smackalonian

you don't know about my life in mexico

2012-02-04T17:23:00.000-06:00

A long time ago, crying at the kitchen table, my friend's mother confessed to his sister about her recent suicide attempt. His sister told him and later he told me how his mother had sobbed, "Please don't tell your father." As far as I know, nobody ever did.

I only met her once that I recall. All I really remember is that she was pretty. She seemed happy.

There was a moment somewhere on that porch with our cigarettes, telling our secrets, that the ever-present free-floating panic (anxiety is not a strong enough word for my twenties) lurched across my consciousness and coalesced somehow into an idea - our parents were just as ill-equipped and emotionally immature as we were. Nobody was steering the ship. We were all going down.

It had a revelatory quality to it, but it's the oldest idea ever, right? We're all going to die. OMGWTFBBQ.

A coworker talks about pain, anxiety, medication and children. She says she's the only one in the room who is qualified to make whatever claims I'm not really hearing because I have a podcast playing in my other ear. She's the only one who's ever had a baby, she says, so she's the authority in this room. I laugh and say you don't know.

Pumpkin Holler Hunnerd - an aid station report

2011-10-26T12:59:00.003-05:00

Ed texted me from the plane in Atlanta. "Sittin on tarmac, gettin testy." It was 3:25 on Friday afternoon. I did fast math and crossed my fingers. It was already going to be dark by the time we got to Tahlequah.

We had signed up to run an aid station on the Pumpkin Holler Hunnerd, a trail race along the Illinois River where runners would be running either 50k, 100k or 100 miles.

I had left work early to get a jump on trip preparation. I gathered up my supplies and made lists of things I needed to buy. A softball. Beer. Ice. Coffee. Pinto beans. Bacon. Onion. Maybe something for breakfast? A big crock pot. Some sort of speaker system so I could play my ipod and Eddie could share music from his phone.

I hit the liquor store, the grocery store, Target, Tuesday Morning and a convenience store. I ran the crockery through the dishwasher.

The night before, I had baked 3 pans of cornbread, 2 plain and 1 with green chiles. Nerves and fidgetiness made me wonder if that would be enough (and the voice in my head said it was already too much), so I baked 3 more pans, 2 more plain and 1 with green chiles and cheese. I looked at 5 pounds of dried pinto beans.

See, our aid station was called East of Eden. I'm not sure how it came by its name, but I had the movie with James Dean playing in the background all day while I ran around getting ready for the trip. Beans were the only thing I could think of that would even remotely tie in with the story - I mean, I guess I could have decorated the aid station like a birthday party and thrown a bunch of fake money around? Maybe dressed up like a madam? Nothing sounded good, so I stuck with beans.

I wondered if anybody would even eat any beans. Would anybody get it? Would anybody think it was funny? Would runners turn up their noses at humble beans and cornbread?

I fret. It's what I do.

By the time Ed pulled up, sometime after 6, it was about to get dark. As we loaded up the truck, we agreed to avoid the headache of setting up camp in the dark by grabbing a room at a little roadside motel in Tahlequah for the night.

With that decided, we set out to find lights for our aid station, something I had completely spaced earlier. It was 8:30 before we got on the road. We unloaded the truck at our home for the evening, the Cherokee Inn - I chose poorly and ended up sleeping on a pillow that smelled of smoke in a room with no coffeemaker, an actual key lock, and a torn screen on the window. Next time, I'm voting for the Tahlequah Motor Lodge, a happy-looking little pile of kitsch just a little ways down the road. But no matter.

We were way too late to catch the prerace dinner with the runners and crews and organizers, so we went for mexican food at Patron. We chose wisely this time. Cucumber and rosemary margaritas, made tableside, won me over. Eddie bravely ordered something called a molcajete. I stuck with more familiar fare, and we wondered as we dug in why we seemed to be the only people in the restaurant. It was odd.

The alarm went off way too early. I don't remember who said it first, but my first conscious thought was, "We forgot to soak the beans." There was no time for lamentations, though - we loaded up the truck again and drove out to the race.

We drove and drove. Our aid station was a bit remote - 18.8 miles into the course. A slight clearing next to a cattleguard held two pop-up tents standing over a couple of long tables, some trash cans and two 5-gallon Gatorade jugs. A Portajohn sat a slight distance down the road.

We surveyed the scene. No generator.

I fretted. How was I going to cook beans without a crockpot?

Eddie took a more practical stance. How would we have lights and music, especially in the middle of the night, with no electricity? We weren't fretting long - just long enough to realize we had absolutely no cell service. We resolutely began setting up the aid station, and Brian came along shortly with that blessed generator. Our hero.

I had never made beans without soaking them overnight, but I followed the instructions on the package and eventually got a batch going in the crockpot. I could only do one pound at a time with the little cookpot I have, but it was better than nothing. Soon the smell of cooking beans, seasoned with bacon and chopped onion, wafted through our aid station.

I was glad I'd thought to throw some breakfast stuff in the cooler - we were starving! And cold! I made scrambled eggs with bacon and salsa and rolled it up into delicious breakfast burritos.

We set out snacks. M&Ms, plain and peanut. Cheese Nips. Potato chips. Pretzels. Pringles. Chocolate chip cookies. Orange slices. We made "TATUR Specials," which are Oreos smeared with peanut butter and topped with M&Ms. We set out oranges and bananas to be cut. I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Ed mixed up Gatorade - he had a spoon this time!

Ed got the generator going, set up the tent for us to sleep in and/or offer to runners as a place to nap or change or think about life. He found a reasonable place for a fire and got that going.

The flies found us, then the wasps came. Runners started coming through. We cheered and clapped and wrote down times on our handy clipboard. The sun came out, the day warmed up, and we had long stretches of peaceful quiet punctuated by the excitement of a runner coming through ever so often. We saw everyone. The 50k'ers came through our station once. The 100k'ers came through twice, and I think the 100 milers ran 4 loops.

We played catch in the road, getting a few throws in between runners and cars. We clapped and cheered and wrote down times. We strung lights. Ed set up speakers. I put my ipod on shuffle and braced myself. Turns out, exposing one's music can be a bit unnerving!

There was a time, as the day ended and the night wore on, we worried we were going to run out of gas for the generator. We'd be plunged into silent darkness if that happened. Ed got a propane lantern from the truck for an emergency. He had already driven one runner back to the Start/Finish, so he knew how long the drive was likely to take. We tried to calculate how much time we had left on the gas in the generator. Before we could reach a conclusion, Brian showed up with a gas can, saving the day AGAIN.

The night is partly a blur. You get into a rhythm. Stepping out of the lights, the stars were thick and bright. In the distance, a headlamp appeared, shining the same cold white light as the stars. On a country road in Oklahoma in the middle of the night, a headlamp coming at you looks like a star has jumped down and grown legs to run to you. I got chills.

We served beans. We filled water bottles and Camelbaks. We said encouraging words. We listened, but we never could hear the coyotes over the noise of our generator.

Laurie came over to help out, and Ed promptly sent us both to bed - in her case, her truck, and for me, the tent. My sleeping bag never felt so good. Music played, lights swept across the tent, runners crunched by on the road. I drifted off to sleep. Ed had agreed to wake me in a couple of hours, but when I cracked an eyelid, I saw trees outlined against a gray sky. I heard Ed talking, laughing with some runners. He'd let me sleep all night while he handled the aid station all by himself. Laurie and I sat by the fire, a little shamefaced, while he finally got a couple of hours of sleep.

The generator died not long after sunrise.

fertility treatments

2011-08-23T15:22:00.001-05:00

This is a post relating to reproductive health, which means I'm going to say the word, "vagina," probably more than once. I haven't written the thing yet, so I can't be sure, but we're going to be discussing some things that happen, you know, down there.

Probably you don't read my blog a lot, and we're probably not really close friends, if you refer to anybody's vagina as down there. Do you tinkle, too? Do you feel that most feminine things should end in "-ie" or maybe just an "i," preferably dotted with a little heart because we're just so precious? Do all of your sentences kind of go up at the end, even if you're not really asking a question? Who are you and why are you reading my blog?

Let's talk about my old gynecologist. No names, because that's not cool, but I went to her for several years before I switched doctors. She was recommended by a coworker when I moved back to Tulsa.

Just in case you're a brand new reader, or maybe it's been a while since I mentioned it, I had a baby when I was 16 and gave him up for adoption. I saw a doctor at a well-regarded clinic (which I will also not be mentioning by name in this blog entry) during my pregnancy, and by coincidence, the OBGYN my coworker recommended was also affiliated with this clinic.

When I first realized where the gynecologist's office was, it gave me pause. When I made an appointment for an exam, the receptionist called me by my maiden name, which threw me. But I shrugged off the weirdness and figured I wouldn't have to do a lot of explaining, since they obviously still had my old chart.

Now, I saw the same doctor every year for a few years without really thinking about it. I wasn't crazy about the bloody birth photos festooning the walls, or the waiting room full of pregnant women paging through magazines devoted to conceiving, birthing and raising offspring - my visits there came but once a year, and a glance at a glossy 8x10 photo of a freshly born infant, complete with bloody umbilical cord, well, that was just part of the gauntlet I was willing to run to ensure that my vagina remained a practice-only zone.

They don't let you refill your birth control prescription if you haven't had your yearly exam, and a pelvic exam means a pap smear - a swab of your cervix - and a doctor's fingers in your vagina. In case you didn't know.

On my last exam with my old doctor, she made small talk while she checked my ovaries. I responded politely, which in a gynecologist's office means you scoot your butt down to the edge of the table and agree that the weather's been nice. School must have been starting, or something, because she said something about her children being reluctant to do their homework, and I saw it coming. Her fingers were still in my vagina, and I remember exhaling, trying not to tense up because she would most likely feel it, so I was trying to stay relaxed as her question came swinging down at me and it was the longest exhale ever like seeing a baseball being pitched in slow motion and I was trying not to be horrified because I didn't have a bat -

"I have the hardest time getting them to do their schoolwork. Does your son do his schoolwork?"

I swallowed and took a breath and looked at the Ann Geddes poster on the ceiling as I said, "I don't know. I gave him up for adoption when he was born." I said it gently. I didn't want her to feel like a jerk.

She said, "Oh my god. I forgot."

I think I laughed. I tried to make it sound like it was no big deal. I probably said it was okay, no worries, and changed the subject back to the weather. Or something. I don't really remember. I actually don't remember much after that. It was a couple of years ago. I know I made it to my car before I burst into tears. I know I held onto the steering wheel and bawled for a few minutes before I started the car. I know I never went back to that doctor.

The next time my birth control prescription needed refilling, I searched my insurance network for a gynecologist who was not an obstetrician as well. I ended up making an appointment at a local fertility center. When I got there to fill out my paperwork, I sat in quiet, peaceful waiting room. On the wall was a picture of a fern. I explained my situation to the doctor. Well, not the horrible last conversation, but why I wanted to be there. She seemed to get it. We'll see when I go back.

Vagina vagina vagina.

draft 7

2011-07-12T21:23:00.001-05:00

There are 6 drafts gathering dust, 6 tries to write a blog entry from over the last several months. 6 drafts that went nowhere.

But drafts don't have to go anywhere, really, and digital media doesn't gather any dust, really, and maybe it just wasn't interesting enough to keep writing about. I mean, it's all bitching about my brother, sad shit about my mom, or me trying to explain this running thing. Just to let you know you're not missing anything.

I remember befriending writerly folk once upon a time (there was kind of a group of us, back in the Myspace days, remember those? Did everybody have those? Did you?) and practically salivating over getting to see their drafts. It's like getting to see someone in their underwear. Someone hot. It's intimate and sexy and emotionally very intense.

But really, it's all just the same crap I talk about all the time. Not really all that interesting.

There is something I keep thinking about, though, and I'm not sure how to write it. So I'm not going to try. I'm just going to put it here. Fuck it. This isn't writing. This is just me letting something out of my head.

The man who cleans my office at night smells like soap. I can almost place the soap. It's round and pink and floral scented. It's a scent that most men probably wouldn't choose for themselves, and that makes me wonder if he notices the scent at all. It leads me to believe that he has a wife who chooses the household soap.

We've hardly spoken to each other. I only see him when I work late. He says hello. I say hello. I smile. He smiles. I pull my trash can out from under my desk so he doesn't have to ask me for it, then I go back to work. He thanks me. I thank him back. He wishes me good night and I say something reciprocal.

I don't know his name. It's never come up in our limited conversations. I don't imagine it ever will. I'm not the befriending sort. Even with people I like, I usually am not the friendship initiator. I don't know, call it leftover shyness from an awkward childhood. Call it frigid bitchiness. I'm cool with it, either way.

But the guy who cleans my office at night smells like soap that makes me think he has a wife and probably an abuelita. It's an abuelita kind of scent, really. My grandmother's bathroom always smelled of peppermint, but when I went over to hispanic friends' houses, the ones with abuelitas living with them, their bathrooms smelled like pink floral soap.

Every time I stay late at work I get homesick. I have to remind myself that New Mexico isn't home anymore. I've lived outside of New Mexico longer than I lived there now. More than half of my life has been spent elsewhere.

My grandpa, the one who died first, before I realized he was my favorite, his bathroom smelled like Scope and Vitalis. A plastic bust of Abe Lincoln sat on the windowsill. Abe's head unscrewed and his torso concealed a bottle of aftershave. I don't remember the scent of it, but I thought the whole idea was very clever. There was a closet in the bathroom filled with hanging coveralls. The floor was linoleum.

I think I'm not the only one who writes things down sometimes because losing a memory is a terrifying thing. I can't remember how my mom liked her cheeseburgers at Sonic and I report that from a nearly hysterical emotional place. You'd think my narrator were screaming into a microphone on the edge of a cliff as a hurricane whipped up. Cheeseburgers at Sonic. Mustard or mayonnaise. Probably mustard because I like mustard. I'm pretty sure Mom didn't like mayonnaise on her burgers, but then again she liked Whoppers at Burger King. So I don't know.

The lovely thing about writing things like these is that you, the reader, don't have to see the bursting-into-tears part of the above paragraph. Isn't that silly?

Recently I decided that I might not quit being a CASA after this case is over.

The part of me so terrified of losing a memory is the part of me that believes that to forget is to disrespect, to disregard, to drop. So there's a part of me that would like nothing better than to build statues of my mother and spend every day polishing and tweaking and perfecting those statues.

Fuck, I just realized I missed jewelry class.

post oak!

