what I felt when I didn't sleep for years. This is cruel irony and led me to consider that perhaps I had sleep issues. And so the study.

The result? I do not have sleep apnea, but apparently I do snore. Not having a sleep partner, as it was tactfully asked of me, I never knew this about myself. It wasn't really pleasant news, but at least I am not bothering anyone with the snoring for now. I am curious as to how long I have snored. I can't believe that no one in my life has never commented on it. I mean, I did go to some sleepovers and have shared a hotel room with others.

Also, did you know that apnea just means a pause in breathing? I have decided to use this word for more than it's sleep condition because it is kind of fun to say and the idea of it cracks me up.

Bonus new thing: I wore navy blue nylons. Which I don't think I have ever worn. They were fun but got a run in them two seconds after I put them on.

Wednesday
This was a desperate search for a new thing. I was at work all day with monotony so no chances for different came. The longer the day went, the more nervous I was getting. I couldn't even think of a new food endeavor. After work, I did have some errands to run, one being that I needed to return some mascara to the Walgreens. There I was afforded my opportunity.

I was waiting at the return counter and there was NO ONE around. Meaning, a tumbleweed could have rolled through and the only one to see it would have been me. Usually in those situations, I patiently wait. Then impatiently wait. I look around hoping someone will see me. I look towards cashiers in other parts of the store hoping they will help me. I wait and wait. Eventually a manager is summoned and I complete my return. This time, I didn't wait for eternity. I apnea-ed. Then went to a cashier who wasn't busy and politely said I had a return and could she page a manager for me.

And she did.

And my return was quickly completed. I was out of there in a few minutes; home in time to watch Modern Family.

Thursday
Thursday also found me scrambling for something I hadn't done before, but I was saved by the public library because I'd put a book on hold and it came in. And the freakish Wisconsin weather had produced a beautiful day. So I took my book and went into the courtyard outside my apartment and read for ten minutes. I put a time limit on it because doing this took a lot for me. I was nervous and uncomfortable so I promised myself only 10 minutes.

The time flew. I felt much better. It wasn't as scary as I'd thought. I don't know why it made me sooooooooo uncomfortable.

I am crazy.

Friday
I don't really want to get into the details. Long story short I had a doctor's appointment. I knew it was going to be really hard, so I'd written a letter to my doctor in an attempt to stand up for myself. I did not read the letter, but I did say parts of what was in the letter to him. He was kind, sort of, but ended with two statements that are still really bothering me. One implying that my current ebola outbreak was weight-related which it isn't. It just isn't. The other being a very stupid thing to say to a grown up.

And here is part of the thing. I look sad even when I am not sad. And weak and fragile when I am not that inside. I have big, sad, depressive eyes. They are inherited from my father. He had the same sad eyes. That is just how they look.

Exhibit A: Today, a complete stranger came over to me, introduced herself and gave me a hug. She did this, she said: "Because I just looked like I need a hug." But frankly, I did not. It wasn't the cheeriest of days, but it was by far not my saddest. I probably had squinty allergen/ blind as a bat eye. Sometimes I think other people see in my eyes, how they are actually feeling, and then just respond to that. And there are me and my eyes minding our own business being hugged by strangers.

Part two of this situation is that I appear to be incapable of retaliation. My sister has said that I look like I have delicate limbs. Since I don't see that when I look at them, I don't really know what that means. Everyone else must though, because people feel they can say and do whatever to me and there will be no consequence. What with the sad eyes and the pansy limbs, I'd be lucky to lift a hanky to my face let alone let you have it for your thoughtlessness.

I believe this is what my doctor saw. And when he said all of my tests were normal but that I just needed to lose weight, I will admit, my eyes were sad for reals. He said:

"Are you disappointed in me as your doctor?"

And I did what I always do. Which is ensure that the other person doesn't feel bad for letting me down.

"I'm not disappointed in you. But to hear that it's weight is very, very disappointing."

