Dear Neighbor

So a couple of weeks ago, I came home and found this note from my neighbor. Apparently my hardcore workouts was causing a lot of distress to the poor dude. I feel sad about this because I truly hadn't meant to upset him and honestly, I had been wondering if the 30 minutes of jumping around early in the morning was heard by anyone in my Bat's Motel of a home.

I am doing this Tracy Anderson workout. It is 30 minutes of cardio and 30 minutes of strength and weight training. When I began it, I ended up with shin splints, because she lit-trally jumps around for 30 minutes. Notice, that I said SHE jumps around for that amount of time. I jump some, power walk some, and sob for the rest.

The strength training is killer but I do think effective. I have muscles in my legs and arms that I did not have before. I am excited about this muscle development. Especially since for some of the training moves, I just look at her like she is mentally deranged. Her doing these moves for an inordinate amount of reps shows me that it is possible for some human to move their body that way for that amount of time, but I am not there yet.

However, seeing muscles develop and my clothes fit better is keeping me motivated, kind of. I have a long, long way to go. My fitness goals include the ownership of fewer pounds and an actual butt. I mean, I have a butt. I can sit, but I don't have a butt of any mention. And with my jeans being ill-fitting, I feel like it just draws more attention to the lack. I am looking forward to having clothes that fit my body. I am looking forward to feeling proud of the corpus machine I built, instead of feeling like I need to hide it or be ashamed of it. I know that as much as the reshaping of my person will be a process, so will be the alteration of my attitude towards my self.

I want to love and respect my body. Even at this current time, though it is still so far from what I wish it looked like, because this body bears the scars and stories of my whole life. And it is the vessel that has carried me this far, to the cusp of my truly figuring out who I am and what I want. But it is hard to have such adoration when my tights are rolling down under my belly and I am yanking on my clothes to cover the rolls of my vessel.

I am working on me. But I digress.

The thing is, I NEVER hear anyone in my building. I mean, occasionally, I hear the music coming out of someone's apartment as I make my way up the steps to my own home. Or on occasion, while I am having the BEAUTY TRANSFORMATION in the bathroom, I hear someone gagging themself during toothbrushing times, but otherwise, nothing. I had hoped that my "aerobic" activity was just as non-intrusive.

Such was not the case.

The note is nice enough and I have been working hard to accommodate his request. The toughest part is that I prefer working out in the morning to the evenings. After being at work all day, I do not care for coming home and working out, but my desire to weigh less and have a stronger body is greater than my dislike of post-employment sweatings.

Losing weight is a real challenge. I feel like every day I am struggling with to eat or not to eat something. I hope that if I can lose more weight, the choices to exercise and eat better will become easier. And! Two weeks ago, I had lunch with friends and they said they could tell that I had lost some pounds. That is the first time that has happened since I began the great body metamorphosis in June.

I still have a long way to go and with my neighbor's request, the transition will have to take place with less resonating repetitive noises. That's cool though. I am all about stealth.

Dear Politically Correct

Shouldn't it be multi-pulped paper? We're still so far behind, world. So. Far. Behind.

Dear Comments

Hey.

So I have unlocked whatever was formerly locked so you may comment if so ever you wish to. I would like to hear from you!

Free your mind and the rest will follow!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7iQbBbMAFE&ob=av2e

Dear Remington Steele

I watched part of that Disney movie Oceans the other night.

I am not what one would call a nature lover. I am barely a nature acknowledger, frankly. And anything about nature that I do like is because of something else. For example, I like purple flowers because of the line from The Color Purple that goes, "I think it pisses God off if you walk past the color purple without noticing." Weeping willows are my favorite kinds of tress, mostly because that is their name. I enjoy the sunshine because it affords me the opportunity to wear sweet pairs of sunglasses.

But I know that earth, the animals, flora and fauna, are all incredible and beyond my comprehension in their capability and beauty.