2011-02-28T15:18:00.000-06:00

I don't normally do race reports. I have lots of really good reasons for that. Firstly, race reports are hard. Secondly, I'm lazy. Also, I always figure the writing of race reports is best left to the people who do well in races, or at least write well about races. Me, I forget so much - minutes after finishing, I couldn't tell you what was happening in mile 2 or 7 or at the fourth aid station. I focus on the trail 8 feet ahead of me and all of my attention stays there. Whatever thoughts flit through my head are like leaves blowing across the trail. I barely notice, and I forget almost immediately.

But I've been trying to pay attention in my recent adventures.

So I'll give this a try. This past weekend, I ran a 25k trail race out at Post Oak on Saturday. On Sunday, I ran a half marathon. I ran with some of my fellow Turtles and some people who aren't officially Turtles but we don't hold that against them. Come to think of it, I'm not officially a Turtle anymore. I don't know if we hold it against me. Do we? Let's start with Saturday.

No, let's start with Friday. Since (I thought) all I really needed to do was wash a load of laundry on Friday night, I readily agreed to have a beer with some friends. One beer turned into two, two beers turned into another bar, a good time was had by all and I think it was one in the morning before I squinted at my alarm clock, did some wobbly math and dropped into an instant coma.

Saturday dawned cold. I trudged shivering to the shower. Standing under the spray, slumping against the wall, I couldn't help but laugh at myself - race morning, and there I was. Shaky, queasy, a little dehydrated.

I tried to remember something Eddie said about running through a hangover - something about how he'd never had a hangover last past a certain mile. What mile was that? I couldn't think. I just swallowed some ibuprofen, guzzled as much water as my sloshy belly could hold and went on getting ready.

At that point I realized that I really should have printed out directions to Post Oak, since I'd never been there before. Luckily, my phone's navigation is pretty reliable. I used that and it got me there, still bleary eyed and shaky, but excited - these days, the part I get nervous about isn't really the race. I worry about waking up late, getting lost, being late to the race, not being able to find the start line, not being able to find my shoes - that sort of thing. Once the race starts, if I'm there, I can finally relax. I mean, it's not like I plan to win.

The people at Post Oak, from the volunteers directing parking to the lodge staff, were just the sweetest, nicest people. Even looking at the world with my hungover Popeye's squint, I couldn't help but be impressed. Just lovely, those people.

So I was there, and I was in the right place and had my chip on my shoe and everything, all my ducks in a row, when the 25k started. I got stuck in a pack right at the start and couldn't go as fast as I wanted, but that was actually a blessing - I have a tendency to take off way too fast for my ability, and when I do that, I pay for it later.

All that water I'd guzzled earlier while trying to rehydrate hit my bladder at the same time and I swear I'd never had to pee so bad in my entire life. That first port-a-potty came into view with an orchestral accompaniment and a choir of angels singing. It was just about the loveliest part of my day, finally getting to pee.

I emerged, feeling ten gallons lighter, and ran to the - it must have been the second aid station, right? Anyway, I was running up and saw a guy who looked kind of like Stormy, but I couldn't really look up because I had to watch where I was putting my feet in the slippery mud. Then he yelled something and I was shocked to realize that it actually WAS Stormy.

And then there was Ken! (It always just shocks the hell out of me when I see people I know volunteering on a race. And then they start yelling my name and saying encouraging things! I want to shush them and tell them to cheer for someone who is going to win or something. But I don't. I just blush, but you can't tell because my face is pink from exertion, and I grin, and I try not to duck my head and say shucks or anything.)

Anyway, seeing that port-a-potty was pretty lovely, but seeing Ken and Stormy at the aid station was maybe even better. I had a feeling I might be all right after all.

So I took off again. At various points, I could see Shelley's green shorts flashing through the woods ahead of me. Once or twice I even saw John, but I knew he was probably way ahead of me, so I chased Shelley and Penny and Debbie. And I chased them. And I chased them.

I thought about a lot of things. Most frequently, I thought, "Don't fall down." I also thought about the curiously delicious combination of soy sauce and brownies for as long as the taste lingered in my mouth - about a mile, I think. I thought about how many different colors of mud I saw - every shade of brown was out there, from slick red clay to sticky black goop, fluffy beige mud with the consistency of pudding - I saw it all, I stomped it all and I brought a little of each kind with me back to the finish line. My gray trail runners turned brown. The sound of my own feet squishing through the mud made me smile. I tried to remember to walk the hills, reminding myself that I had another race the next day. And there were a lot of hills to be walked. When I remembered.

I ran by myself, jumping off the trail to let 50k runners pass me (they were easy to spot, as they were running back the way I had come), thanking the few people I passed when they stepped aside. The trails were narrow and winding. I ran from yellow ribbon to yellow ribbon. I saw Tom as I came around a bend. I yelled his name and he bellowed out a greeting as I stood aside to let him pass. We saw each other again when the trail doubled back on itself. "Kate, you rock!" echoed through the woods. I laughed. I was tickled.

I finished the race, found my people, ate a brisket sandwich, found my way home through a series of trials and errors, then spent a little while napping in between snacks. And I ate EVERYTHING. I picked through my fridge, eating things straight out of jars, poking into drawers and drinking out of cartons. Pickled baby corn, olives, slices of cheese, pickled beets, dill pickles - am I sensing a theme here?

I walked up to my office after a couple of hours just to stretch my legs. I went ahead and printed out directions to the lodge while I was there. Got a little work done. Went home and did a little laundry.

Sunday was an entirely different animal. I woke up with plenty of time to sit around drinking coffee. When I was too impatient to wait any longer, I moseyed on over to the lodge and got ready to run the half.

The Sunday races were TROAD races, meaning all paved surfaces. 8 miles of road plus 5 miles of Katy Trail. Sunday was WARM! It was lovely, even if it was a little humid. I saw no cause to complain. I ran with John, who kept up a steady conversation the ENTIRE TIME. John's a good guy. He could have run much faster, I'm sure, but he chose to stay with me and we ran the whole thing together. He basically carried me. I absolutely could not have done as well as I did if it hadn't been for him. So that was pretty cool. John, I owe you a Gatorade.

Audra showed up at the finish line, which was pretty awesome. It just bowls me over when people come out just to be supportive. I never know what to say, other than, "Thank you." I wish I could explain just how grateful I am, and how unworthy I feel. But I'll just say thank you, because I don't have any of the right words no matter how long I sit here and think about it. Hang on, I need a tissue.

Oh! Also, I got a blister! My very first running blister! I was so proud. It was tender and sore when I went with my sister to get a pedicure right after the race. But then I woke up this morning and it was gone. I guess it wasn't a serious blister. Couldn't even stick around for longer than a day. And here I was all excited. I felt like a real runner for a minute.

That's all I can think of to report. Oh, hey, what were the doubler awards? Does anybody know? I got a coaster thing and a tree paperweight, but I didn't see anyplace to pick up a finisher shirt, and I think I maybe was supposed to get something else? I don't know. I'm not the brightest tool in the shed on a normal day, and this weekend, I sweated out a few brain cells, so it's possible I walked right past whatever I was supposed to pick up. Does anybody know?

Okay, now I'm really done. Back at work today and gearing up for 20 this weekend! Who's with me?

socks

2011-02-25T20:29:00.003-06:00

I wear my mother's socks to yoga class.*

In small ways, I surround myself with her presence. I carry her relics with me, woven into the fabric of my life without her.

Last week, I found a hole in one of her socks. I had noticed a thin place before, but that was in the heel. I thought I might prolong the sock's life by not wearing it with shoes. The hole appeared seemingly out of nowhere, under the toes. I sat down on my yoga mat and picked up my foot, examining the sock. Class started. People got up and so did I, reluctantly putting my foot down, standing up, sliding my feet together and rolling the socks off before I got to my first downward-facing dog. But all through our sun salutations, I thought about socks.

My yoga teacher looked at me and my mouth opened to explain the look on my face, but no words came out. I might have looked hurt, or stricken, or upset. I don't know, I couldn't see me.

I knew the socks would wear out eventually. I just didn't think it would be so soon.

*Good grief, this is a downer. Hang on a second here. I really like that first sentence, "I wear my mother's socks to yoga class." I can hear Garrison Keillor saying it on the Writer's Almanac on NPR. Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying it's on a level with the poetry he reads. I'm saying it sounds like I ripped it off. And I probably did. I just don't remember who I ripped off, or where. BUT! As I was tossing that first sentence around in my head, I couldn't help but continue the poetic feel in a way my mother would have found amusing. Wanna hear it? Here it goes.

I wear my mother's socks to yoga class
She would have approved.
I am dodging her legacy -
The cottage cheese ass.

Thank you, thank you. And you are welcome.

for seventy-five, the wife can watch

2011-02-23T08:29:00.002-06:00

Is it weird that there are some people I won't forgive?

I mean, I've done a lot of work on me, and I feel like I got somewhere, and mostly I'm really happy.

But there are a couple of grudges I won't let go.

There are a couple of faces I'd like to break.

There is a person or two that, if I should see them sometime at the grocery store or waiting in line at the post office or walking down the street, I honestly do not know what I will do. I entertain myself sometimes with the possibilities, but they're mostly predictably violent fantasies and I get SO BORED with those.

So I don't think about it much. I'm jarred every now and then by someone else mentioning a name, or I see something that was significant between me and so-and-so so long ago, or something small along those lines, and I feel sick and angry and I find myself again with my little imaginary voodoo dolls, grinding leprosy and face cancer into little pretend figures. Slow, painful illnesses that never quite lead to death because in my little vengeful fantasies, you don't get off that easily. Actually, you don't get off, ever. You just keep suffering.

I know better. I know that letting all of this go is the best thing to do for myself. I'm probably giving myself cancer by holding on to all this sticky noxious hate.

Probably.

i don't like to call it "ralphing" because i don't know him

2011-02-21T22:17:00.000-06:00

Ran 14 miles on Saturday. Felt so good, I thought I'd run again on Sunday. But I puked instead. So it goes.

Stayed home from work today just in case my sickness was something contagious and not the frozen pizza I had for dinner on Sunday. It's almost 10 PM on Monday now and I'm pretty sure it was the pizza.

So now I know - if the pizza costs less than $3, it's probably not really a bargain. Lesson learned.

I thought about Post Oak while barfing. Those panicked flittery thoughts you get while your stomach heaves and cramps, you know. As I angrily watched nutrients eject into the toilet, I thought about how sick I could get, how long it would take to recover, and how it would affect the double I intend to run this weekend. I ran through probabilities in my head, from bad to worse and back to better.

Then I was done unswallowing all that pizza and I felt better. Relatively. Like my stomach had been scoured with a bottle brush. A little bit raped. But better than that sicky gonna-hurl feeling. Anything's better than that.

It's been a long time since I've been sick to the point of vomiting. It doesn't happen often. I think it's been years. So if I shared too much in my description, take heart - it will probably be a year or two before it happens again and you have to read all about it. Assuming you're still reading this. Hell, if anyone's still reading after a year or two, please let me know. I will crochet something for you.

I'd offer to bake, but I baked that frozen pizza, and we all know all too well how that turned out.

So I recommend a nice scarf.

This weekend, I'll be running a 25k on Saturday followed by a half marathon on Sunday out at Post Oak. You should come out. There are still some slots available if you want to run. Or you could just come out for breakfast. Or come to cheer. Personally, I like cheering. More information can be found at http://postoakrun.com/index.html.

Know what else I like? Ginger ale.

roofies on fire

2011-01-20T10:23:00.000-06:00

I got an email from my ex husband the other day telling me that a bar in the town where we used to live has burned down.

The town he moved back to after I moved back to Tulsa and then he moved back to Tulsa and then he moved away again. He moved back to the place we used to live. We didn't drift so much as shifted apart between two anchor points.

But I'm rambling. Remember the time I got roofied? Happened in that bar. The bar that burned down.

I got to thinking about places I remember on the coast, places that are significant for one reason or another, and how many of them have been destroyed. The casino where I used to work, Katrina smashed it all up.

Katrina also carved my storage unit out of a row of storage units, which I found a bit disturbing but chose not to dwell on it much.

Come to think of it, Katrina stomped my old apartment flat. Maybe 2 of my old apartments. I moved around a lot on the coast. Never quite got comfortable.

I have this image of Katrina chasing me around like a housewife trying to stomp a cockroach. Always too slow. I was out of there almost one whole year ahead of that bitch. I have infested another part of the country.

My mom died while Katrina destroyed the place I used to live and I know I keep revisiting that but it's kind of a big deal to me. I spent an aimless desperate suicidal shellshocked year after that. Maybe longer. It carved something out of me, leaving sockets like the spaces where teeth used to be.

But let's talk about now.

Now it's stopped snowing in Tulsa.

I went to back-to-back pilates and yoga classes last night at the YWCA and got my ass thoroughly kicked. I'm sore all over today. Love it.

The YWCA doesn't have those lovely massage chairs I used to like so much at my old gym, but they do have a hot tub. I stayed in it until I felt cooked.

I'm still learning how to grocery shop. Sometimes I have to just let myself wander, because what I want surprises me. I got picnic food last night. Cheeses, meats and crackers, imported chocolate biscuits, nibbly things and tea. A picnic for a snow day.

I'm looking forward to running tonight in the snow. Weird, that.

Hearing on Monday. I am cautiously optimistic about this CASA thing.

How are you?

i'm pretty snotty on my best day

2011-01-10T15:10:00.002-06:00

Things that are awesome, a list.

Bullet points. No kidding, I love these things.
My yoga teacher called me today because I've missed a week of classes and she wanted to make sure I was okay. Awwww.
I joined the YWCA! (I said I like it here, can I stay? And do you have a vacancy for a back-scrubber?)
The Coen brothers did in fact make a lovely movie with The Man Who Wasn't There. I watched it yesterday and loved it. When Frances McDormand said, "Enjoy your goddamn cherries," I almost fell over laughing. I love that line. I love that woman.
My landlords got my tub drain fixed. On Saturday. Because the guy tried to come in on Friday and Loki freaked out, so the guy left because he didn't want to freak the cat out anymore.
Nassim. Sometimes he's the only reasonable person in my house. I think Loki and I would have killed each other by now if it weren't for Nassim and his unflappable sweetness.
Being all right with being a crazy cat lady. I hope this means I get to wear hats.
Hats.

Loki in Eddie's scarf before I finished making it.

yeah, whatever

2011-01-07T13:09:00.002-06:00

I've been sick. *koff*

I ran 3 extra miles Monday night so I could meet up with my sister and run at her pace without feeling restless. It mostly worked. I need to work harder on letting her take the lead. I find myself running just ahead of her, looking back over my shoulder every thirty seconds. I know that's got to be annoying for her, especially when I keep trumpeting, "YOU set the pace! We're out here for YOU!" If I were her, I'd probably tell me to stuff it. But she's nicer than me.