That last part is not something I do. I don't tell people how I feel about stuff. And I rarely stand up for myself. I did better here but not great. I pled my case up to a point and then gave up when I saw that he wasn't going for it. The lesson form this day's new thing was not to have given up. I should have fought harder.

The last thing he said to me was to save my disappointment for my diary. That statement, coupled with my frustration over no diagnosis, sent me to my car in tears. It was condescending. And frankly his question about me being disappointed in him sucked. Because he wanted me to make him feel better instead of him trying to help me. People who do this, who "apologize"this way, are cowards. Because if you really wanted to know how I felt, you would have asked that. I am not proud of myself for letting him off the hook. Friday's new didn't make me feel good at all.

Saturday
One good thing about this day is I did what I thought was best for me. I went to the assembly but a different one purely based on what I needed and what I thought would help me. Since Friday's emotional breakdown, I wanted something to help me feel better, not worse, so that is what I chose to do. This was also not standard behavior. Nor was it my best new thing either. I think there were a few ways I could have improved it, but overall, at least I tried.

So there was the week. The good, the bad and the heartbreak. I like the challenge of this and that it gives me something to focus on accomplishing each day. I don't like that I am judging it, but I am working on that. I do like that for at least a minute or two, it is doing something that I hadn't imagined when I began last Sunday.

It's giving me back a little piece of myself whilst simultaneously helping me grow. This was an added new thing and I am grateful.

Me

Dear feelings

Today, you are not friends. Today you are overwhelming and I don't know how to make you comfortable. I don't know how to make us both comfortable together. So I made tea and read. I tried to remember that I am who I am, overwhelming feelings and all. And in the discomfort decided to try something new. I made homemade whip cream.

It didn't quite turn out, but it tasted wonderful all the same.

The tea in it's delicate teacup, the partially whipped cream drenching blueberries, my overwhelmed feelings and I had breakfast.

Maybe not so uncomfortable after all. And I did one new thing today.

So long story short, feelings, while you caused a rush of emotion today, you brought in with your tide a decision to try and do one new thing each day and to remember that it never ever works when I try for everyone else and forget me.

I am me and you are mine. We will work it out.

me

Dear Teapot and tea cup

You make me inordinately happy. You remind me of the simple things that make me happy and the aspects of life I enjoy. You are pretty and force me to be still. A warm cup of delicious tea from a delicate cup helps me keep close my dream of calm.

I adore you.

Dear Stomach Flu

What the what?!

I have never experienced anything like you in my life. And I don't mean that as a compliment.

Monday evening you had me writhing and moaning in pain. For seven hours I spewed and erupted and groaned. I am sure my neighbors thought someone was being tortured.

I was.

I have never been so relieved to take advil and never so in awe of the violence one's own body can act out towards itself.

I mean, seriously, THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT. WHY???????!!!!!!!!!

It took nearly a week for me to be able to eat an entire meal and not be in agony afterwards. It has been painful and disgusting and awful. I don't know why you chose me as your victim but I am not grateful to you. Even the one day when I felt very thin was not worth it for the sheer pain you inflicted.

I can't think of one redeeming part. Cleaning your own hurl does not make you sympathetic of others. It makes you resentful of them and their smooth innards.

The cramping! My god, the stomach cramping. I didn't know a stomach could constrict in such a way. It was as though someone was beating my guts.

And the resulting fear of food! Food, which I love and think is so beautiful. I had a very pretty and enjoyable meal before me two days after the horror which was THE FLU and was actually afeared to eat it! Because I didn't know what could happen if I did and I was worried about what that might be.

Toast! Breathtaking, enjoyable toast. You are divine. You have never tasted so fulling, rich, flavorful and non-nauseau inducing. You are a treasure. Never change.

THE FLU ruined a week that was already rough. I am taking to my bed with tears, on this the first day that I have been able to eat and not later plead for my life.

I have survived you FLU. I have known the bitter relief of saltines and tea and come back to the other side. You made me weak but you did not win.

I rode the porcelain bus to the point of exhaustion but will stand and walk again.

THE FLU = 0. Sherry = 1.

me

Dear Tuesday

You were kind of a crazy day.