I am allergic to life and so I often use that as my excuse as to hating outside, but lots of humans are allergy-ridden and they just drug themselves up and head outdoors. I drug myself up and take a nap.

Remember how people used to email each other? Remember how some of those emails would be all, "fill out this 14-page questionnaire about me so I can feel that we aren't as close as I thought because I would never respond to some of these questions with the answers that you provided?" Once, my sister gave an answer that was spot on. The question was: what is this person's (in my case, me, Sherry) favorite thing to do outside? My sister wrote: go back inside. No greater truth has ever been spoken. Well, there has, but in relation to me and what lies beyond the four walls of my domicile, this was all kinds of mad truth, homey. (Homie? I think it should be homey. Whatever.)

Lately, though, I have been feeling like I want to understand nature better. Not because I desire to be a part of it, but because I want a better understanding of the person behind it all. I know that everyone believes in evolution and that if you think God made all of the things that makes you a religious fanatic who rejects science and thinks the whole, 'earth is flat' idea had promise, and won't read anything but the bible, and refuses music and spirits. But honestly? That's not my gig. I love me some books and some spirits and I think God made the earth and all of the nature times. My strongest reason to believe it is because I have yet to come across anything that wasn't made by someone. Why would earth be different?

Usually, when you love a song or a book or a movie, your curiosity about the person who wrote it or starred in it grows. I don't love outside - except for maybe, stars - yet I do have a feeling of wanting to know better who is behind all of the stuff. So I am trying to support knowing about earth and what not.

So I watched a portion of this Disney movie, Oceans. I am a novice after all, so I didn't want to jump all in National Geographic style and give up too quickly. Also, the movie would be narrated by Pierce Brosnan! He was James Bond and before that, he was Remington Steele! And I loved him. Also he was in that surprisingly good movie, Ghost Writer. All of these eggs appeared sunny-side up.

Lots of my ideas are wrong.

First, I had to spend 10 minutes just getting to the menu to start the DVD because Disney is the birth mother of roughly 7, 342 ads, theme parks, trailers, and Blu-Ray propaganda pieces. Second, after 25 minutes of what was, in truth, gorgeous shots of the wonders of ocean life, I had learned, like, nothing. Lit-trally only one thing did I learn: whales sleep upside down. The shot of that was astounding and made me think, that is a lot of blood to have rush to your head. Other than that, nada.

The movie continued for another hour, but I gave up. I was tired and Pierce's talking of nothing started to grate. I don't know how the movie ends but I am pretty sure there are still oceans. And the 60th anniversary edition of Lady and the Tramp will be released on Blu-Ray for a limited time in 2012.

I am not giving up on my quest to understand the earth. I just think I should maybe try, like a book, or something.

Dear Cough Due to Cold

So guess who is sick again? You are correct if you guessed me. Maybe you are sick, too. If so, you have my sympathies.

I appear to just have another cold. I am the queen of congestion times. I went to the doctor who diagnosed me as "unlucky." She says I just keep catching different things. She said there was fluid behind my ear. She asked if my ear hurt. It did not. My chest and back hurt from the coughing but my airways were clear.

I am very super happy I spent all of that time waiting at the urgent care.

Also, if you are ever feeling unattractive, you should visit the urgent care waiting room. People look horrible while they are waiting for the doctor. One man kept falling asleep and snoring. One woman was wearing a short skirt and no leg coverings. In December. When the rest of the people were in layers because it was 20 degrees out. It's odd that she was not feeling well. 

One of my most beloved movies is Mary Poppins. Some amazing person uploaded the movie to the You Tube. Due to things about technology which I do not understand, the movie is uploaded in 10 different parts for roughly 14 minutes each. I still watched it. I adore that movie. At 2:02 of this clip, there is a cow singing. My voice currently sounds like that of the cow. Watch this to hear it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tnre7rronM&feature=related.

Finally, why is Katie Perry hosting Saturday Night Live? And why am I still awake?

Dear Germs

I have been sick for, like, the entire month of November. It blows; pun intended.