Anyway, I woke up Tuesday not feeling great. Picked up cold medicine and tea at the nearest drugstore and made it through most of a workday before surrendering. Got new movies at the library, got sickie food at the grocery store and went home to cocoon.

So. Since Tuesday I have:

slept. A lot. A lot a lot.
taken about three pounds of drugs. I love drugs. Alka-Seltzer Plus Cold in Cherry Burst, Mucus Relief DM, Fisherman's Friend lozenges, ibuprofen by the handful, Emergen-C in Super Orange, Nyquil in great big guzzles.
drank gallons of tea. Bromley's Cool Mountain Mint tea and a mint/chamomile blend that's actually pretty pleasant by Bigelow called Sweet Dreams. Sometimes with honey in it, but usually not because I spill things a lot and it's easier to clean up plain tea than sticky nasty honey-filled tea.
eaten next to nothing because for days, it was TOO HARD TO OPEN A CAN OF SOUP. Thankfully, Eddie has come by with hot and sour soup when I haven't had the wits about me to call and order it. I love Asian Chef Delivery. Eddie's no slouch, either.
watched the first disc of Flight of the Conchords, Season 2. Sugalumps is so going on my running playlist. Yay for Netflix.
watched Dinner for Schmucks. Hilarious. Double yay for Netflix.
watched Julie & Julia. Liked it. Was slightly disturbed by the idea of liking a Nora Ephron movie. Checked myself for fever. Realized I can't check myself for fever by pressing my own hand against my own forehead. Made a mental note to buy a thermometer. Discarded mental note because thermometers are for babies. Do I really like Nora Ephron? Is this okay with everyone? Because I don't think I can help it. I think maybe I just like her. Maybe we will all just have to deal with this. Mostly me.
watched Days of Wine and Roses (yay library!). Got really sad. Wished I wasn't sick so I could watch it with a nice sloshy glass of wine and take it and myself very seriously. Was jarred and unsettled. Will have to watch it again.
watched True Grit. (Yay Redbox and yay Eddie!) Was very unkind about the girl playing whatshername (but it hurt too much to talk, so I kept it to myself until now). Liked John Wayne. Kept falling asleep. Will have to watch it for real, now that the worst of this cold seems to have passed.
started to watch The Man Who Wasn't There (liberry) and realized the Coen brothers are too much for me when my head is spinning. Probably an excellent movie. Will have to start over.
emailed Brian to let him know I can't volunteer for Athens Big Fork. Because I don't want to make anybody else sick. Because this is the first time I've left the house since Tuesday and I'm still a little shaky. Because I suck and I'm a wuss. He emailed back and was very nice about it.
emailed my CASA supervisor to let her know I could not attend an emergency hearing. Because I had very little voice. Because I suck and I'm a wuss. She emailed back and was very nice about it.
emailed my landlords about my tub drain, which has been getting slower and slower. I used to be very good at unclogging drains, but this one has me stumped. I can't seem to fix it. I've tried the plunger trick and the wire hanger trick. I'd do the baking soda and vinegar trick, but I doubt it will help. I have not heard back from my landlords. They'll fix it, though. They always fix stuff for me.
typed up this very impressive list.

There you have it. My entire week in a list. This is the longest I've been conscious at one stretch since Tuesday afternoon. Wooooo!

i'm a funny looking thing

2010-12-30T15:32:00.002-06:00

i like pie

2010-12-29T11:19:00.001-06:00

I wish winter would hurry itself along and get on out of here.

I want to ride my bike.

Eddie got me some bar tape to rewrap my handlebars, but I haven't done that because I also thought I might change the handlebars to the straight kind.

You know, I haven't owned a bike since I was about 14. How did this happen? I used to have a mountain bike. I think it came from Walmart and I think it cost $100. I know I loved that bike. I'm pretty sure I got it for Christmas one year. It had a bright pink water bottle that bleached to a sickly pale salmon in the New Mexico sun, and I used to ride the 11 miles into town on a pretty regular basis. I don't even remember being tired. I know I must have been, but that memory is as bleached out and sunfaded as the water bottle.

I used to take it up into the mesas behind the house, on jeep trails and hiking trails - so I guess I can't say I never appreciated growing up on Philmont. I never really understood how good I had it, though, because I had never known life to be different.

I don't know how I went almost 20 years bikeless. And I'd really like for spring to get here so I can ride the one Tim and Kellie gave me, straight handlebars or not.

At least running is always an option. I'm tentatively branching out into swimming as crosstraining, though I haven't been a swimmer since I was a kid. I haven't actually taken the plunge yet, but I've pretty much settled on the pool. And I bought a suit. Okay, I bought the suit for the Polar Bear Plunge, but I plan to try to swim for realskies in it. Someday. Maybe.

I haven't cooked anything or made anything or written anything warranting any sort of blogging action lately. I've just sort of been wandering through Christmas lights, Netflix movies and yoga classes. I'm finally having a good time running again -- was Dallas really less than a month ago? It feels like it took forever to get back to feeling good, but that run was really only December 5. But oh, that was a sucky, sucky, full-of-sucking run.

Not that the race was bad. Lots of people had a great time. The only problem out there was me. I'm just glad it's over. Got my maniac status and put the bad times behind me. And I'm not doing it again! Probably. For a while, at least. A couple of months. I don't know, ask again later.

In other news, there is no other news. See you at the Race Into the New Year, or the Polar Bear Plunge!

end of december

2010-12-27T11:47:00.003-06:00

My ex husband told me in an email recently that he's probably getting married soon. He seemed pretty upset about it. I had no advice to give him. Not that he was looking for advice, mind you.

Duncan has let me keep Nassim since before Thanksgiving. Loki is pleased with this arrangement. The cats are all right.

I have not yet answered the letter my dad sent me in July. He wrote another since, and I haven't answered that either. I did try to get my sister to invite him to come to Thanksgiving dinner, though.

I don't remember Christmas dinners when I was a kid, though I'm sure they happened. My sister says they did. She says it was like Thanksgiving all over again. I remember Thanksgivings. I don't know why I don't remember Christmas, past the presents. But I don't do Christmas dinner, because I forget I'm supposed to.

I haven't written here in a long time. First it was inconvenient, then I was too busy. Now I'm just so goddamned bored with myself it's tempting to delete the whole thing. I'll try something new one of these days.

When I have time.

same shoe, tastes the same

2010-09-22T19:46:00.001-05:00

Hi, I missed you!

I'm hungry.

All the time.

I'm ready to start tapering, because these days all I want to do is eat and sleep. I don't even want to run anymore.

But if I had to pick one, I'd pick sleep.

I've only experienced tapering once before, and it was mild (before a half marathon), but I hated it.

I'll probably hate it again. But right now it looks like a mirage. Less running means more sleeping.

The Saturday before Turkey-n-Taturs, I wanted to sleep late. Instead, I woke up early with a vicious charley horse in my calf. My legs apparently knew it was time to run. I hobbled around all morning.

My son turned 16 the other day. I said nothing. I just felt it in my chest all day. It wasn't something I could talk about. I hope he's okay. I hope he's loved and happy. I hope he's a good driver. I still feel it in my chest. I hope he doesn't.

Turkey-n-Taturs was hard. And fun. And hard. I want to do more trail running.

I remember when I couldn't see myself ever running a marathon. I remember when a 5 mile run was too long.

I remember running because I was mad, running because I was sad, running because it was that or go crazy.

I started running because I tried so hard to be a supportive sister when Jess said she wanted to start running, I accidentally talked myself into joining her.

That was almost two years ago.

I think this running thing might stick.

I dreamed Steve Martin killed us both

2010-09-02T15:22:00.000-05:00

By driving the car off a cliff, Steve Martin caused me to witness my own death in a dream. I'm having a hard time forgiving him for that, but I'm pretty sure he had a good reason. I just wish I could remember what it was.

We were in a white convertible, but the top was up and all the windows were rolled up. The car hit asphalt at the bottom and the human bodies inside it exploded like dropped water balloons full of blood.

So all I saw was white car, red windows. It wasn't the most graphic death dream.

This blog is pretty much just running and deadmom. It's like, "OMG you guys I ran SO FAR and my mom's dead and I'm SO SAD." That's the long and short of it, anyway. Still, I get enough complimentary email to keep my ego fluttering its eyelashes and fanning its plump little face (for the record, it takes about one email every six months to get me punchdrunk on praise). Y'all seem to like this weird thing I do. So okay. I like it too.

Loki spent yesterday at the vet, getting neutered. I don't guess it really took all day, but the vet's staff informed me when I picked him up that he had spent the whole day cussing them out. He seems fine now. He was sleeping on my chest when the lady from the vet's office called me this morning to check on him. He's okay. Sleeping a little more than usual, maybe. Maybe a little drunk on the pain medicine. Not unhappy, as far as I can tell, to be missing his manhood.

I've talked a lot lately about forgiveness.

I talk a lot in general. I'm practicing. One day I will be good at saying things out loud, and when that day comes, I may suddenly be succinct. But probably not. I'm used to talking a lot by now.

But I talk about forgiveness like a freshly recruited cult member, because it has recently come up in my life over and over.

Working as a CASA, I've met people I might have only read about before. People who have abused their children, people who have killed children.

Not like, a whole bunch of them. It's not a club or anything. Far as I know.

The first time I found myself in a room with such a person, I stared incredulously, furtively, for a few seconds at a time. I couldn't maintain a steady gaze. I kept dropping my head and looking at my hands. I tried to keep my composure while I looked for the man's horns. I tried to keep my face neutral, but if I looked too long I knew I would start to cry.

I cried all the way home, feeling childish and naive and silly. This is the world, I reminded myself, trying to be kind but come on get a grip on yourself. Grow up. Even my hands looked shocked on the steering wheel, fingers splayed, knuckles white. It took a lot of deep breaths, a lot of pacing around my apartment to finally calm down. I remember thinking, "I don't know if I can do this." Right on the heels of that slippery thought came, "I really need to do this."

And so I continued. And I still feel pretty childish and naive and silly, but I'm forming a thought or two about a thing or two. I'm starting to wonder about the absolute value of a person. Whether a person can be judged by the worst thing he or she has ever done. I'm starting to think that maybe, we are more than what we do.

I've always believed that actions speak louder than words. It's only recently occurred to me that louder does not necessarily equal truer.

It was so simple before. Who you are equals what you've done.

I said, out loud, "Nobody ever helped anybody by kneeling on rice."

I liked living like a nun. Self denial seemed logical after years of indulgence, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to stop being destructive, I felt a need to start building something good. Something small and good and warm like humans, nothing too ambitious, just a little bit of something -- something better.

Maybe it will help. Someone. I don't know.

I picked up my race packet today for a 5-mile trail run out at Turkey Mountain. The race is Monday. I don't go back to work until Tuesday. I also bought new trail runners today. I still need new running shoes for regular running, but maybe if I have a dedicated pair of trail runners, I can keep my regular running shoes kind of clean. We'll see. My running shoes are pretty filthy from stomping through mud puddles and streams and whatnot.

The anniversary of my mom's death came and went. I worked that day. Texted my sister to make sure she was holding up okay and to let her know I was okay. Five years. You know what's funny? Someday, if I'm lucky and live to be older than 54, I will have lived more years without my mom than I had with her. That seems an odd thing to call lucky.

Blah blah blah, my family my family, bullshit bullshit.

I can't BELIEVE it's September already. Geez.

five chartreuse buzzards

2010-08-11T15:00:00.004-05:00

August. This is the month when she died. I read somewhere that your dreaming mind is always a little bit behind the times, so it shouldn’t surprise me to be okay for the first week. Sometime in the second week, though, I have a dream.

Something about a hospital room, something just like you would expect, something trite and predictable and just like the movies,

hiss and click of oxygen, beep and whir of machines and the room is cold, I am trying to tell the nurse something but she can't hear me, it's so loud in there, I need to tell her something but she isn't listening and now I can't find the door to get out, the door that was just right here and I can't breathe because it's not oxygen there is no air

and I am sitting up in bed, panicking and gasping for air, clawing at the sheets almost falling. I hear my own breath, huge and loud and ragged in this room with no air – what am I breathing if there is no air – and then I am on the floor feeling cool floorboards, laying my cheek against wood in the dark. I suck wind. Dust tickles the back of my throat and I cough. Dust in my nose. Dust stuck to my clammy skin. The reasonable voice in my head, which has apparently been talking quietly this whole time, can finally be heard as my breath settles down.

See, you’re breathing. You’re okay. It’s okay. Take it easy. Sit up, honey. It’s gonna be okay.

My breath is shaky but slowing. My chest hurts. My throat hurts. My mom is dead. I’m breathing. It’s gonna be okay.

peaches smoke and sleep

2010-08-09T18:53:00.001-05:00

I only just discovered peaches. I am careful with them, always. They feel like newborn baby heads in my hands, soft and heavy and covered in fuzz.

Driving home, I accelerated gently, braked slowly, keeping an eye on the peaches in the front seat. All at once I remembered my mom’s story about her dad and the peaches. She said he would buy fruit by the bushel then drive like a bat out of hell, so peaches would roll under the seats and rot if you didn’t check his car every time he brought in fruit.

She said he picked a gear and stuck with it. She swore he'd drive backwards if the gear he found was reverse.

The only time I remember him driving in reverse was because he'd seen a black cat. But that's a whole other story.

I had only ever had canned peaches. When she told me the story, I couldn’t understand why anybody would want a whole bushel of those cloying sweet clumps of uniformly orange mush in heavy syrup.

I had never seen the sunrise of red around the stone, white flesh packed into softly fuzzed skin. I didn’t know the satisfaction of biting into firm sweetness and tearing it perfectly, neatly away from its center, delicate fuzz against my tongue and juice running down my chin.

But there are some things that can’t be explained. At least, not in Kansas.

I undressed thinking about peaches. Tossing my jeans into the dirty laundry basket, I saw last night’s shirt hanging over the edge. I picked up the sleeve to tuck it back into the basket and smelled cigarette smoke from last night’s bar. It’s a sad, dirty smell, a little musty and kind of moldy. Everything in my mom’s apartment had this smell when we cleaned it out after she died. Her sewing box still smells a little like it, and it has been 5 years this month since she died. She died and I carried her sewing box out of her apartment, choking on grief and cigarette smoke, mine and hers and everyone’s.

For a long time I slept curled up tight with a fist pressed against my chest, right up against that hollow place, daring it to cave in and protecting it at the same time, choking on grief and cigarette smoke.