I still have this ridiculous cold, so I am really tired and I keep having to blow my nose, which while essential, is also gross. Especially when you are at work. Particularly when you are the front desk person and people come in and out of your closfice all day long.

I have been trying to push myself this week, so even though I have been sick, I am trying to get some work done, at home and in the office. For whatever reason, I decided that today was the day to pull up the plastic floor matt in my office.

So, a note about the closfice. The floor is sort of a linoleum tile contraption. My office chair is on wheels. There isnt' much traction, and while I am working on my core muscles, I am not always able to keep myself at my desk with the rolling chair and the slick floor. So I ordered a clear plastic floor matt.

Unfortunately, the matt was too big to ever really fit under my desk. And I don't sweep and mop my office floor as often as one should. Or in a normal work environment, would ever do. So dirt collects under and on top of the ill-fitting matt. At some point, I was able to wedge a portion of the matt under my office desk, in a sort of lift-push-plead manuever that made the matt fit the space better but created a sort of curb with the matt and my floor. If I rolled to the file cabinet from my desk in my chair and didn't hit the matt at the right momentum, I would get stuck and have to push and roll to get back to my computer keyboard.

The cleaning staff, who are responsible for sweeping and mopping, got as irritated with the matt as I was, and duct taped the matt to the floor. Interestingly, this did not secure the matt in place and there was a large bump over which myself and my chair rolled weekly.

Today something clicked. So, despite my way sexy hacking and the heaviness in my chest, I took two puffs of my inhaler, three Advil, and a few stretches and pulled up the disgusting matt. I was somehow able to lift my desk with both hands, and using my foot push the matt out from the desk. Then I rolled the big matt up into a ball while trying to avoid actually touching it, put it in the trash can and set it outside to be disposed of.

This failure/victory set the tone for you, Tuesday. Get the task done without actually touching anything. Medicate first.

me

Dear Spring

You are not my favorite time of year.

I blame part of this on the fact that I am allergic to life, so all of this regeneration, of flowers blooming and life blossoming, makes me itchy and achy and unable to breathe. That plays a big part in my struggle with you.

I don't know if I have always had such an aversion to Spring, but the last few years I have noticed that all of the joy that everyone feels about this time of year escapes me. I wish that I felt what everyone else does. I wish that the sunshine made me happier. I wish that the warm weather made me feel renewed. It does not.

Spring kind of breaks my heart a little bit.

I know Spring is here because my nose itches and my throat is scratchy and I feel exhausted.

I know you rejuvenate so many and for that I celebrate you Spring. And you make the accursed snow melt and that is good. I love you for that.

In the meantime, I am trying to figure out ways to cope with Spring until allergy season passes.

Hello Claritin.

me

Dear Impotent Rage

Thanks for nothing. The high blood pressure is on your head.

I hope you trip.

Me

Dear Saturday

I have kind of mixed feelings about you. I like you but need more. I wish there were two Saturdays in a weekend; one for running errands and cleaning your home, etc. and the other for fun.

I combined both today and was completely wiped out by 5:00 p.m.

Part of this could be due to the fact that I didn't go to bed before 11 p.m. one night this past week. I blame the rest on the varnish incident of this past week and my ever-present, all-consuming rage.

So I was really looking for ward to Saturday and for the most part, I am going to give you a thumbs-up. I got a lot done and I met my new love.

Sorry, Saturday. I just don't like you like that.

me

Dear minor brain shift,

I wanted to send you a brief note of thanks. Because of that little movement of yours, I see a new opportunity.

You see, I am not one of those ladies who has their whole wedding designed. I don't really want a bridal party, or even a wedding ring, really. I don't care about the colors or the flowers. My biggest focus has always been the reception because I want the slammingest party ever! Lots of people, great music, and most of all, my wedding cake.