I cannot believe how both amazing and disgusting the human body truly is.

The only thing I really like about being sick is that I usually get a sore throat and then I have raspy voice, which I love. My normal voice has zero rasp. Some raspy voice would be fun, particularly when doing regular things like ordering coffee or telling the terrible students that they can use the stapler. Having a great sultry voice at that time is pointless and absurd and so therefore would be super fun. Alas, I have no rasp except for illness times. Which is kind of a waste, since I am in isolation due to the abundance of germs, so no one really gets to appreciate my raspy voice.

Also my back hurts from coughing. A cough due to cold is exhausting. I am surprised that my body remains ill after all this time. I am usually not so sick for so long. It is not preferred.

What has been enjoyed, though, is free movie times on the cable. Boy, Hollywood, have you been busy. So much to see and so much that I have missed. Sometimes, when I watch a really great movie, I think, I would enjoy writing a movie script. Making up dialogues that are witty and wise would be fun. My problem with such a task is that I am no good at describing surroundings and appearances. I would be the worst eyewitness, ever. 

Today when I went to purchase additional tissue because of the afromentioned illness, I realized how little I look at people. I don't look at myself all that much, either, but, I do need to be more present, as the self-aware would say. I think that would help me in times of distress. All I have in the moment is the moment. Which at this moment is a cold. Time for tea and more movies.

I know this post is lame, but it's been like six weeks. A sister is rusty...not raspy.

Dear Pointless

Earlier I received some news that lit-trally (said like the Rob Lowe character from Parks and Rec) made me shake my fist at the ceiling from frustration times. Whilst I was doing it, I thought of that part in Stranger Than Fiction, where Will Ferrell is yelling at the sky and the voice over says, "shouting at the heavens in futility." And he replies, "No, I'm not you stupid voice! I'm shouting at  you!" But really, it was futile. Just like my fist shaking. It didn't change the present or the past. In the long-run, the perceived injustice will not matter and maybe even one day I will become the sort of emotionally-evolved, self-possessed person who can honesty say they do not care.

This was not that day. It still isn't. I would still be shaking my fist except that I am too tired to do so.

Sometimes all you are left with is a great line from a movie.

me

Dear Legs

Some summers ago, I was walking in downtown Madison. I was bare-legged, in a knee-length skirt and some wedge heels. I passed a woman as I headed to a building on the south end of campus. The woman was a bit older than me, but sped up her pace until she matched mine. She looked at me and said:

"I want to tell you that you have nice legs. And you should enjoy them, because they won't last."

I awkwardly thanked her and kind of laughed to myself about what she'd said. But on days like today, when it is freakishly warm for Fall in October in Wisconsin, and I am bare-legged, in a knee-length skirt and some heels, I think of that unsolicited advice from that random citizen, and I work the legs.

And I enjoy it.

me

Dear Rest of My Life

Please do better.

Love,
me

Dear Roof

I climbed onto a roof today to help tear off the old shingles and whatnot. I helped carry the whatnot over the roof and dumped it into a dumpster. I was very scared beforehand because I have no for reals building or construction skills and I have never been on a roof before. Standing on the roof at first was initially terrifying, but after about an hour and a half of walking all over it, I was feeling a little more comfortable. I even sat down and chatted with my friend who has actual roofing abilities. I met a new person. I learned some new skills. In addition, I became dehydrated and sweaty way too quickly for my likings.
But.

I was on a roof today. Me. I was scared and tried anyway. I am tired and realized I still have more growing to do.

Still.

Liantonio. Roof.

I am nonplussed.

me

Dear Toilet Eruption

Sometimes, even I am taken aback by the jokes that life plays on me. You would think, given all of my years on the planet, that I would know better.

You would think...