I closed the cabinet, closing the dirty clothes basket inside. A man’s button-down shirt hung on the cabinet door, smelling like sunshine, like soap, like skin. I inhaled his cologne, candles and incense in an old Catholic church I remember from when I was a kid. I wrapped myself in his shirt and slipped into bed, slipped into sleep easily, thinking about how long five years can be.

andy gently weeping

2010-08-02T18:55:00.000-05:00

His name was Andy. He charmed me with his rendition of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” then he encouraged James to cheat on me. He might have even introduced the two of them. I’m not sure.

I had just discovered the Beatles. That song was mine. When I saw a lanky barfly with a guitar singing it, I felt like we had a kinship. I trusted him. I heard he was a cokehead, a flake, but when James would mention going out with him I’d smile, thinking about the way he played that song.

I understand that it was silly.

Of course I understand now.

But I have never forgiven Andy.

I hope he dies poor and lonely.

trapline

2010-07-16T15:33:00.000-05:00

My dad had a trapline when I was little. We lived in a cabin in the woods, 10 miles of winding rutted dirt road between us and the village. Snow erased the road sometimes. My mom kept the kitchen stocked against the possibility of being snowed in.

I remember my dad walking his trapline in the snow because sometimes I would ask to go with him and he would say no. I remember waiting for him to come clomping in, stomping the snow off his boots. I remember his work gloves sometimes being bloody. Wait, is that right? Memory is a tricky thing. The harder you press it, the less and more it gives, and sometimes the details get distorted. But I understand now why he didn't let me walk the trapline with him.

I remember the skins. Fox and coyote and rabbit, maybe beaver, some kind of otter or weasel or something, all stretched over frames in the sun, rubbed with salt. I remember the bloody bits sloughing off, rubbing off in pills. I don’t remember enough of the process to describe it accurately. But I adored my dad and I would sit and watch him perform his odd magic with those bloody animal parts for just as long as he would let me. Eventually, I would see the skins transformed into a soft pile of pelts on the living room floor and I would bury my hands in their softness, bury my face in that warm animal smell that reminded me of the dogs and their breath. I was sorry when all the pelts were sold.

Funny how I can’t touch fur today. It gives me the heebie jeebies when I touch what I think is faux fur and feel the crinkle of real skin underneath. Makes my own skin just want to crawl right off me.

babe with the power

2010-06-28T18:53:00.002-05:00

Saturday was fun. Got up just shortly after 6 to meet the Blazing Turtles for a 6 mile run. The weather was much nicer for running than last Saturday's, I thought. I appreciated the cloud cover.

After the run, Guy, Wilma and Eddie were brave enough to come see my yoga teacher at her Saturday gig, over at Central Park (6th and Peoria in the Community Center, 9:15 AM every Saturday unless it’s a holiday weekend). Nice place – I’d never been inside. And the lady behind the front desk wouldn’t even take our money because it was our first time taking that class. Sweet. (Note: The class runs about an hour and a half and the drop-in fee is $10 after that first freebie.)

I couldn’t stop grinning in class, even when Pat put me on the spot, calling me a yogi and telling my fellow runners to watch my asanas if they couldn’t see her. I cringed, but I figured I deserved the scrutiny for practically dragging these poor souls to yoga class.

And class was awesome. Everybody did a fantastic job and was way more flexible than I expected! I was very stiff and bound up when I got back into yoga last year. It was a bit of a slap to my pride – I was used to being a bendy girl, but I had neglected my practice and slowly stiffened up. So when I got back into yoga, I was in for an unpleasant surprise. My muscles and connective tissue had pretty much stopped speaking to me. It wasn’t so much that the poses were painful – they were just impossible. My lower back didn’t seem to have any movement at all. It was crazy.

Slowly, steadily, I am working the stiffness out. I’m proud of how far I’ve come, because my flexibility has seriously improved, but it has taken the better part of a year. I’ve only recently started to really see a difference.

Eddie and Wilma and Guy were already more flexible on Saturday than I was when I started back with yoga last year. I was impressed. And of course, I couldn’t stop grinning. It was awesome to see people giving yoga a try. Yoga’s been huge in my life. It’s very exciting for me to get to share it with someone else. And Pat is such a great teacher. I just knew they’d all have a positive experience.

Well. I hoped. I worried they’d all HATE it. But everybody was a great sport about it, really gave the asanas an honest try, and did really well.

Okay, I’ll stop nattering about yoga class. For a bit.

Saturday after yoga, all I wanted was food and a nap. I got a little of both, but before I knew it, it was time for the Barkley Book Fair out at Turkey Mountain. Man, my legs were tired! They reluctantly carried me through the day run, but by the end of that, my whole body had remembered the 6 miles from that morning. It was a nice kind of tired, though. Lots and lots of fun. Next year, I want to do the night run.

I think marathon training is going to be fun.

I wonder if I really do have an ultra in me.

I took a rest day yesterday, then hit the elliptical this morning for 35 minutes – I meant to do an hour, but I hit snooze a time or two and used up my extra time!

I’m trying to keep the impact to a minimum. I don’t want to just run, and I want to avoid pounding my joints overly much. I need to add in more strength training, but I haven’t really done a lot to get there.

In yoga class today, my frog was much improved. I managed to get my belly and my feet both on the floor at the same time. Just touching. Almost all of my weight was on my femurs, but the dreaded duck butt was almost gone! I’m focusing on adductors and hamstrings, having stretched my quads until they now cooperate with most of my demands. Pat noticed and commented that my body is responding very quickly. She talked to me after class, reminding me that I have the rest of my life to train and run and race, cautioning me not to take on too much too fast.

I trust her judgment, but a little voice in my head says we never know how much is left of the rest of our lives. So tonight, after my abs class, I’ll run 3 or 4 miles, and I’ll get up in the morning and head for the elliptical again. And I’ll keep an eye on that ultra idea.

And I’ll keep my faith in voodoo. Hoodoo? You do.

because my mom would do that.

2010-06-19T14:32:00.000-05:00

I was falling asleep when the scorpion climbed onto my shoulder. Clicking his armor with mincing little steps, he made his way down and across the length of me, from my left shoulder to my right ankle. I stayed still, barely breathing. I watched the light from the bedside lamp play against gunmetal blue claws and finally closed my eyes as I slipped under water, leaving the scorpion to drown or be saved alone.

Swimming upriver effortlessly, like when I was a kid, I saw branches lifting out of my way and there was James and we were no children. We dove under fallen trees and swam through a flood. Under the roiling waves, the water was still and calm. The flood was only dangerous on the surface, so we stayed underwater as long as we could. When we came up, there was a house on the riverbank, perched like a cliff made of bricks. I climbed up the side, alone again, but I was too big to crawl through the little windows, so I clung to the wall like a tree frog, waiting for someone to help me. An old man inside the house saw me and came to the window. I told him I was too big, the windows were too small, and he smiled and held out a gnarled hand like a claw, two arthritic fingers for me to hold. His eyes were faded gunmetal blue, like an old dusty scorpion. He wore overalls and his feet were bare. He told me to close my eyes. I grabbed his hand and held my breath while he pulled me through the wall into the house.

I opened my eyes to room filled with sunlight. The old man was gone and scenes passed in front of me like a slideshow. I heard my own voice describing the rooms. James’s parents’ house, but as soon as I recognized it, it slipped away. My own apartment emerged in the sunlight and Loki came galloping toward me, fatter than he was when I left him with my mom. I turned to her accusingly and she laughed. One can of food, she said. He liked it so much, it was so cute.

Look at his round little belly, Mom! You’ve turned my kitten into a little fat boy!

He needed some fattening up. He’s just a baby.

I scowled as I picked up Loki, but there didn’t seem to be any real harm done. I set him down and he galloped thumping across the floor, then thumped back. He thumped on my bedroom door and I woke up, for real this time. It would have been nice to have a little more time with my mom, but she’s awfully busy being dead.

I had to make a note of this one -- I know, other people's dreams are SOOO boring. But see, this is important. This is the first time I can recall ever seeing my mom in a dream and not waking up distraught. I was just really glad to see her again. She seemed happy. I miss her terribly, and I always will, but I'm happy to see some nontraumatic grief happening. No evisceration, no unbearable pain. Just a little sad. But I'm going to quit talking about it, because if I keep this up, I'll get to bawling because I miss my mom and that's no way to spend a Saturday.

fit or unfit

2010-05-21T14:00:00.001-05:00

This morning.

So I haven’t heard from the CASA people, or the parks people. Makes me wonder what those background checks turned up.

I don’t think I’m a bad person. I don’t think I have anything bad on my record.

But what if I don’t know?

A lunatic never doubts her sanity, or so they say.

But I think I’d remember doing bad things.

The kind of bad things that wind up on your permanent record, I mean.

And I don’t remember any of those.

I think I’ve been pretty okay.

Maybe I just blew the interview. I was honest. Maybe I was supposed to lie when she asked me about my experience with drugs. Or maybe I shouldn’t have told her I drink alcohol. 3 drinks a week? Too much? It varies, see. Depends on so many things, and some weeks go by without a drop of alcohol and you know I don’t think I’d even pay attention if I didn’t have an alcoholic father. I’m pretty sure I’m fine with alcohol.

Maybe it was the alcoholic father that caused the red flag to go up. Maybe they have a no-alcoholic-fathers clause.

Maybe it’s because I used to smoke. I don’t smoke anymore, though.

I don’t have a lot of excess in my life in any way, really.

But maybe it’s still too much.

Or maybe the lady who interviewed me just needed something different. Maybe she thought I was lying here or there or anywhere. Maybe she knows better than I do that I will suck at this. Maybe if she let me do this, she knows I would fail.

Maybe I would fail.

Maybe I would be terrible at this.

But I want the chance to try it.

So I have to call her. Face this, good or bad. Maybe she will say they were about to call me. Maybe she will ask me when I would like to schedule my court observation days. Maybe she will thank me for calling and we’ll just go ahead and get this ball rolling right away.

Or maybe she will say no thank you. Something turned up in your background check. You should get that taken care of.

What if my identity has been stolen? What if I have a huge list of bad things attached to my name?

What if somehow just being me is a bad idea?

What if I am unfit for this simply because of the factors in my life that have added up to who I am now?

What if I am just basically unsound?

Maybe she will say. Maybe. Maybe she will. Maybe she. Maybe she will say what she will say.

Maybe my hands are shaking and my voice will be too and I’m afraid of either outcome but I am picking up my phone and my planner and ducking into the hall for just a minute.

***

I was wrong. My voice didn’t shake. My hands shook plenty, but the voice that came out of me sounded relaxed and confident. I was just calling to check, I said, I had an interview a couple of weeks ago and I wanted to make sure everything had come back okay. And the lady who interviewed me told me she is looking forward to seeing me in the training class that starts next week. I hung up smiling and suddenly fumbled with closing my phone because my hands went stupid with relief. My heart is still thumping and fluttering against the inside of my ribcage. But now it feels a little more ticklish and a little less nauseating than it did a few minutes ago. I may even be able to breathe it down.

I exhaled and felt the starch go out of my neck. My back popped a little.

Goodness, I get tense over these things.

***

This afternoon.

I hope it goes well. This is a chance to help kids have better lives. I hope I’m up to it. It’s going to be demanding and stressful and time-consuming. I can’t wait. I think I can do this. I hope.

I’m not trying to save anyone. I’m nobody’s martyr. Oh! Allow me to quote myself.

“All the good martyrs are dead. They were too good at being martyrs.”

So no, I’m not trying to save the world. I’m just here to help.

I’m sorry it took me so long to start trying.

i am not afraid of you and i will beat your ass

2010-05-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

Tornadoes don’t scare me a whole lot. Hurricanes never did much either.

Something that big, I kind of feel like it's going to get me if it wants me. Seems like all the precautions in the world don't save you if a storm wants you badly enough. While I am respectful in the face of a force of nature, I don't really have it in me to be afraid. Not of something like that.

Babies scare me. Tiny chubby fingers and toes, alarmingly delicate wobbly necks. Don’t get me wrong: I love the little bastards. But they’re scary as all hell. I’ll brave the fear, though, for a sniff of babyhead.

Heights. Me and heights don’t get along so great. I used to say it wasn’t so much a fear of heights as a fear of falling, and not so much a fear of falling as a fear of hitting the ground, but I’ve explored this one a bit. And it comes down to heights. When I become aware of how much empty air is between me and the ground, my knees go wobbly and my heart does a sickening double-thump. I can breathe through it sometimes. Depends on the variables. Variables include all sorts of trust issues.

Hitchcock’s Vertigo makes me queasy. I have to purposefully breathe through most of that movie. I’m pretty sure I’ll never be able to sit through it in one shot.

Mountain lions scare me, or they did when I hiked in New Mexico. I have been acutely aware, for as long as I can remember, that a mountain lion has about a 40 foot horizontal striking range. They can jump 40 feet. From standing still. Creepily quiet, she’s stalking along, getting the scent of you, thinking about whether she feels like having white girl for dinner. Maybe she’d rather just go home and have leftover deer. Who can say what a mountain lion is actually thinking? Doesn't it come down to the age-old question, "Can I eat you? Can you eat me?"

Serial killers. Mass murderers. Humans are capable of astonishing levels of cruelty. I’ve seen more than I care to on this front – I’ve sought it out. I’ve read books on serial killers and violent crime. I’ve tried to understand it. But I am still bewildered and horrified almost every time I look at the news.

Richard Chase took an unlocked door as an invitation to come in. He believed he needed to drink blood in order to keep his blood from turning to powder. Sex with corpses was kind of a bonus for him, I guess.

Eddie Gein liked to make trinkets out of body parts he robbed from graves. After committing the only murder for which he was ever tried, he dressed out his victim’s corpse like a deer.

On August 1, 1966, Charles Whitman shot an 8-months pregnant Claire Wilson through the abdomen from his perch on the observation deck. Wilson’s fiancé was shot as he knelt over her. He died. The child died. Claire Wilson lived. That right there? That scares me.

My mom died while Katrina hit my former home. Literally, at the same time. Like, I looked up at the television in her hospital room and saw the coast getting hammered. To this day, sometimes a recording will turn my stomach in a familiar way, telling me all circuits are busy. To please try my call again later. You will have to wait and see who is alive when this little world is done ending. Because right now? It’s too busy exploding to bother with putting your call through.

Or, you know, something like that.