My wedding cake is important because I want it to be made of meat. I want a meat cake with mashed potato icing and bridges made of ribs and a gravy fountain. Bacon wreaths and little slider islands surrounding it. (Recently some gastrointestinal issues have made me start to worry about this dream, but I will take some pepto and muscle through.) Anyways, today I was telling THE COWORKER about it (all caps because he is awesome) and I realized, I don't have to wait to my wedding for my cake.

I have mostly made peace with my life of solitude. I made choices and assumptions and this is what it is and it's not so bad. As Lupe rhymes, "Some days it ain't sunny but it ain't so hard." I realized though, that I often say, "if I ever got married, I would do this..." But that is still postponing what I want for some fantasy. And I DETEST the idea that my fullest life can only come if/when I marry. So why wait?

No more waiting.

I am glad for this realization. And while it will take a bit to fully incorporate this shift into my life, as all of my changes are slow, it seems, I want to do this.

I can have my cake and eat the whole dang thing myself. And enjoy it.

With gratitude,
me

Dear Varnish,

You're a potent little devil. And today, you defeated me. Because despite the fact that the door was open all day long, your toxic fumes overwhelmed and finally conquered me.

My office was formerly a closet. There are tile floors and white, cement-block walls and the ceiling is unfinished, because originally, it was going to only hold file cabinets and not staff. It is affectionately called the closfice and recently I was able to get the fan that circulates air throughout parts of the building to be silent so that I didn't murder my customers.

In an effort to spruce up the joint, I guess, they re-varnished all of the doors. About 10 minutes after her door had been done, one of my coworkers went home. I stayed because the varnish scent sort of grew on you after a while. But then I left to get a cup of coffee and upon my return the smell seemed stronger and more potent than it had been before. I dismissed it, figuring it would pass and that any subsequent high would only make me a more cheerful employee. Things changed by the end of the day, however.

Do you know that feeling when you are completely aware of a part of your body that under normal circumstances you don't really think about? Like sometimes, I am really aware of my nose. And all day long, even though I am looking at other people, things, my computer screen, I also see my nose. It is present and blocking things and I think has a touch of lint on it.

Today, it was my tongue. But it had become more of a presence because I could taste the varnish and it was making my tongue both numb and tingly at the same time. Even that I was taking as a new sensation.

Then there was lunch. For which I was starving. Until I actually ate. And after every bite, I was sick to my stomach. I think my intestines had absorbed so much toxins as to create a slick lining. Since this was new, my body was unsure how to respond to food. I ate, but it was not pleasant.

I don't really understand why the smell never dissipated. Several of us had the same process happen. Granted, I couldn't open a window because the one in the closfice is inexplicably shut and I just noticed, as I glanced over longingly at the cold fresh air behind it, that it is covered in cobwebs. It's hard to climb over the vent to dust it, but maybe if I do, I could get a burst of air and refresh my lungs.

So even though you were here for all of this, varnish, I wanted to document my side. I think my insides have become teflon. I shall be forever preserved and nothing will ever stick.

So, thanks?

me

To whom it may concern:

I seem to be unable to make a decision. Or, rather, once I have made my decision, I lack the ability to stick to the decision I have made. Not in simple things obviously. If I have chosen a meal at a restaurant, I am committed to that meal. And, to be honest, I rarely choose wrong. I mean, I usually know the taste I am looking for, or have an idea how wonderful something new might taste and I choose accordingly. Rarely am I disappointed. But in my life, I don't seem to be able to choose that well. The result is maddening.

Recently I read somewhere an illustration of a construction project. How much time and energy is invested because you want the building to be made of the finest quality. The description ended with, "the building under construction is you." And I felt a twinge of panic and then my stomach cramped up. Constructing me isn't a project in which I want to invest and maybe that is why I am struggling so much with making a choice.

When one has a vision, it is easy to choose. You building will have high ceilings and you love pink. You will decorate that in all the pink that exists and even if everyone who comes by leaves under the impression that a bottle of pepto bismal exploded in your living room, what do you care. It is home to you. It is awash in pink. You are comfortable and you are happy.

I have no pink. What I mean to say is, of all my visions, of all the ways I can see for everyone else, I can't see a room for me. A building made of...what, exactly?