So two weeks ago, I left work early for a doctor appointment. I was feeling really nervous that Monday. I had seen this doctor before and knew the appointment would be fine, but I was anxious nonetheless. I left work early enough to run a quick errand before heading to my doctor's office, and on the way there, my chest started to hurt. My heart was beating faster and faster, and it was hard for me to catch a breath.  Since I didn't want to crash my vehicle on account of what methinks was a mini panic attack, I tried to control my breathing. Then I started pushing on my chestal area, in an attempt to quell the thumpings of my heart.

I am not really sure what I thought the pushing would do and I am certain that to the passersby I appeared to be groping myself.

With adrenaline in my heart, I made it to the doctor's office with enough time to use the restroom. Let me say at this point, that I have used this restroom before. I have even used the exact toilet in that exact stall before. But this day, panic attack day, all things were new.

I...uh...sat, took care of things and then, before standing and redressing, I flushed. I don't usually flush prior to reassembly, but for some reason that day, I did. And then it happened.

Water.

Floods of water. Spraying everywhere. I jumped up and tried to get my clothes on quickly and continued to be rained on by the angry, angry toilet water.Water that sprung inexplicably from the pipe at the back of the toilet and all over me, the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.

You know how on the TV, a pipe will break and the character in the show will sit there and let the water keep flowing at them and you are thinking, "why are they just standing there?" They are frozen in place and blocking the torrent of water with spirit fingers instead of getting out of the way.

I will never wonder that again.

I could not move from the downpour. I HAD FORGOTTEN HOW TO MOVE. I was without the ability to unlock the stall door. I just kept standing there, stunned, and getting more and more wet.

Finally, something clicked and I made it out of the stall without slipping on the puddle of water on the floor. I went to the sink to ironically wash my hands. There was water in my hair and on my face. My shirt was soaked. (Had I not been wearing black,I would have been escorted out of the building for being a girl gone wild, lost in Wisconsin and seeking medical assistance.) I was still in shock and wasn't sure if I was covered with poo water or just water from the pipes, so I was trying to smell myself. (It wasn't poo water.) I grabbed paper towels and tried to dry myself off. Then, I returned to the stall.

I do not know why. I was curious, I guess? I am deranged?

I saw the water beading on the ceiling and dripping down to the puddle on the floor. I saw that the toilet had flushed but nothing appeared broken. I almost flushed it a second time just to see what would happen, when it occurred to me that what would happen is the toilet erupting all over me, again.

I washed my hands one more time and left the bathroom. I checked-in with the receptionist for my appointment. I must have appeared normal because she didn't make any comments, like, "Wow, you smell of poo." Or, "yikes! Is it raining outside?" So I told her in brief, that the toilet exploded water all over me and that they might want to let a janitor know. The other receptionist heard the story and whipped around at me. It was a flabbergasting story, I knew. I was so flabbergasted, that when I finally sat down with my doctor, the first thing I said was, "so, would you like to hear what just happened to me?" He did, and we both laughed.

Interestingly, the crazy toilet times squashed my anxiety. For some people, yoga, or talk therapy, or medication might help them calm down, but for me, being unexpectedly drenched in water from a public commode distracted me enough to bring inner peace.

Yikes.

me

Dear plank at work

Is there really anything else to say?

me

Dear Oversharer

A couple of weeks ago, I went to get my hairs cut. I was a little bit nervous because even though I don't have that much hair, there is actually still skill required in cutting it. I have learned this the hard way. When I first made the decision to stop the relaxing of the hairs and cut it all off (which always makes me think of the Kanye line that goes, "she had hair so long that it look like weave; then she cut it all off and now she look like Eve," even though my hair has never been long enough to fool anyone into thinking it was a weave, nor did cutting it off make me look like Eve, but still. The two are connected in my mind.), I believed I could go to anyone and ask them to remove the offending follicles and I would be set. That is not true. Even with no hairs, it can still be a messed up cut.

I have found one woman who has mad skills and cuts it for a mere ten dollars. She talks while she cuts it but not too much, which I enjoy. Frankly, the salon can be a touch intimidating to me. Usually, I look tore up when I go in and we women still don't support each other, so when we see another tore-up looking woman, we are secretly pleased, as if this means we are inherently better. All the men will be ours, we think inside. Except, it's not just inside. The judging shows on our faces. Our eyes glint and glare.