A clap of thunder woke me up. At least, I think that’s what it was. I was curled up on my side dreaming about flying cars. I opened my eyes and saw Loki the kitten bolting across the bedroom floor to me. He jumped over and hid behind me, pressed up against my back, shivering. I patted him and blinked at the clock. Four, maybe? I don’t remember. Rain was flying in through the open window. I could hear it splattering on the floor. I left Loki whimpering and went around closing windows. The rain came in sideways. Cold. My shirt soaked through almost instantly and stuck to me. My bare legs were cold. Rain puddled at my feet. The old windows, wet and sticky in their layers of paint, took their time coming unstuck and closing, but I got them. Finally. I padded to the broom closet and got the mop. Grogginess gave me a measure of detachment. From outside, it must have made an odd tableau -- soaking wet, half asleep and half naked, silently mopping the floor in the dark with a storm screaming outside. Lightning occasionally illuminating the puddles on the floor. Luckily, it was not much of a night for looking in windows.

I stripped out of my soggy wifebeater and toweled off. Loki perked right up when I came back to bed. After a couple of minutes of soothing nonsense-talk and head nuzzles, he went back to gleefully attacking invisible monsters all around the bedroom.

I slept like a pile of rocks.

Trigger

2010-05-17T13:22:00.005-05:00

Isn’t it strange, how it changed everything we did.
Did I do all that I could?

Dave Matthews. “Stay or Leave.” This song clicks something in my head and I am inexplicably back at the magazine store. A little place that sold bidis and imported cigarettes and magazines. And porn, maybe. Probably. I think there was a back room, but hell, every place has a back room there. It’s a holdover from the Dixie Mafia days.

I miss that place sometimes. The general place, I mean. The South. Mississippi, not the magazine store. I miss the nonchalance, the decay, the heat that made me dizzy until I stopped noticing it. I miss the food. Piles of crab legs, fingers slick and faces shiny with butter, bottles of beer sweating their labels off. Po’boy sandwiches, dressed and pressed.

Mississippi showed me how to sweat. I miss it just for that.

The magazine store held no special significance for me. It was just where I bought bidis. I don’t know why I can sometimes remember exactly how that store felt. Air conditioning blowing cold on my legs. The floor was dirty old supermarket linoleum, cracked. I scuffed my sandals across it, floating on that puff of thermal convection I swear I carry with me when I move from very hot air to very cold air.

A new restaurant opened in that shopping center while we lived right up the road. The Gumbo Pot, was it? James put a ring on the table and the waiter tried to come unglued. I assured him it was no big deal, calm down, we’d done this before. I think I said thank you. I think I said yes. I wore the ring, after all. I must have said yes.

There was an ice cream shop next door, or maybe two doors down. The sports bar was in that same shopping center.

Oh, and the Silver Screen! The movie theater that served beer and pizza. Second-run movies and cold beer in the air conditioning.

All the way at the end was a bookstore, a Barnes and Noble or one of those megagiant things, and there was a Toys R Us in the lot next door. There was a record store in the middle somewhere. I had them order me a Dirty Vegas CD once. Back when I cared about the difference between house and trance.

The bookstore was where I rediscovered Watership Down. I remember running to my car in the rain to call my sister and tell her I’d found something. “Back to the burrow,” was the line that kept ringing in my head. Little voice saying, “Go home go home go home,” but it took me so long to listen to that little voice, home didn’t exist anymore by the time I gave up the ghost in Mississippi.

It’s okay now. I understand, now, that home was never a place.

I had never heard this song then, and I don’t care about the magazine store. I don’t even remember its name. I don’t know why this song drags me back there.

Bob Dylan’s “Mississippi” really makes more sense. I hadn’t heard that song either, then, but apparently we’re not going for historical autobiographical accuracy.

Only one thing I did wrong. Stayed in Mississippi a day too long.

to put anybody down

2010-05-14T13:19:00.004-05:00

Monkey mind, we say, when we’re talking about the nagging little thoughts that try to interfere with meditation or concentration.

I always pictured something cute. A capuchin, maybe. A little guy making funny faces and climbing all over the place, annoying, sure, but gosh he’s adorable.

I was wrong. My monkey mind is bigger. Uglier. Maybe it’s the result of letting my undisciplined mind stay undisciplined for so long, but I caught a glimpse of it recently by accident.

Except there are no accidents.

And maybe I was looking for it.

Maybe I had it coming.

I always kind of liked the idea of the monkey mind, personally. I guess I liked the idea of climbing around the problems, climbing right over the top if necessary. But that’s another story.

My monkey mind. My own. It’s no capuchin. My monkey mind is a yellow-fanged, red-assed baboon. It’s pissed off and hateful. It’s sitting in a tree stinking, glowering at everyone, and it’s chewing on a bone that might have been someone’s arm once.

It can be as simple as tree pose. Nestling the sole of my left foot against the inside of my right thigh, hands together at heart height, I get a sudden image, an ocean of gelatin. Everything jiggling, everything waving. I blink the image away, but it’s enough to give me a wobble.

The balance poses are easy to threaten. Just throw me a disturbing image or thought or memory.

One of Charles Whitman’s victims was Claire Wilson, 8 months pregnant at the time. She survived the shot that went through her abdomen. Her child did not.

On the phone with my professor, my voice small and high, “I’ve just found out my mom has cancer and I don’t know if I can drive.”

“Once wasn’t good enough, he did it 65 times.”

A scene from a movie I saw when I was a kid. Ice skater falling on her face on the ice, lifting her head to show teeth knocked out, blood drooling, puddled on the ice between her hands.

I’ve got days of these things. I imagine everyone does – they’re the memories or the images or the thoughts that make you jump, make you flinch, make you lose your concentration for just a second. And that fucking monkey screeches with laughter while you put your foot down to catch your balance and take a deep shaky breath. Then you go up again and he screeches in frustration, but you can’t waste your attention on gloating. You are exhaling smoothly and staying in the pocket.

On a good day. Some days, the monkey wins. Some really good days, I don’t even have to put that foot down. I just sort of sway with the shockwave coming off whatever the monkey threw at me. I sway gently and breathe and settle back. It really pisses the monkey off. He bangs his gruesome chewtoy against the tree and shrieks.

From a distance, it was all just chatter. But I keep halving the distance between me and the center, compelled to get just a little closer, living my life on purpose and all that junk. And it must be a good sign to have gotten close enough to see just how scary this motherfucker is.

I think I have this right. I am no expert. I’m figuring these things out one at a time, and sometimes I find that I’ve figured a bunch of things wrong and I have to go back. It’s a slow and painstaking process, especially for me. I am a remedial student of life.

Damaged bad at best. Aren’t we all.

I can’t tell for sure, but it sounds like the monkey might be starting to talk. I am not close enough yet to make out words. I wonder what wonderful things he has to say. I wonder whose arm that is. I hope it’s not mine. I’m going to have to take it back if it’s mine, and I’d rather not touch that creature. He probably has fleas.

from sometime in march

2010-05-09T18:14:00.001-05:00

Maybe, maybe, maybe, you’ll find something that’s enough to keep you.

Yesterday, after an unremarkable yoga session, I hung upside down for a song and a half – six minutes or so. I like to rush just a little bit as I’m getting off the inversion table. I like the slightly dizzy feeling. Sometimes I find myself holding the wall, holding myself steady. I like the feel of the wall against my hand. Pressing against something that has no heartbeat reminds me that mine does not need to be quite so frantic. And I remember to breathe. And I feel something like gratitude.

There is a moment before I leave the yoga space, when everyone else is gone or leaving and I am alone. The lights are usually already off and as I gather whatever things I have brought, a water bottle, my ipod, I am sometimes aware of being in a bubble of peace. It only lasts until I open the door and let the rest of the building come flooding back, but that bubble waits for me to come back.

I sleep on the floor in my guest room now. I got tired of sleeping in the living room, and I really only use the guest room to store books and things I haven’t dealt with. But now I can sleep there. I don’t know what to do about my bed. I don’t know if I will get a new one. I may sleep on the floor forever.

Technically, I sleep on a yoga mat on the floor. Sometimes I even put a folded blanket under me, if my hip bones feel especially tender or if I feel I must curl up on my side. Lest you should accidentally think I am some kind of badass, sleeping on a hardwood floor, I must explain how I am really so spoiled.

Tonight I will go to my first drawing class. The mention of that causes a little flutter in my stomach. I’m nervous and excited. I hope it’s fun.

I am practicing saying things out loud. Everything sounds ridiculous and sometimes I get right up to the point of saying something and back out, turn the sentence another way. Sometimes it takes a running start at the fact and sometimes the words lodge in my throat, stubborn and sticky. I slip smaller words past them, abrading my throat but keeping the airway open, keeping the words coming out.

I railed against telling my history out loud to someone new. I clung to the idea that living it was enough, that the people who were there were the only people who really needed to know. But I have this curious need to be known. To be understood, even if understanding means disagreement or even contempt, rejection, disapproval. Because I can always pull it back. I can always reel myself back in.

Because I don’t really care what you think of me.

and the rest you can keep

2010-05-07T15:00:00.004-05:00

Elbow’s “Grounds for Divorce” reminds me of a dark parking lot. Splashing through puddles to whip my car into a spot, threading my car key onto my shoelace with my foot on the bumper. Downtown was hushed except for a bird or two. Maybe some crickets. I don’t remember the sounds much, just the smell of wet asphalt and freshly cut grass.

It felt furtive, sneaking away from the house before dawn, parking at my office but walking away from the building. I pressed a button on my stopwatch, forced myself to trudge out 5 minutes of walking.

I hate walking. It’s so slow and boring. It’s almost as bad as stretching.

When my 5 minutes were finally up, I let myself pick up the pace.

Past the dry cleaner with the lovely neon sign, around the curve where you have to pay attention (LOOK LEFT says the sidewalk), around again, under the bridge over the bridge past the graveyard and all I can think about is my breath, my feet, a muscle working here and there and I am focusing on breath control and I am here in a way that I am not usually here. Here. Present.

Meditation in motion. If I can find the right rhythm, when get to the right spot, the movement cradles me and that drill sergeant who yells in my head starts to get happy.

My head clears as much as it ever has, more than I’ve been able to clear it in meditation or exhaustion or with drugs or alcohol.

The clearest thought I can remember having is, “You deserve better.”

One of these days I might go get it.

Wherein Our Hero Quotes Herself and Swaggers.

2010-05-06T18:07:00.005-05:00

**this was supposed to post like a week ago or something. Regardless! This is what you were SUPPOSED to see here. A week ago. Or something.

No, that’s not really a swagger. It’s a bit of a limp.

Okay, maybe it’s a little bit of a swagger in my limp.

I miss being able to have a garden. It’s about the only thing I miss about the house. I love my apartment. I talk to it sometimes when I’m home by myself. “Hello, apartment I love so much. Is it time to eat dinner naked again? Kick ass.”

What? It’s my place, I can run around naked anytime I like. Be warned if you plan to pull that drop-in shit. Which I hate. By the way. Just so you know.

I like it that most people don’t know where I live. I love my apartment, but I love this feeling more. I may have to find another apartment to love in another few years, just to have this feeling again. Or just go full-on nomad. Live out of a backpack. Urban guerilla. I like the idea.

***

I do love the early impatient days of something new. Can’t wait for each new thing, hanging on his every word, oh, but this is different from all the others. I’ve never felt quite this way before. Every time.

I love the frantic gulps we take of each other, hungry and breathless in the grip of biology. Instinct says mate and we are only animals after all.

I love the stripping-down of reason, the objections fluttering down useless like my hands when they are not touching you, sliding inside your shirt with your tongue in my mouth and your hands in my hair.

The roar of my own blood in my ears deafens me.

Oh, I love this part. I’m always sorry when it is over.

***

Work’s going well. Nothing much to say there.

Jess and I are planning to spend her 30th birthday on a beach in Greece. Katalaveno ligo hellenica. Wait, except I’m a girl, so I think it’s different. Katalaven-something else. Maybe. Muy ligo. I mean. Shoot. Obviously, we’re taking a package tour.

I’ve taken my bed back. I’ve closed the nunnery. I don’t believe in God anyway.

I drink my coffee black these days. Cream and sugar taste funny now.

“He’s fucking perfect. I want to laminate him.”

I’m running short on time. It’s spring! We survived winter, man! Those cold dark days are gone, and just in time. I don’t know how much more snow and ice and miserable, face-freezing walks to work I could have taken!

So, the half marathon went pretty well. My chip time was 2:35 and change. I haven’t yet started keeping track of my race times. Well. Not seriously. For this one, I was just thrilled to finish. And I didn’t do too badly. Janky back and all.

I’ll be having lunch with the ex husband when he comes to town. Careful, Lacy. Remember, if you start a fight over this, he’s going to know you’re creeping on my blog. Think it over.

Hospice volunteering is going well. Nobody’s died on me yet. I go out once a week to hang out with the old folks. We chat. We watch tv. We play dominoes. I keep track of who likes what (and who has teeth) so I can take snacks.

There is other stuff in the works, but I am afraid of jinxing it with my stupid words, so I will just sit here with my excitement. Nearly bursting. Come hang out and I’ll tell you all about it over a big sloshy glass of wine.

Oh, yeah. Bring wine.

couple of bigmouths

2010-03-03T15:23:00.002-06:00

I miss her so much sometimes it's hard to breathe.

more things! less time!

2010-03-03T11:39:00.003-06:00

Hi. Sorry. I know I was supposed to update after seeing the chiropractor. I sort of led you on, there.

Sorry about that.

Um, okay, so. There was a whole fiasco involving all sorts of things and a parade and at one point dancing midgets juggling fire, and my chiropractor ended up being a dude.

I decided to go with it, but I was really unhappy about it.

Until I started feeling better.

Now I kind of feel like I should bake cookies for the whole office. The chiropractor's office, I mean. I was really bitchy on that first visit. Cranky and in pain and just walking around in a big cloud of skeptical suspicious glowering. Everyone there was sweet and kind and did not snap back at me. It's like they're used to dealing with people in pain or something. And really, they deserve cookies for that.

But I'll wait. I think I'm getting better, but I've only had one adjustment so far. I'm going in today for another adjustment, then one on Friday, and three times next week.

As far as I know, I'm still on target to run the half marathon. If all goes well and everything heals up.

I'm not to run for another 5 days, at least, according to the chiropractor. He said a week, that was Monday, so I'm hoping to pick it back up next Monday. That's right, right?

Meantime, I'm going to the gym with my sister and it's AWESOME.

There's this show? Called 16 & Pregnant? On MTV? It's like cupcakes for my brain.

And y'all know how I like cupcakes.

Oh, and the worky-outy part is great too. But oh my god this SHOW!

I didn't want to get off the elliptical, ever. As long as this show is on, I'm stuck. Glued. Fixated. Like a toddler watching the Teletubbies. It's all I can do to keep from going all slack-jawed and bug-eyed.