What I really don't want is more talking and no building. But I feel at a loss as to what tool to pick up when I don't know what I am building. And there aren't really plans to consult in this project. No one else can really tell me how to construct myself. Shamefully, I built me that way for a long time. Under the advisement of ill-equipped architects and decorators. That building went down in flames and ash. I want to build something more permanent. Someplace for me to come to, put my feet up, sip a glass of wine and exhale. I've got wine. It's all the rest.

I keep waiting for some voice inside to say, "this is the way. This is who you are. Do this." But there is not that. What I hear is: "Give that a shot. It can't be worse. Oh God. It's worse. Uhm, well. Try this then. Lord, I hate everything and everyone. What are you doing?"

My inner voice is judgey.

So, I guess I am trying to find a layout and determine a vision. I will need time and some quiet. And likely booze. And tissue because there will be crying. Let's face it, construction sites are messy. But hopefully, in the end, there will also be a house. Or me. Hopefully in the end, I will find me.

Searchingly,
me

Dear Fire Detector

ARE YOU FLIPPING KIDDING ME?!!!

Guess what? THERE IS NO FIRE!!! I am fine. Actually, no, no I am not fine. I am filled with murderous rage at you. I am the person who has opened the windows and has the ceiling fan going and has been whipping you with my kitchen towel for 30 MINUTES and who just wants you to STOP BEEPING AT ME!!!!

Yes, my stove needs to be cleaned. Yes, something spilled in it. Yes, I neeed to clean it. But everything is fine. It will be cleaned. Stop freaking out.

And would you mind telling me why it is the fire detector near the ceiling of my bedroom that keeps going off and not your easy sister in the hallway? I could just reach up and press a button and she stops. But YOU? No, not you. YOU I can't reach. So everytime you screech I have to do a jump smash manuever to attempt to reach your stupid button and make it all stop.

And all I wanted was to come home and reheat my roasted chicken and make my potatoes and relax a little.

You ruined it.
I hate you.

me

Dear Confusion,

You seem to make an appearance more often than I would like. And you are leaving my brain a mess. I hate to compare you to others because I feel that is a recipe for disaster and it makes it challenging for someone to rise above when they are constantly compared to someone else, but for reals, you are nothing like clarity. That feeling of relief is absent with you. I mean, I am sorry to be so blunt, but you REALLY muddy the waters. If you could maybe just be a little more like clarity, I would sooooooooooo appreciate it, k?
Thanks! :)

me

Dear Lasagne,

Will you marry me? I will be loyal to you and I will never ever leave one bit of you alone, in a bowl, with no one to appreciate you. I will appreciate you. I will love you. I will only say good things about you. To anyone who will listen. I will pair you with delicious wine and garlic bread and black olives. I will not just take. You can talk to me. Tell me what you need and I will be there for you.

I will do all of this because today, after a long day of being reminded of all the things that aren't working in the world, I came home and spent time with you. And it was heaven. It was a comfort. You were my comfort. Thank you for being unselfish and supportive. For being dependable.

I love you.

So consider my proposal. Take your time. I know this is a committment. I will be here.

With undying devotion,
me

Dear Monday

Lord, did you bite today. Like, it was a fully terrible Monday, the whole Monday long. Did you just breakup with your lover? Do you suffer from seasonal affective disorder? Or do you simply enjoy tormenting others? Because honestly, today was torture.

It started off fine, meaning, I rolled over in bed and all of my limbs were still attached. But in the time it took me to shower, dress and perform THE BEAUTY RITUAL, I was in an awful mood and nothing happened to alleviate it.

I don't really know why a Monday must be so so rough. I know it's the first day back in the swing of things, but it's not the first Monday in history. It was distressing. The sort of day where you want to cry in the afternoon because the day is only half over and your will to leave is at a record low.

I survived you Monday, despite your heinous efforts. I made it to the exact moment I have been longing for all day: lying in my bed, eating olives, free from my despicable outfit, ready to go to sleep.

Monday, I wish you were more lovable.