Then you sit in the salon chair and the stylist starts talking. I honestly prefer this to the stylist who starts asking me many, many questions. Most of which are personal, probably since they are performing a personal task. They are molding my head suit, to it's very roots. Surely they should know who I am seeing and for how long and where do I live and on, and on and on. If I were more of a sharer, I think I would find this delightful, but I am not, so all of my responses come out awkward and forced. Which I can feel, so I then compensate with horrible jokes.

Things don't often go well with the humans.

So, since I am not the type that goes to the salon hoping for chat times, I usually don't mind if the stylist does all of the talking, after ascertaining what I want done with my hairs. So when I went for my most recent cut, the stylist who always does a good job was gone on maternity leave and another stylist was there. The stylist must have been in the shop alone all day because the second I sat down, she started talking and she did not stop once until she removed the cape and I'd paid her. I know very many personal details about this woman, the former stylist (and how she STILL had not brought her new baby in), her daughter, her grandchild, the family drama, her lifestyle, her work schedule and several other things I blocked from my mind from sheer horror.

Truthfully, I don't mind that she told me what she did. I honestly feel like it is a honor to have someone else tell you all the things in their heart. We don't all just do that; except in my experience, everyone does do that, because for whatever reason, all people tell me their business. Even strangers.

"Oh, excuse me! I didn't see you there, complete-stranger Sherry. Here is my life story."

I mean, seriously. I have been in line at grocery stores, washing my car, pumping gas, waiting for a bus and heard all of the things about someone I have never seen before in my life. And not just, "you're waiting for the bus, too, huh?" It's all of their secrets, it's revelations about their family, it's admissions of depression and sadness.

And that's the part that gets me. Part of me listens because I am so sad that the state of the world is such that we feel like the only person to tell what we are holding in our hearts to is the random person on the street. Or maybe that is easier because we will never see that person again. There are no repercussions from opening up to a stranger, really.

Part of me admires it. I have people I have known for years, years, that I would never tell my innermost feelings, too. If they came straight out and asked me, which shockingly, very few do, I would still consider whether or not opening up was a good idea. I have run my mouth in the past and I regret a lot of those conversations. Not all; some of them were the wonderful kind. The kind where you feel freer from getting the burden off your shoulder and out in the world. The kind where you feel a bond with the hearer. The kind that give you the clarity to feel a bond with yourself. Most, though, were not that way. Most were, oh, Liantonio. Why do you ever speak?

Anyways...it was an intriguing haircut. The stylist talked and talked. She also kept asking why I hadn' t been in to have my eyebrows done since I always get them done there. Interestingly, I have only had my eyebrows done there once. I am pretty sure she had me confused with someone else.

Hmmm...maybe that was why she was talking so much?

Uhm...disregard above.

me

Dear Courage

I really want us to be the closest of friends. I want this because I just think you are amazing. I think you are full of power and that if I could just spend enough time with you, if I could just figure out how to hold on to you and make you stay, that we could just conquer the world. Or, we could conquer my world.

I will be the neediest of friends at first, I admit. I will constantly be looking for your reassurance and support. I will be desperately trying to please you. I want you to feel that I am worth your time. I want you to think the world of me. I long for you to wish to be with me always.

I need you because there is so much I want to do yet. There is so much that I feel needs to be said; so much that I have finally understood, or have begun to understand or even just realize. I want it to be known, but I don't know how to say it in a way that will be heard. There is so much that needs to be recognized; to be seen.

I locked so much away. I hid it, changed it, or denied it to please so many variations of others and it won't be kept in the tower anymore. Yet the habit means I don't know how to let it be free. The light feels too bright, the noises are too loud and there is no safety net. The uncertainty as to how to manage it or share it is maddening. There is always, always the fear of it being criticized or mocked or misunderstood. The fear is terrible. The idea that it would all be locked up again is worse.