I love tv. That's why I don't have cable. I'd rot and die in my apartment, staring at the parade of human garbage until I became compost.

But at the gym, for $40 a month, I can go do things that aren't so rotty-and-die-y. Like, you know, work out.

I think $40 per month is cheaper than cable.

I think joining a gym is fiscally responsible.

As soon as the chiropractor stops taking all of my money.

Also, I miss running. But I feel like I've got enough going on right now to adequately distract me.

Oh, and the gym? Girls only! How neat is that?

On another note, the orchid my ex boyfriend sent me because he's a very sweet man and it was the anniversary of my mom's death and sending me something alive and beautiful was a very kind gesture? Remember that orchid? It won't fucking die. It's sent out a new spike, in an apparent attempt to rebloom or something. Every time I look at it, it reminds me that I failed to keep a decent relationship going AGAIN, but I can damn sure keep a plant alive.

Every day I think about pouring vinegar on it.

Let's just all breathe a collective sigh of relief that my ex and I didn't have any children.

Whew!

things i don't have time for

2010-02-26T13:00:00.001-06:00

I'm seeing a chiropractor on Monday. Like, in her office. Not like on a date.

My back's been raising a ruckus. A masseuse told me the problem is in my hip. I don't know if she's right or wrong, what the problem is, or even really where it originates. I just need it to stop. I'm not getting enough sleep -- see, I stretch and stretch and stretch until my back feels okay. Then I lie down and close my eyes, dropping instantly into a deep, comalike sleep. For about 30 minutes. 2 hours, tops. My back muscles tighten back up while I am sleeping. Tighter and tighter and tighter until the pain wakes me up. So I stretch and stretch and stretch. And I take some ibuprofen. And I pace around my apartment. When my back pain subsides, I lie back down. And the process begins again.

Just describing it makes me want to cry. It's maddening. I haven't run since last Saturday because I don't want to risk worsening the pain. As it is, when I get up and walk around, the pain subsides, leaving me stiff and sore but able to walk to work and sit at my desk all day (plus an hour of yoga at lunch 4 days a week). I'm not the most comfortable I've ever been, but I'm not, like, suffering.

I'm worried. What if this throws my training schedule off and I can't participate in the OKC Memorial Marathon? I've been training since early December. The run is 2 months away. I've already registered and secured a place on the RunnersWorldTulsa-sponsored party bus to OKC.

I got my new ipod and my new armband and Nike fit and the pouch for the Nike sensor for my shoe -- and I haven't gotten to run with my new contraption. Not even once. No fair.

Mostly I am just mad. I am walking around pissed off all the time because I'm afraid to run, my back hurts, I'm still off sugar, it's winter, my back hurts, I live in Oklahoma, wool is scratchy, my back hurts, John Mayer is still writing songs, I don't have a kitten -- okay, I'll stop. But really. I am one cranky-pantsed mofo. Let's hope the chiropractor can solve the back pain problem.

The rest of it, well, you know what the mama cat said when the kittens complained about the warmth of the milk.

it's an idea

2010-02-17T14:51:00.000-06:00

I'm giving up sugar for Lent.

No, I'm not really sure what Lent is. Is it Catholic specifically or a general Christian practice?

I might read up on it, if only to find out when it ends.

Sometimes I think I do these things out of boredom.

If I were a teenager, I'd for sure be the pregnant kind.

Oh, wait.

sugar sugar

2010-02-17T09:00:00.001-06:00

Apparently I'm a sugar junkie. This surprises me, since I don't eat a whole lot of processed foods or sweets.

Livestrong.com's Daily Plate food diary feature has shown me the error of my thinking. Well, at least one error. My sugar levels were consistently hitting 250% of the RDA, while all of my other levels were reasonable, even low. To look at the numbers, you'd think I was just eating sugar out of the bag. Mostly because of fruit.

I have always put real sugar in my coffee, figuring it was better to have a little sugar than use artificial sweetener and have a chemical bath in my stomach.

I had also upped my fruit intake recently, trying to get my 2 cups of fruit and 3 cups of veggies, as recommended by the latest government claptrap. I was eating a small banana in the morning and an apple in the afternoon or for a postrun snack.

Today I'm drinking coffee with 2 Splendas (hey, it's a big mug).

This morning the only fruit I ate was a small banana. I did not eat my Granny Smith apple yesterday because it looked like a giant sugar cube. Apple-shaped. Yes, a cube can be apple-shaped in my world. Are you new?

My sugar level, according to livestrong.com, is okay.

My will to live? Not so much.

I love sugar.

Maybe I'm just destined to be diabetic.

Maybe I'll be happier with one foot.

Or no feet!

Who needs feet?

And don't bring up running. I can run without feet.

Splenda has reduced my level of coffee enjoyment by about 15%.

Since I take my pleasures seriously, this darkens my overall mood by about 25%.

Please don't check my math. I'm afraid it might drive me to suicide.

Oh, sugar. I miss you so.

what did the ghost say to the bee?

2010-02-15T15:23:00.001-06:00

So apparently I've been starving my breasts my whole life. My whole 36B life.

Training for a half marathon has made me hungry.

So I eat. And for the first time in my life, I'm carefully calculating calories (woo alliteration! Ahem. Sorry. As you were). I'm choosing food for its nutritional content. I'm eating well.

And suddenly I've got bazooms. It's embarrassing. I tried on bras yesterday at a couple of stores and found that I think, I'm pretty sure, I can smoosh these puppies into a 36C. There's minimal spillover if I hold my breath just right and don't move too much. In a 36C. Because to buy an even bigger size is just beyond embarrassing.

I know it shouldn't matter.

But it does.

I should probably go get fitted. But I haven't yet mustered up the courage to deal with that level of humiliation.

Besides, what if they just keep growing?

Then I'll have to get fitted AGAIN.

Oh god and what if they keep growing after that.

I'll be the boob monster.

Oh, and the ghost said to the bee, "Boo, bee."

Get it?

Yeah, I'm done.

(In case it's not clear, I actually find this whole thing hilarious when I step back a little. From my giant blobs of breastflesh. Yeah.)

wa wa wa wa wonder

2010-02-11T11:28:00.002-06:00

This week may be one of those rare (up to now) 4-run weeks. Normally, I get 2 in during the week, then the long run on Saturday.

My Del Shannon station on Slacker radio has now brought me "Return to Sender." It's another one of those songs, like "Runaway," that I remember from Disney cartoons when I was a kid. I loved those cartoon videos more than MTV -- the videos on MTV were for the older kids. But don't get me wrong. I wanted my MTV.

Satellite television let me sneak music into the house when my dad wasn't around. Course, it was also good for porn. Music and pornography were about equally fascinating to my seven-year-old self.

But that's another story.

Is it weird, is it American, is it Midwestern -- where does it belong, this Puritanical fear of sexuality? Is it an Oklahoma thing? No, that can't be right. I remember living in the South and making fun of the way a girl I knew would whisper when talk turned to anything, you know, down there. Hey, I never said I was nice.

Vagina vagina vagina. I feel better. Okay. What were we talking about?

So I've discovered this livestrong.com thing where you can keep a food diary and track your activity and whatnot and I am SHOCKED at the amount of sugar I'm consuming. And I don't eat much processed food at all! Most of my sugar is coming from fruit. Raisins, man. The raisins are conspiring to make me diabetic.

Wait, are raisins considered "processed," now that I think of it? I mean, they're dried. Drying is a process.

Life was so much simpler when I just ate everything I saw and never gained any weight. Screw this getting old bullshit, man.

I've never kept a food diary. It seemed like so much work. But it's fascinating to type in what I'm eating and see the cumulative calories and carbs and all that nonsense. It helps that this website calculates all of that for me. I'm lazy. I'll run the miles. It's planning the route that hurts my brain.

Also, I still need to get out of town. Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa, there's a cheap motel with a chocolate cake, a bottle of wine and -- you know what? You can keep the new love. I'm really more interested in the cake.

*I just realized, hours after writing this, that chocolate cake and red wine are my home remedy for brokenheartedness. And that makes me want to cry for my poor little heart, who is apparently broken but still chugging along like the Little Engine that Could. C'mon, Heartfaced Monster! 4 miles tonight. Maybe we'll get some cake later.

even if you set my house on fire

2010-02-09T09:19:00.000-06:00

Ran four miles last night in the freezing rain.

Woke up this morning with, of all things, "Cracklin' Rosie" by Neil Diamond stuck in my head.

Ain't nothing here that I care to take along.

My subconscious knows I am dense and slow and

(These things take forever I especially am slow)

when I stop writing my morning pages, find excuses to avoid meditation, blast pop radio instead of listening to my breath when I run, my subconscious gets loud. And obvious. Board-upside-the-head obvious.

The songs that get stuck in my head make me laugh. My subconscious sends up semaphores and flares and rattles its cage and finally I get it.

I get it.

(Even if you're haul, even if you're ass, even if you're superfast)

My car's name is Rosie. Thank you, Mr. Diamond, sir.

I gotta get out of town.

Oh, I love my Rosie child.

*lyrics from Neil Diamond, Bright Eyes and Dynamite Hack songs. I'm sure you were dying to know.

today

2010-02-04T14:40:00.001-06:00

Today is the blogger meetup at Joe Momma's.

I guess this thing that I'm doing right here makes me qualified.

I don't refer to myself as a blogger. I sometimes tell people that I have a blog. Sort of like how I don't really say I'm a runner. I just run.

Is it a dodge? Maybe. I should practice in front of a mirror. Blogger, blogger, runner. Nonsmoker! I'm all sorts of -ers.

I'm also an eater and a sleeper.

Getting good at this already.

It's been an angry week for me. Ever have old irritations resurface? Like, stuff you thought you'd let go of a long time ago comes bubbling back up and you wish you still had your old address book so you could call up that one ex boyfriend of yours to tell him that his pot belly was not, in fact, cute and he grossed you out there at the end with his skinny little twig legs and his pot belly protruding?

Ahem. You know, for instance.

I mean, it's been YEARS since I broke up with that guy.

It's a good thing I'll be meeting new people tonight. Even if we all decide to be New Best Friends for Life, it'll be years before I write mean things about y'all. I mean, them.

Well, really, I mean y'all. You're coming, right?

Blue Duck, I hear you made great glue.

2010-02-01T11:00:00.003-06:00

After running 6 miles on Saturday morning, I took a 3 hour nap.

Woke up with a powerful craving for pizza and wine.

And a car covered in a layer of ice a quarter of an inch thick.

I spent an hour and a half chiseling ice off my car.

Then I braved the roads.

What I found at Good Spirits, over at 51st and Harvard, made me forget my bloody knuckles.

Frei Brothers merlot.

I love merlot. Screw you for judging me.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good pinot noir. But I've had so many BAD pinot noirs, you know?

Merlot's not persnickety.

Merlot isn't a religious experience the way a good pinot noir can be.

Merlot is no race horse.

Merlot is more like the mule I rode down into the Grand Canyon.

Nothing pretentious or flashy about it.

Just a solid good time.

And my knuckles have stopped aching from the deathgrip I had on the wheel.

And yes, "a solid good time," includes Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's On Death and Dying. Also, How to Survive the Loss of a Love is a beautiful balm.

Dear Mother Nature,

2010-01-29T13:12:00.001-06:00

I refuse to be excited about your recent "Winter Wonderland" theme.

I wish you would just take it back already.

Seriously, give the snow to someone else.

And while you're taking orders from me, I'd like less goose poo on my jogging trail, okay? It's gross. Goose poo is gross.

If you'll only take one, I'll stick with the "NO SNOW KTHX" one. Okay?

Whaddya want, like a dance around a Maypole or something? Name your price.

You're the bestest.

because there is an ice storm coming

2010-01-27T14:42:00.000-06:00

I think I will run tonight so that I don't have to worry about it tomorrow.

I think I will skip meditation. Again.

Because I can't get 4 miles in, get showered and get over to the meditation place in less than an hour. I'm just not there yet. And I like to have some light while I run, at least.

I am getting somewhere with yoga. Warrior one to warrior three was impossible last Monday. We all laughed. We grabbed blocks, we held the wall, we laughed some more. Today I swept forward and my back leg floated up. It happened so naturally, I almost forgot to be surprised. Then I wobbled dangerously and laughed.

Our yoga space smells like crayons. When no one is around in the outer rooms and I am the first to leave, I run fast through the long room in my socks, enjoying the last moments before I have to put my work clothes back on and go back to my regular life with my regular desk job.

I don't know what other people think during yoga. Most of the time, I am not thinking at all. Or it's more like, "Foot foot foot hamstring hamstring foot ankle foot foot." Not much internal dialogue.

Maybe that's why I like it. Because when I am hanging like a rag doll and my kneecaps are in my eye sockets and I am warming the fronts of my legs with my breath, I am free.

Savasana always comes too soon.

drink tequila and look for seashells

2010-01-19T11:07:00.003-06:00

I had a little meltdown on Sunday. I've been thinking about getting a cat, see, and I recently heard about these 3 cats whose owner has passed away and I thought, Wouldn't it be great to keep all three cats together? And I totally have the room. And I miss having a cat.

After much hemming and hawing and thinking and talking and listening and thinking some more, I finally called the place where the cats were boarded and made an appointment to go meet the cats and chat with the owner of the place, who would also be checking my vet references and generally scrutinizing me and determining whether I would make a good pet parent.

Something was off, and I knew it as soon as I hung up the phone. I paced around my house feeling like I had made a mistake. I can't explain the feeling, I just know it overwhelmed me. I cried so hard, for so long, at the idea of bringing a new cat into my house, that I can't help but think I'm really not ready for a new pet. I called the lady back the next day and cancelled our appointment.

Hey, Moses's picture is still my blog avatar. See him up there, helping me make Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago? Apparently I'm not over the crotchety son of a bitch. Who has been dead for more than a year.

Damn cats anyway.

Bowling balls for world peace and half marathon training

2010-01-19T08:54:00.002-06:00

Yup, that's what it looks like. It's over by the flea market on Admiral if you want to go see it for yourself.

My running shoes are GIGANTIC! I like to call my feet Drag Queen Lite. Also Fabulous Lite. They're getting more fabulous by the day.

I'm officially training for a half marathon. Come April, I plan to run 13.1 miles in the 10th Annual Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon.

Last Saturday, I ran 7 miles. I'm still giddy and proud. Those shoes up there were purchased later that day.