Adversarily,

me

Half-full

One of my most favorite quotes is:

Pessimism is just an ugly word for pattern recognition.

I love it because in my mind, it is so true. The first time someone told me that I was being negative, I was shocked. I thought I was just commenting on the reality of the situation and didn't realize that what I was saying could be construed as anything other than an honest observation.

I consider myself a realistic optimist. I do not deny what is ugly about life or mankind, but I do still have hope. I believe in opportunities, especially for others. And I think it was spurred by a negative situation.

My father was a great dreamer. He wanted to be famous and he believed in art. Often times, his committment to his dreams was detrimental to our family. His frustration at being like the average peson and having to work menial jobs broke his spirit even as it fractured our family. While the ensuing financial struggles took their toll, it taught me a valuable lesson. People should give them dreams a shot. Under most circumstances, there is no harm in trying. And opening up that part of yourself and exploring something new energizes a person. I think that if my father had explored his creativity in a healthier way, he would have given my sister and I something more important than a famous father; he would have given us hope. And we would have seen that a life with hope and time spent doing something you love would be a life worth living. And that feeling, that idea, is so powerful, so motivating, that it buoys you when the seas of life get rough. As realistically, they do.

Instead, I learned to push down my dreams because my father's misguided pursuit of his hurt us more than helped. But the older I get, the more essential I see it is to find some joy in life. I am working on that but in the process am finding the pessimist in me rear her honest, half-empty head.

I am trying to battle her and keep perspective. I am hoping the energy and happiness I find from reading, writing and playing my violin, even at its screechiest, will drown out the voice that says I won't ever be able to do this. The voice that calls, "think how much happier you would be if you would have figured this out before. You are so far behind."

I am telling her to shut it and listen to the music. To be aware of what she is seeing; to open her eyes and see, and search for the patterns that have beauty and peace.

The work of growing up and becoming the woman you want challenges how you see things. I want my cup to be half-full. And then I want that bad boy to run over.

So today, I took my baby steps. I updated my resume and I submitted four job applications. One is safe and simliar to what I am doing now for work. One is closer to my field of Journalism. One sounds like amazing fun and the last one had the voice of negativity ringing as I read it; I couldn't do it, don't apply. So I felt the fear and sent in my resume anyway. Here's hoping for a full cup.

Category

I know all of us are more than one thing. There are lots of ways we define ourselves and how we function in the world. Titles like daughter, friend, coworker, are easy. I identify with them and know how to navigate in those categories. I am looking for more categories now.

When I was about 12, a family friend gave me a notebook. Her name was Kim and she wasn't like any one else I knew. She had a rocky life and was in the middle of a divorce and she referred to her husband as Stupid. She told us:

"Stupid and I broke up at the same place where he proposed," she said. "I took him back to that spot and said:

'Listen, Stupid. Do you want to stay together or not?' "

I don't even know what his real name was. She was smart and working to re-establish herself. The time we met her coincided with the time when my parents were separating. I was coping the way I knew how; withdrawing into myself. I think Kim was one of the first people to see me.

She wrote in the notebook:

"To S.T. - whether you are morose or not."

She said the notebook was a more than a pad of paper. It was a journal and that all writers should have one. She said: "In case you haven't noticed, you are a writer."

I still have what she wrote. It took me years to use the journal and I had always felt funny about referring to myself like that. Even now, it sounds weird to say.

A couple of years ago, I was watching a movie and had this feeling where I felt something hit me inside and I started to tear up. So clearly, I realized that I was a writer. But it still took me a long time to understand what that meant for me. People who actually write are writers. When applied to me, it seemed to be a title without substance. It didn't seem as important as other labels people carry, so I pushed it down again.

Recently an exceptional friend reminded me that I am a writer. Maybe it's time to stop fighting it because really, I love words. I adore them. Once I awoke early in the morning by my radio alarm and there was an interview of a linguist and I stayed awake to listen because I thought it was fascinating.

Learning a new language made words and their origins mean even more to me. I fell in love again.