I need your help while I figure it out. I will stumble and falter but I want to go forward. I feel like I can hear you saying to me already:

Things will change. There will be criticism and mocking. Some people are looking and others are not. None of that matters. It is too hard holding it in now. You have to let it go. You have to make the changes.

I already agree with you. I am reasonable, Courage. I will listen. I want to change. Changing doesn't seem so scary to me, honestly. I am afraid of doing it wrong. I am afraid of making more mistakes. I am afraid of more regret.

Someone said something today that made me think of you. They said they were ready to be brave enough to not hold on to the comfort of misery anymore. Or something along those lines, but I got it. I got it. I will need your help because I think the sort of fearlessness I desire will be isolating and I need you to remind me that it's still right, at least right for me.

I know how desperate I sound. I know that there are so many more important issues in the world. I know that to anyone else, it seems very easy. You just do it. I wish it was so easy for me because I think that I would do it if it were. For me, it is hard, and I want your help with that, too, please.

Please.

I will do the work. I will try to be better. I will sit in adoration at your feet. I will praise you to the hills. Take a chance on me.

What do you have to be afraid of?

me

Dear HORROR

Sooooooooooo remember when I was all, I will take pictures and see the world anew? Yeah...that didn't happen. I tried. I carried my camera with me everywhere and I kept repeating to myself: see the things like it is the first and last time.

Nothing. The only thing I consistently wanted to take a picture of was food and that just didn't seem emotionally healthy. I was feeling discouraged with my photographing ways when the universe, i.e., you, sprung this on me:

Is that not the scariest thing you have ever seen?! Imagine my terror at leaving my apartment for work in the morning, walking to my car and seeing that, that, staring down at me. Sure, you might see a child's toy, but I see demon eyes. Why would anyone procure that for an innocent child? And do you know the scariest part? It wasn't there when I returned home from work that evening. All windows were evil stuffed animal spawn free. BUT! When I left the next morning for work, IT. HAD. RETURNED.

I took a picture because I couldn't believe the horror and also how fortunate it was that I had finally happened on something that I could imagine I was seeing for the first and hopefully the last time. The devil doll hasn't reappeared but I look for it everyday.

Watch your backs, you humans. Those eyes follow you.

Everywhere.

me

Dear Distracted

Whilst engaging in my morning beauty regimen, I took some of my hair mousse, glanced at it and began to rub it on my forehead. I then looked at myself at the mirror and yelled: "LIANTONIO!" (Interestingly, I often do this. I yell at myself by my last name. Like, LIANTONIO! Why did you watch that movie? LIANTONIO! Look out for those pedestrians! LIANTONIO! Hair mousse doesn't go on your forehead!) I quickly realized that there aren't any hairs on my forehead which require mousse and wiped it off.

My forehead has held it's shape all day.

Methinks I might require a vacation. Or post it notes on all a.m. products reminding which should be applied where.

me

Dear Idea

So I finally finished A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I loved it. Near the end of the book, there was this quote:

"To look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: thus is your time on earth filled with glory."

I think these are such inspiring words. This, to me, is what makes reading magical. The truth in what someone else has said. The transformation that can occur within from reading for a few moments on a weekday night.

I have decided to try looking at things this way. I am also going to use this as an inspiration to take more pictures. If I take a snapshot of what I am seeing as though it's the first and last time, I hope to find beauty, inspiration, humor and happiness. Here is picture one:

My office has this Bucky Badger blanket (which I purchased from the Craigslist to cover up the ugly white walls). My friend and I started dressing Bucky-THE BLANKET up for various times of year. As you can see here, Bucky was celebrating the winter Olympics from a couple of years back.

The thing is, I really think the mascot itself is horrifying, but when I look at the blanket I will remember the first time I came here to begin college. Those first days were scary and challenging but on the day that I finally leave, I will think of all that I experienced, how fundamentally changed I am from leaving home at 18 to the person that I am today.