Runners World in Tulsa is providing the training, free! How cool is that? I bought my shoes there. Seemed like the right thing to do. It was odd to have someone putting shoes on my feet, having me run up and down the sidewalk, listening to my concerns and offering advice -- so different from the last time I bought running shoes. At a big box sporting goods store, even when the salespeople are nice, you're pretty much on your own. I prefer the Runners World experience. I think my feet deserve it.

I picked this up on my run leader's advice. So far it's making lots and lots of sense.

Tonight I'll skip my scheduled run so I can go to hospice volunteer training. I'm ever closer to hanging out with old people. Wish me luck!

How are you, pumpkin?

homemade chicken pot pie

2010-01-14T11:20:00.003-06:00

Oh! I forgot to take a picture before I started baking it!

And hell yes, I marked it with a K.

Bubbling goodness. And H-O-T!

Okay, I'm really going to cut into this now.

A little violently, actually.

Oh look, one of the K's legs fell off. Shame to let it go to waste.

OM NOM NOM!

Chicken pot pie, meet Bowl.

Bowl, don't get too comfortable with your new occupant.

Oh no, we're going back for another scoop.

Gracious.

I chose this photo because it's the only one that didn't make me look 1/8 of a chicken pot pie fatter.

You're welcome.

I didn't spit on it or nothin'

2010-01-13T16:21:00.001-06:00

My bamboo is dying. What should I do?

In other plant news, I've decided to grow mango trees. And tangelo trees. But mostly it's about the mango trees.

Is anybody else exhausted beyond all reason and wishing for naptime all day? I feel like I'm supposed to be hibernating or something. All I want to do is eat and sleep.

But I run anyway.

the best things about winter

2010-01-05T14:30:00.001-06:00

Crunchy Oat Pecan Cranberry Orange Coconut Muffins.

Jigsaw puzzle with coffee and popcorn.

Books in the mail! I love PaperBackSwap!

Spumante, or as we like to call it, screwtop champagne.

You'd better believe I bought this lamp. I smile every time I look at it.

The scarf I made for my sister.

The movies I checked out from the library for Staycation 2009-2010.

Thrift store books. Nothing better.

Best food ever.

melao

2009-12-11T09:44:00.000-06:00

"Baby" was my favorite love song for a long time. Portastatic did it, but I don't know where it came from. The Portuguese songs always confused me. In a pleasant way.

Baby is also the name of my brother's wife's dog. She's a Pomeranian, a bundle of energy. She jumps up in my lap every time I sit down at their place. If I don't sit down, she bounces on the floor next to me. So I usually sit. I pet her while I make small talk. Her fur is tangled and matted. Fleas crawl over my fingers while I try to work out knots.

My brother offers to sell her to me for a hundred dollars every time he sees me. "She's a purebred," he says, every time. "She's got papers." I ask him where his papers are. He misunderstands and looks excited for a second before he realizes I am making a joke.

I don't know what it means, this thing people say when they talk about how much a dog is worth. Papers. I have yet to see a single piece of paper about a single dog, unless you count the "Please Adopt Me" section of the newspaper. And I doubt that's what people mean. But "papers" is a noun. It's a thing. It exists. Where do these mysterious papers come from? Where do people keep them? Who keeps track?

A hundred dollars, my brother says. Baby licks my hand and whimpers. I tell her not to give it up so easily. Play a little hard to get. She misunderstands my joke and wiggles happily, trying her best to lick my face.

One year ago today, I smoked my last cigarette. I have not smoked in one whole year. Last year, at the company Christmas party, I ducked outside to smoke. This year I get to stay warm. The Christmas party will be in the same place as last year, on its own anniversary. And here everything has changed.

When I leave my brother's house, I always smell like smoke.

it's a groucho marx sort of club

2009-12-10T17:03:00.001-06:00

I need to update my links list. Get a blogroll going. Do some housekeeping stuff around the blog.

Please let me know if you would like me to link you.

I will be cleaning out my lists, getting rid of broken links and references to websites that are no longer updated regularly.

Hey, if you have a favorite blog or website or downtown bar (just kidding), let me know about that, too! I mean, if you're down with sharing. It's cool if you're not. Just don't be a jerk about it. Don't email me all, "I read this AWESOME blog every DAY and I'm not going to tell you what it is." You won't be getting any Christmas cookies from me acting like that.

On second thought, maybe I'm not-so-just-kidding about the downtown bar. Hey, a girl's gotta drink. Apparently.

So, yeah. Interact with me. It'll be cool.

You can reach me by commenting here, but I am also available by email, twitter, FaceBook, U.S. Mail and carrier pigeon. Send any pigeons BEFORE I get a cat. Kthx.

in which the bed became a raft I used to sail to Cuba

2009-12-09T15:55:00.001-06:00

I went home sick the other day. I waited until five, then bolted for home. Thought I was going to throw up. Thought I was going to come apart. My head was spinning and nausea rolled through me in waves, leaving me shivering and shaky.

Something I ate? Something I drank? A doorknob I touched, maybe?

I don't know. Staying upright when I wanted to fold in half was exhausting. All I could think about was being warm in bed. If I could make it to my bed, I could pass out. It wouldn't matter, because I'd already be in bed. Passing out would be like sleeping. My stomach felt like it was doing backflips, but really deep breaths held it almost still.

I made it home. Dropped my backpack in the dining room and dove into bed with all my clothes on. Curled up in a tight ball and let the room rock. Thought about getting up to get my mop bucket. Decided I'd rather clean puke off a hardwood floor later than get up right away and cross that cold floor to the broom closet.

And that's about the last thing I remember. The room spun and I shut my eyes. When I opened them again, two hours had passed and so had the nausea. I sat up tentatively. Stretched. I felt, for reasons I can't explain, like I had gotten away with some kind of mischief. I padded to the refrigerator and drank ginger ale straight from the two-liter bottle.

Then I finished reading Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down and sat stunned and stupid for awhile like I always do when someone shows me they know where I've been.

The parts that made me cry -- Maureen is an old lady who tries very hard not to come off like she's complaining. She'd rather not talk about something horrible, even if it's true, because she doesn't want people pitying her and ruining their own good time. I know, I know. I mean, poor little martyr, right? But I think calling her a martyr would be missing the point. She's not passive-aggressive. There's no aggression to it.

(Character-in-the-book Jess, not my sister) Jess lost her sister, sort of literally. So you have someone dealing with grief and loss without closure. I had typed "someone unequipped to deal" and backspaced because nobody is equipped to deal with grief. Sorry. We're just not. We make tools and we equip ourselves, same as cavemen.

I don't really like to talk about it, because it's hard to talk about it without bringing people down. So I use as few words as I can and it still comes up to too many because if there's one thing I suck at, it's being concise.

"I was suicidal. For like, a couple of years."

And when I go on and try to explain -- I'm okay now -- shit piled up, you know? Maybe you do. Maybe you don't. My marriage fell apart. I lost the job I valued too much. My mom got cancer and then died.

"I couldn't figure out a way to do it without hurting people I loved. Maybe that's why I'm alive."

I had a plan, but it was not exactly right. I could never quite work out all the kinks. I tried. I tried really hard. It just never quite made sense.

You know what's funny? I know exactly how to do it now. And I'm not suicidal anymore.

Hilarious.

But that's not all!

You know what else is funny? In the months leading out of that -- I don't even know what to call it. People seem to want me to define it in sharp contrast to my life now, and I'm not sure I can do that. It wasn't a, "black, horrible, deep depression." It was more of a muted, muffled, glazed-over sort of thing.

It's like if you were on a path through the woods, and your whole life had been lived on this path, but one day you look down and there's no path under you and you're just fucking LOST. And you might panic for a while, or you might not, but you spend however long wandering through this fucking forest that's maybe even kind of a cool place but if you don't get out you will DIE. You might starve. You might die of exposure. You might get eaten by a bear. I don't know. And you become less and less panicked until you are only curious. You wonder if you will make it out with your bloody feet and your ribs poking out because of course you didn't pack a lunch or wear proper shoes. And then you find the path again.

I'm sorry I can't do better than that. But! In the months that passed while the, I don't know, FOG receded, I remember realizing I was getting better. That's not the funny part. The funny part is, it was when I started being afraid of things that would hurt me that I realized I didn't want to be dead anymore.

I began to test myself. I'd hear a noise and think, "Uh-oh. Axe murderer? Crazy methhead? Vampires? Zombies? EX BOYFRIEND?" like you do. And I would ask myself what I would do if it were true. Would I fight whatever monster might be scratching at the door, or would I shrug and let it do my dirty work for me?

Believe it or not, being scared caused the first little glimmer of hope I'd seen in a very long time.

I don't know if that's normal or not. I'm okay with it if it's not. Not everybody cares as much about zombies as I do.

A few people got really angry with me about it when I told them, so I mostly stopped talking about it. The suicidal bit, I mean. And I still think it's kind of funny. Being angry with someone for how they feel. I guess we do it more than we think, though. Get angry with people for not loving us the way we love them. Get pissed off because someone doesn't love a song the way you do, doesn't GET IT, how you can hear all the emotion and soul that went into this one recording, I mean, are you really listening to this? How do you not hear that?

Or maybe it's just me.

like trying to hide the daylight from the sun (and a coke)

2009-11-25T13:21:00.003-06:00

I used to have a long silk patchwork skirt. I loved that skirt. I gave it up because I'd had it for a long time.

Sometimes my reasons don't make sense. I had it for a long time because I loved it. I gave it to Goodwill because I'd had it for a long time.

I remember the feel of it against my legs, the silk warm from the sun. I miss that skirt. This song reminds me of that skirt in a parking garage overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. I don't know why. I didn't know this song then.

Last night I wanted to smoke. I'm a little bothered by that. I didn't smoke, but I wanted to. I don't usually.

My mom used to keep a cover on her mixer. The cover had a chicken on it. What the hell is up with all these chickens in the kitchen? Chickens stink! I mean, okay, we eat them. And their eggs. And I might have a chicken foot stashed somewhere to guard against bad luck. Shut up, I'm not superstitious. I said I MIGHT have a chicken foot. I might not, too.

I still don't get why images of chickens are such a popular kitchen decoration.

I wonder what happened to that mixer cover.

The words were like smooth stones falling out of my mouth, "I lost my mom a few years ago."

It was the first time I felt like I didn't have to unzip my skin and show people my guts just by mentioning my mom. "Here are the intestines, see this messy bundle here, oh yes I still have my appendix..."

I felt like I finally maybe was getting some control back. It was a curiously exciting moment. Grief, man. Tears you right up. Changes everything.

Or maybe I should say losing your mom changes everything.

I don't know your mom or anything, and I wouldn't want to boss you around, but maybe you should call her.

When my ex husband told me he had made a mistake by leaving me, I gave him my sympathy and it did not occur to me that he might be asking me back. I still don't think he was. I mean, probably not. It's not his way. The part that surprised me was my reaction. My lack of reaction. My own monkey mind didn't grab that little piece of information, that piece that would have changed everything once upon a time, maybe. I didn't start imagining our future together again for the millionth time. I didn't conjure up the faces of the children we meant to have. Hope did not explode like a Roman candle going up. I simply sympathized, because of course it was a mistake. I'm awesome. And I've made mistakes myself, so I know what it's like to realize you've fucked up and kick yourself.

He may as well have said he regretted buying skim milk instead of two percent. He confessed his mistake as something he would have to live with. Except maybe longer than it takes to get through a gallon of milk.

Or maybe not. You never really know what's in another person's head, do you?

Sometimes my own grown-up-ness amazes me. Sometimes the thing that amazes me is how excruciatingly slow I am. But I'm glad for my response. I'm glad I told him I was happy.

Happier than I've been in a long time, I said. And I meant it. And I am.

Whoa. I know, right?

because the coffeeshop is closed on sundays

2009-11-24T11:15:00.002-06:00

Sunday morning, my box of coffee singles was empty. I made myself a cup of tea and gnashed my teeth.

Coffee singles barely even count as coffee anyway, I told myself. You've been meaning to get some good coffee beans, I told myself. Mr. Bretz shouldn't have to drink swill, I said. Go get some beans.

The Route 66 Marathon had my neighborhood pretty locked down. Not that I minded. I envied the runners and thought to myself, maybe next year. Maybe, realistically, I'll be ready to do a half marathon next year. Maybe.

In the meantime, I settled for walking to the nearest coffeeshop, only to find it closed on Sundays. How sad.

My nephew spent the weekend with me, so he walked with me and we gawked at classic cars on our way home. It made the trip worthwhile. It's good to see him happy. Shit, it's good to hug him and not smell cigarette smoke in his hair. He thinks I really like doing laundry. Truth is, the smell of smoke on his clothes is so strong, I can still smell it for hours after I take him home, if I don't wash all of his clothes. Even after a shower, the smoke smell clings to him.

But I've always had a really sharp sense of smell.

He's still impressed with the red convertible. He put on his "cool" face when we got to his neighborhood. A loose knot of tattooed shirtless men stood outside a ramshackle house, staring blankly. They said nothing as they watched us go by. I watched them watching us out of the corner of my eye.

The pit bull who barked ferociously at me on Friday greeted me exuberantly on Sunday. I reflexively closed my free hand into a fist. Not to hit the dog, mind you. No, I closed my hand because every time that dog runs at me, I can feel his teeth clamping down on my hand again and this time, he doesn't let go. This time, I don't keep my fingers. So I made a fist. Lesson learned.

The door was closed. Do pot smokers close their doors to hide the fact that they're smoking pot, or to keep all the smoke inside so they can breathe it? I've never quite been able to figure that one out. On a nice day, in a neighborhood where no one has air conditioning, a closed door screams, "Illicit activity happening here!"

Or maybe that's just me.

hooray, it's a bunch of photos!

2009-11-13T10:37:00.000-06:00

I don't mind moving. I am that sort of freakish. I kind of like the process of sorting through my possessions, arranging things into easily-carried parcels, pausing to remember why a particular item is important or no longer important.

There is always a shedding of no-longer-wanted items. This time, we had a yard sale, then hauled what didn't sell to Goodwill.

I come from a family of packrats. They're not hoarders, quite, but close. You know? It is a reaction to the chaos and confusion of the piles and piles of STUFF I saw all the time as a kid that causes me to get uneasy at the thought of acquiring more things.

You can find weird stuff at Lowe's.

Sidenote, cleaning out my phone, I found this.

I wouldn't want to deal with the horrors of that job. But I'm really glad someone is out there doing it.

Acquiring new things is tricky. Books, I bring home by the armload. They get a pass. They were the first thing I unpacked in my new apartment.

Other things, well, they have to be special. They have to be my favorite.

I love this chicken chair.

Also, I bought myself a cookbook for my birthday.