When I read a book, I keep a notebook near by to write down phrases, sentences, or lines that I love. If there isn't a notebook near by, I mark the page so I can write it down later.

In recent years, I have become a critic. I will read a book and if it isn't really great, I am not just disappointed but disgusted. I read something and think: "This was published?! I could have done this!" A thought which makes me laugh considering that I haven't done that at all.

If I come across someone who will listen to me long-windedly go on about a word or something I read, I am so happy. Listening to someone else talk about a book, I am enthralled. I keep a list of books I want to read in my wallet. There is no money in it, but there is my list of books.

So, in my aforementioned verbose way, I have described how I am beginning to see myself as someone who writes. Or, a writer. I am going to really try to post to the ol blog more. In an attempt to improve my writing and to try and not become insane. Because covering up my label is causing me confusion and I just want to be who I am. While categories and labels can be lame, they also can help when it's time to choose what you want and how you want it. And I am ready to figure out what I want. Maybe I will even write about it.

Ride

Saturday I was with a friend who started having heart pains, so I dropped him off at the hospital. Before you yell at the screen, "why didn't you stay with him?!" There were many extenuating circumstances and he insisted that those of in the car continue on and then his daughter would return to pick him up. It's hard to read people sometimes. I know he was concerned because he didn't feel well, but I wasn't sure if he wanted someone with him or not. Being alone in the hospital when you are sick is depressing but maybe he felt he could cope better solo. Either way, I did what he said and left him and went and got his daughter. I called him later to see how he was and everything was much better. He thanked me for taking him to the hospital. Which is just the craziest thank you, ever. Perhaps one answer to my search for purpose is transporter.

"I just got lost. Every river that I tried to cross"

I struggle with this blogging. It's like I completely freeze up when I start to type and I don't know what to say. But throughout my day, I hear lines in my head. Phrases and things to write and ways to describe events. Maybe the problem is in my attempting to tell my own story. Even I don't find it interesting enough to have words for it. Maybe it would be better if I told someone else's story.

I recently discovered that all of my stories are sad. I think that is part of why I don't share with people because it sounds all sad and pathetic and then I feel the need to cover that up and paint it funny or with a positive end or something. Or what's worse, I express myself and my sad story and it's dismissed. Which hinders me more. So I feel sort of confused. What to share, what to say. When people are asking how you are, are they really asking? Do they mean, what is going on inside or hoping you will say good and move forward? I don't know.

I am not really sure what I want to have happen to be able to feel peace. I don't want to rehash my past. I am not looking for apologies. I think I want understanding.

I know I battle forgiveness but trust is another fight. I think I have forgiven those who have hurt me. I really don't wish them harm; not when I am in a sane place. It just feels unfair. And it always comes back to feeling unlovable. Their ability to show love and kindness to those other people makes me feel like their inability to do it for me is because I am harder to like; harder to love. And that makes me feel more alone. Leading to bottling more up.

I was with someone over the weekend who was speaking about things that had happened 30 years ago like they were yesterday. I don't want to stay in the past pain that way. I don't want that hurt to hinder me doing what I had always hoped for.

I promised myself that I would be able to come home and feel at peace when I grew up. I didn't keep that promise.

I wasn't going to be afraid and let people dictate who I was. I feel crippled by my own stupid fear. And I really hate that I can allow anyone else to determine if I am good, bad, sad, worthy, worthless.

I wasn't going to stay in Wisconsin. I have lived in Madison now for 13 and a half years.

I never thought I would be this lost. I never thought I would be so confused as to what I want, what is important to me and isn't, what I don't want, what I will or will not do.

I feel bad that the purpose of life doesn't appeal to me. Whenever I read it, I think, is that really all there is? I feel like the things that do appeal to me aren't as important as that bigger purpose and that keeps me from going forward too.

I guess the person I need to forgive is me. I lost so much and I won't get it back. I have to move forward and rebuild. But I feel ashamed. I need strength. I really thought I was a strong person. I know I am easy to dismiss. No one knows the truth of the situation and that hurts sometimes. It hurts that no one knows it all and can stand up for me. My whole life, I have been the one who stood for me, but right now I feel like I can't. I need strength. I don't want this to be where I stay stuck. I don't want this to be all that I am.