The glory was in the learning.

Until picture number two...

me

Dear Book Addiction

I had sworn off purchasing any new books and only getting them from the library. This past weekend, though, there was a sale and I purchased several. Currently in the queue:

Things Fall Apart
My Life in France - Julia Child
the latest Shopaholic book by Sophie Kinsella

I am currently reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I have been reading it for approximately 476 years. I am a slow reader, but every time I open that book and read some of Betty Smith's words, my brain feels better. This is reason number four that I adore books and language.

me

Dear Stranger

Today whilst procuring for meself a coffee drink at the 'Bucks this morning, a stranger in line behind me warmly greeted me.

"Good morning,!" he belted.

"Good morning," I did not belt in reply.

"You look sparkling this morning," he said and threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh. Thank you. Heh, uh," I graciously and now nervously replied.

"You see, I've lost my mind, so I am looking for replacements," he said and heartily laughed again.

" Ha?," I said.

I got my coffee and quickly left.

That's how mama rolls, homeys.

...

Me

Dear First-Hand Knowledge

Have you ever been asked how you would describe a sunset to a person born blind? It seems an impossible question and an impossible task. How do you help someone to see a sunset when they do not see? I think there is a way to do it, kind of, because you can read a book and imagine a place or person you have never seen on account of the author's descriptions. There is still the issue of explaining something seen to someone who has never had that faculty but if you love a sunset and you love that person, I bet you could do it, you humans. I bet you could do it.

Except.

Now the issue is the love. For me, that is the problem because people are always talking about love and I know there are things I love; I think there are people I love, but I don't know what that is supposed to feel like. Is it warm or cold or like stomach cramps or dizziness or what? When someone loves me, how should it make me feel? Warm, cold, full of stomach cramps?

There is not one sound definition of love. It is too dependent on people who are delicate variables. It means something different to all the humans and the responses you get always come down to: you'll know it when you feel it. Which puts me back at square one, blind, standing in front of a sunset, awash in descriptions, but not truly understanding the words well enough to envision the sky.

What I know right now is that there is someone I think I love who all evidence points to loves me back but since I don't know what that should be making me feel just leaves me feeling confused. The confusion makes me feel like I don't have love because I didn't think a love symptom was confusion. But maybe is. I know that I want to feel confident that they love me back. I hope that they do. I hope to one day see.

Me

Dear Seattle

Is there anything so uplifting as the prospect of what could be on the horizon?

me

Dear Romance

I woke up to find tons of snow everywhere this morning. It took the whole city by surprise and since I LOATHE the snow, this news only served to make me even grumpier than I already was.

I finally got out of my house and onto the very un-plowed road where I had the joy of following behind every car and or truck whose heart was melted by the snow and therefore decided that stopping for any pedestrian who wished to cross the street in the middle of the road (AND NOT THE CROSSWALK) was a way of appeasing the snow gods. Kindness to pedestrians is fine but then the rest of the vehicles behind you have to stop and slide and wait while you shamelessly wave on the walker. Here's something, you humans! If you are walking, and you choose to not go down the road to the crosswalk, I do not feel sorry for you having to wait to cross the street. That is part of the walking gig. I have to wait for lights to change and stop signs and NOW for truckers who mistakenly think that if they stop their cars for the sweet girl in the cute, knit cap she will spell out her phone number in the snow bank and they have a chance at love. You are wrong, trucker. And you are dumb, cute, knit-cap girl.

See? Grumpy.

In an effort to minimize the grump, I stopped by the Starbucks on the way to work. Well, it's not really on the way but I had feelings to eat and I was already 40 minutes late at this point. I figured I may as well be late with a  yummy cappuccino.