Right now, the overwhelming feeling is to get out of here. If I had a way to leave tomorrow, I would take it. Even though I don't know where I would go.

"Don't want to be afraid, I just don't want to be here."

I hope I can figure out what to do next. And I hope Jehovah can forgive me for my life fail.

I need strength.

The end of beards but at what cost

A couple of weeks ago, I went to have my face waxed. Eyebrows, lip, chin, sideburns. It is actually quite the process. My mom says that when I was born she didn't think I would have a forehead. I am a yetti.

I have accepted, for the most part, my yetti-ness and I had been working to maintain the ridiculous amount of facial hair I possess. I don't own my own wax because I don't think I would be able to pull off the strip on my own and then I would have partial bearded face and lips and chins and wax strips hanging from my skin and that will just be too much. So I was using the epi-creams to remove portions of it, but not only am I furry, but I am allergic to life and my skin is sensitive. The last epi-cream treatment kinded of burned my face and so, I stopped doing that. I pluck my brown and chin but every now and then I completely give up and head to a professional. I get overwhelmed by the expanse of hair and I need someone to find my face.

The struggle with this is the cost. It is not cheap to become facially de-haired. But a friend told me of a little place that will do your brows for $5! This means I could be hair free for a minimal cost. So a couple of weeks ago I went to the aforementioned establishment. It is owned by a very nice Vietnamese. They also do nails. I walked in and one of the nail technicians is yelling to one of the customers about what she wants done to her nails.

"Do you want a fill?!"

"NO! I don't have anything on my nails. I want a manicure."

They are at most three feet away from each other. There isn't that much else going on in the salon.

"What about these girls with you? Are they getting their nails done?!"

"Yes. Well, two of them are."

I come from around the corner and the technician assumes I am with the other woman. She yells:

"Is she with you?!"

"NO! I don't know her!"

I sheepishly ask to have my eyebrows waxed. She speaks in Vietnamese to the wax woman who speaks in Vietnamese to me. My Vietnamese is non-existent, but I figure out that I am supposed to follow her to the back. To the waxing room. I am hopeful to be reunited with my skin but increasingly nervous as I am escorted back.

We go into a room with makeshift walls of varying lengths. There is not a barber's chair. I sit in a an office chair and the woman goes to grab a popsicle stick and slather it with wax. She slaps it on my face and heads for my brows. She pushes on my forehead and rips. It stings but I am feeling better. The hair is leaving. I am heading towards two eyebrows. But then she heads towards the bottom part of my brow. I feel the paper cover my entire brow and I become afeared. I will have no eyebrow and will have to draw them in. I close my eyes. She pushes on my skin. She pushes harder on my eyeball and it pops open. She pulls and the hair is free but I can't see and I have no idea if there is any hair left.

She moves on. She attacks my chin and lip. She goes for the sideburns. She pushes my head to the side and pulls the skin taught. To get the angle she wants she presses into my neck. I am hoping she doens't crush my larynx as she completes her pull. The waxing finally stops and I think I am free. I have survived.

Then she goes into her toolbox and grabs tweezers. She yanks on the red irritated skin which remains. I actually can't believe there is any hair left. The tweezing stops and I think I can get up from the office chair but she returns to the toolbox for some sort of razor brush comb device I have never seen. She razor brushes my face. I think she is attempting to give me a hairline. I think this is beyond what anyone can do.

She stops and hands me a mirror. I do in fact still have two eyebrows but they are thin. I do have a hairline. I am happy to be less werewolf and more woman, but anxious to get home and wash my face. I ask her how much and she says that usually it would cost $35 but she knows that people have no money so I should just give her $20.

I get up from the office chair. Pay her and rush out. I am less yetti but my skin is itching. I drive home with bittersweet feelings. You can't beat $20 but was it worth the possible esophasgus smashing? Oh, what we women do for looks.