On my way into the 'bucks, I saw a young couple, passionately kissing each other goodbye. White flakes around them, bundled up in sweaters and coats and each other. Stopping for a minute but then giving one more last kiss before parting. I thought to myself:

"I would never let anyone kiss me in this weather."

me

Dear Money

I wish you would stay longer.

me

Dear Wisconsin

Well, things ‘round these parts sure have gotten intense, eh, you humans? What with the protesting and the budgets and the weather with multiple personality disorder, a human just doesn’t know which way is up, or who to choose for the winner in the Best Picture category at the Oscars. (My vote is The King’s Speech. Shake things up a bit and I also I love me some Colin Firth.)

Too bad there aren’t Oscars for college. Though, of course here they would be called Buckys and that would just be creepy. Who wants a golden badger on their desk or shelf for Best Response to an Email Wherein you Fein Concern for a Topic that you Actually Could Care Less About? Hmm. What do you know? I want that Bucky.

me

Dear Quote Which Speaks the Truth - part 2

"But look at how easy it was to bring you back."

me

Dear Prison

You know how people are given prison sentences? And you know how sometimes those terms are like 12 life sentences and then you wonder how they could count that much time and what that time would feel like to live it? And how it would seem like every day would creep by? Well, it's not true, you humans.

Sometimes the hours fly by and you are still lifting weights and whittling shivs and intimidating the newbies. Then they throw you a bone, like meatloaf day or un-shackled Wednesdays and you start to think that prison isn't so bad. Then you see someone come in and you can relate to them and you start to mentor the inmates and be there for therapy times and are "functioning" "well".  And so you would think this is what prison is for: rehabilitation times.

But I am getting scared.

Because I hate this place, but I am functioning right now. Like for reals, some would say I am downright chipper. It is scaring me, frankly. Is this really me or am I just one sassy-mouthed actress? And is the acting just what we are supposed to do or is that how I end up here forever, with whisps of hair that blow in the stagnant, windy hallways?

Oh, prison...

me

Dear Voice

I have physically lost my voice before. Not been able to talk at all, or have it go all raspy and wheezy. I actually enjoy when it is raspy. And the one time I wasn't able to speak at all was sort of refreshing. I am a listener anyway, but navigating the world as a complete observer was sort of peaceful. It was also isolating.

I have also lost my metaphorical voice. My ability to say out loud what I want or how I feel was for quite some time, totally lost. So much so that it made me question if I was ever in possession of it at all. Do you know something else, you humans? Losing your real voice and your metaphorical voice have in common the feelings of isolation but do not share the feeling of peacefulness.

A few weeks ago, though, something transformative occurred.

I spoke up. In a meeting. I expressed myself, without drama or hysterics. It was fabulous. I was hiding behind other people. I was pushing myself down and away.

I no longer wish to do this. I am tired of doormat times. I do not desire to tell off all the peoples. I do not long for screamings, rantings, or fits. I do want to be able to say how I feel or what I think and have it heard and respected. If by no no one else but me. I am done being treated like less. I don't mind being thought of as a bitch, as long as I have the facts and the wisdom to back it up. I believe it is a great communicator who can say how they feel in a tasteful way. You can be honest and gracious and that is my goal. The next key step is my really firming up what I believe in and determining, with as much certainty as is possible for any person, who I am, truly, inside.

I am on my way. I've got my voice back.

Dear What is Imminent

This morning on my way to work I saw a group of people who are protesting the new governor's budget. As I passed them I suppressed the urge to honk my horn and roll down my window and pump my fist and yell. I wanted to incite a riot. The thought that the group of believers would shout, jump, and cheer at my support gave me a thrill.

All day at work was an emotional roller coaster. We are hiring a new person! OH MY GOD! She will need to be trained! So happy that my desk is clear! Full of weeping that the kids came into my office, truthfully less than two minutes after I sent an email. Waves of anxiety about how much I have to get done. A mouth full of repressed expletives at people asking me dumb, dumb questions.

My scalp is full of itch. My jaw line is breaking out. I am totally swollen.

Spring has sprung.

I hate you spring. You have ushered me directly to my seat for the musical, heart-rending spectacle that is you.

I hate you.

me