Also, the cold I started coming down with the day I ran this:

Is finally letting go of me. Thank goodness. I actually wore my "Tasha Does Tulsa Run" shirt, but I don't have any pictures of that. Sorry. How are you? Let's get some coffee.

songs i get stuck in my head all the time

2009-11-09T13:48:00.003-06:00

"For My Broken Heart," by Reba McEntire. Anytime I carry a box, I get that song stuck in my head. I carried a lot of boxes this weekend. With no angry words at all. And the sun didn't blind me as it broke me from the night, but Reba wailed the hell out of that song as one by one I put those boxes in my car.

"Bad Touch," by Bloodhound Gang. It all started when I realized I'd have to buy a mop and bucket...

~~"Meet Virginia,"~~ I mean "Drops of Jupiter," by Train. Something about the lines, "Did you fall for a shooting star, one without a permanent scar..." because I am clumsy and I gesture a lot and sometimes when I'm waving my hands around I forget that I am holding a boxcutter. Ouch.

something about being rewarded for hard work or something.

2009-11-04T08:56:00.002-06:00

inertia/momentum

2009-11-04T08:30:00.000-06:00

I stood in the living room and yelled about how if I didn't get out right now, I could lose my momentum. It made him stop and squint at me and cock his head to the side and ask me what I meant by that, but I was flinging my hands around and pacing and trying to outrun the knot in my stomach.

I lived with that knot for years. I put it there.

If I just kept moving, I thought I might keep from being crushed.

Turns out it doesn't work that way. Nothing is as bad as you think it might be. Sometimes, it's worse.

Even "worse" is better than the dread, though. You know?

And that was years ago. Years and years. We're both okay now, I think. I know I am. I hope he is too, somewhere on the planet. But it's none of my business anymore, and I'm all right with that.

Saturday afternoon, I sat on the porch swing for a while by myself. I looked out across the lawn I mowed so many times. I thought about the tulips Jess and I planted a couple of years ago. Pink and black. We planted hyacinths too. I transplanted some irises and lilies and Jess put in mini hostas over by the sidewalk. We planted morning glories to climb the trees. I planted columbine seeds, but they never amounted to much. Same for my nasturtiums.

I wondered if I should leave a note for the new occupant. "Front flower bed contains tulip and hyacinth bulbs. Also lilies. Please be careful when digging. Skinny little long-legged cat who comes around, his name is Apples, but the neighbors renamed him Boots. He is violent, but he means well. Please be careful when petting him. Feel free to remove the raised beds in the back yard. Just please don't tell me you did so. Please take care of the floors in this house. I recommend mopping with Murphy's oil soap once a week, sweeping as often as necessary and cleaning up spills immediately. Please call me with any questions -- " the note was neverending, so I never wrote it down. The new occupant will figure it out just like we did.

Inside the house, the floors were gleaming. The rooms were empty, just like the day we moved in.

I guess on the day you move out, you can't help but think about the day you moved in.

It felt familiar, that excited hopeful anticipation. But it was different. I wasn't smoking, for one thing, sitting on the porch swing looking out across the lawn on Saturday afternoon.

That's still a little weird for me sometimes, the not smoking. It's a good weird, though. And I quit almost a year ago. Eventually, maybe, I'll get used to it.

Moving in, years ago, I was hopeful and excited, but I was also angry. Bitter. I walked around in a rage-cloud for weeks. Months, maybe. I saw red, red, red, everywhere I looked.

Canta Lok en el obscura region desolada
y hay vapores de sangre en el canto de Lok.

Mists of blood.

But I digress.

Moving out is better than moving in. I will miss the house. I loved that house. I loved living in it. It offered a sanctuary, a refuge, when Jess and I needed one. And now we are done being refugees. We have found our footing and we are ready to move on with the rest of our lives, separately. Finally.

I thanked the landlord. He thanked me. Then he forked over my deposit and we went our separate ways.

And I am happy now, moving forward.

goodbye, house.

2009-11-02T14:46:00.000-06:00

Last look. November 1, 2009.

the Berenstain Bears fucked up apples for me, forever.

2009-11-02T14:17:00.003-06:00

I don't even remember which book it was.

See, I love apples. Especially Braeburns and Jonathans. Tart, crisp and delicious, I'll eat them cooked or raw, baked in pies and tarts and cobblers, by themselves, chopped up in tuna salad -- apples are delicious.

I have a bag of Jonathan apples sitting on my desk right now, actually. For sharing.

But you know what you'll never see? Me biting right into an apple. When I want an apple, I take it down to the kitchen, quarter it and cut out the core. THEN I eat it.

You know why? Because of a Berenstain Bears book I read when I was a kid. One of the old bears was teaching one of the young bears a lesson, something like you can't judge people based on appearances or some hogwash like that, and to demonstrate, the old granny bear cut open a perfectly good looking apple. It had a worm inside. A green cartoon wiggly worm.

How she knew the worm would be in that apple, I still don't know. How did she KNOW? It plagues me.

From that day forward, I regarded apples with suspicion. To this day, actually. True, I have never found a worm in an apple, and I've eaten a lot of apples. But I keep thinking the SECOND I let my guard down, it's gonna happen. So I cut them open every time.

Also, to this day? I resent the hell out of the Berenstain Bears. Who are ugly. You can't trust ugly bears. Or people.

general optimism

2009-10-28T12:34:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it's not so bad having a dead mom. Like when you're texting your boyfriend filthy things, you never have to worry that you're going to accidentally send it to your mom. You know?

Thanks, cancer!

lucky

2009-10-26T15:10:00.001-05:00

My life is a pretty easy one.

I have a good job working for a company I admire. I work with good people. We have a good time and we take pretty good care of each other.

I have good friends who make me laugh and call me on my bullshit and let me take care of them a little and help me when I need it.

I have a boyfriend I really, really like. And he likes me too! Crazy.

I'm healthy. I run. I eat a lot of fruit and I get enough sleep and I've run a 5k or two in my time -- the Tulsa Run is coming up, and I'll be running that one. You should come out. I'll also be moving that weekend, so you should definitely come help with that! Just kidding. I think we've got it under control, the whole moving thing.

But it's a nice little life, this life of mine.

When you're as lucky as I am and your life is as easy as mine, sometimes you have to look around and find something to do to help.

When someone puts a delicious meal in front of you and tells you rollicking stories while keeping your wine glass full, it makes sense to offer to help wash the dishes. You know?

So I am excited to have an opportunity to give something back. I'm looking forward to working with a local hospice, volunteering to hang out with some older folks who might not have the same luck I've had. Maybe I'll get a look at my future. Maybe I'll just paint some fingernails.

I'm excited about it. I'm looking forward to putting some good energy back out into the universe. This universe has been really good to me. It's about time I thanked it properly.

Let's see how this goes!

my phone takes pictures.

2009-10-23T09:54:00.000-05:00

A woman broke down crying after meditation class last night. Big loud sobs. The instructor was coming around, giving hugs.

She asked me the first time if I'd allow it. I was surprised. I had my back to her, picking up my stuff, getting ready to leave, not really paying attention as she went around hugging everyone. She got to me and said, "Kate? Do you hug?" I straightened up and blinked.

"Yeah, I do hugs."

And we hugged and I laughed and she laughed and I thought the whole thing was pretty sweet.

Last night, I wrote down the address for the next class. Now I have to decide between ballroom dancing and meditation, Thursday nights. Or try to do both. Both on the same night?

We all waited for the woman to stop crying. The instructor hugged her, patting her back. People murmured soothing things.

I don't know what set her to her crying. But we were in a church. There are worse places to break down. You know?

Wasps are trying to colonize the house. I've tried to explain, gently, that our landlord has already found a new renter. The wasps keep showing up, buzzing softly, knocking into light fixtures. I think they are looking for a warm place to spend the winter. A safe place. I don't know how to tell them to keep looking. They don't listen anyway.

Illustrations. My orchid is still hanging in there. Two blooms left, and three fallen comrades lined up on the windowsill. I'm not the sort to save flowers. I don't keep much sentimental crap around in general. Normally, I just accidentally keep ticket stubs -- oh. Look at this. It's been riding around in the outside pocket of my backpack ever since I got back. And it's already back.

I never said I wasn't sentimental. Just that I don't keep a lot of sentimental crap around.

What else we got in here? The poster on my boss's wall. Our pranks are important to us, round these parts.

Ivan is an aggressively affectionate cat. His giant gorilla-face is frequently the last thing you see before there's cat hair in your nose and claws caught in your hair and, well. Ivan Himself. Purring in your face because he has conquered you. Do my toes look fat in that picture?

The cabinet above my desk is my mini-pantry. It's much healthier than the snack cabinet down in the kitchen. If you're ever downtown and starving and can get past security, I'll share my snacks with you.

I'm just kidding. We don't really have "security."

I like board games. Also, I was showing Mr. Bretz what his board game options will be when he comes to Tulsa to visit me.

Hear that? When he comes to Tulsa to visit me?

Oh, and the book. So I'm interested in having a GOOD relationship. Even if it takes a self-help book or two. I'll let you know how it turns out.

tea towels

2009-10-22T09:31:00.000-05:00

I don't know if my mom made these. I found them when Jess and I cleaned out the garage.

We dealt with the last of Mom's things.

Finally, right?

I'm dealing with these by washing them, folding them and putting them in a kitchen drawer.

I traced the stitches with my fingers. I stared at them like I could read them. My mom sewed a lot, see, more than she wrote. Her handwriting is instantly recognizable to me, so why shouldn't there be a tell in her stitches?

Maybe I just don't know how to read embroidery.

I'll keep the tea towels anyway.

They're useful.

trust me.

2009-10-20T15:56:00.003-05:00

I don't smoke anymore. I don't drink nearly as much as I used to. I don't sleep around. I'm all about monogamy. Plus, I really like my boyfriend. I don't indulge in recreational drugs. Most nights, I'm in bed way before midnight. I have learned my life lessons, and I learned 'em good. Mostly. So it surprises me when a new friend mentions one of her other friends and what pops into mind (and almost but not quite out of my mouth) is, "Oh, I know her! I fucked her husband!" I apologize. I did bad things a long time ago. I'm much better behaved these days. I promise. I didn't say it out loud, so I'm counting that as progress.

nice and spicy, just like my mother's 2009-10-16T09:12:00.006-05:00 I have been trying to come up with a reasonable plan for skipping winter. Since moving to a tropical island is out of my price range, it's probably a good idea to make peace with the season. Let's think of some GOOD things about winter. Anything? Anything at all? Okay, fuck that. Let's eat some goulash. coffee for my notions. 2009-10-15T09:23:00.006-05:00 I signed a lease yesterday. I put a deposit down on an apartment. I agreed to stay in Tulsa one more year. I put it in writing. I hadn't planned on leaving, mind you. But I hadn't thought about whether I wanted to stay. Or whether I wanted to leave. So I did some thinking. And some packing. And some sorting and some more thinking. And I started putting things into a pile of stuff to sell in a yard sale. And I found myself picking things up and holding them, squeezing them, saying goodbye to them. Goodbye, my clunky filing cabinet that used to have the squeaky drawer until I fixed it. Goodbye, my shoes that hurt my feet and didn't really look all that great, really, since I was always limping when I wore them. Goodbye, my unflattering sweater I kept for so long because it looked like the sort of thing the person I used to think I wanted to be would wear. I wasn't her. It didn't fit. I'm done with that part now. I'm moving on to something else. I'm excited. I'm nervous. I'm apprehensive. The new place has a dishwasher. Modern luxuries boggle me. The new place is all mine. But my sister's new place is just a few blocks away. A few blocks of public space between our two distinct private spaces. Deep down, wrapped around my spine where all my basic truths live, the notion that this is a beautiful beginning has opened sleepy eyes. Hi, I missed you. Me and Mr. Bretz. And some other stuff. 2009-10-14T13:35:00.025-05:00 omg tahoe. I like this one because it shows where we sat and I am a dork. I like this one because I feel it is an accurate representation of me and Mr. Bretz. SLC airport. Yeah, these are in no particular order. Sort of reverse order. Poorly shuffled. Like an old iPod. Leaving Tulsa. I know that because I was excited enough to be taking pictures. On the way back, not so much. The ducks were not amused by my adventure, and they told me so as they paddled reluctantly away from their comfy little private beach. Mostly they said, "quack." There were a lot of contenders, but I was only looking for One Rock. Here's another also-ran. Sometimes sisters need pie or they won't be sisters anymore. Study buddies. When it's this early, the world really is blurry. Ivan agrees. Something neon and Reno-y. omg rock fort The chosen Rock. Currently residing in Reno. The End.

coming down fast 2009-10-08T17:13:00.000-05:00 I had "Helter Skelter" stuck in my head when I ran yesterday morning. It's a good one for running, actually. Simple and repetitive until you start thinking about Sharon Tate. When I GET to the BOTTOM I go BACK to the TOP of the SLIDE. Left foot hits on the emphasized words. See? I ran for 31 minutes in shorts and a giant fuzzy gray pullover I meant to pull off and never did. 44 degrees is colder than I expected! My legs went numb. My hands tried to cramp up, I was holding so tightly to the cuffs of my giant fuzzy gray pullover. So I made myself push the sleeves back. Punishment for acting like a big baby. The cold was astonishing when I turned into the wind at the 23rd street bridge. I gasped and blinked back wind-driven tears, but I didn't slow down. A week or two ago, I was running an out-and-back route and only meant to cross the pedestrian bridge at 28th-ish and turn around. I had a little extra time and ran down the steps on the other side of the bridge. I accidentally surprised a crane or a heron or whatever those gigantic birds are -- I had never seen one up close before! That sucker was huge! I couldn't tell you which of us was more surprised. The creature burst into flight and swooped out across the river, leaving me stunned and only still running because it had all happened too fast to stop. I think it was a crane. Big white bird. 5 foot wingspan at least. Unless I'm making him bigger in my head. I do that sometimes. Memories get exaggerated. I felt like the rudest person ever, busting in on him like that. Today it's cold and rainy here at the edge of downtown. I've looked at a lot of apartments in the last few days. I've found some promising prospects. I am not looking at any more until Tuesday. My head is too full, and I am taking the weekend off. In Reno. Kisses.

October Scratch -n- Sniff

2009-10-07T09:38:00.008-05:00

Dollar General has the most interesting candy. My dad likes his socks. Chickens are everywhere. The late afternoon sunlight is so warm and bright, sometimes it's hard to leave my office and go home. I am very busy and that might be why I am forgetting to do regular stuff like go to yoga class. I do a lot of wandering and I am very busy and I am trying to keep it all straight with post-it notes and a planner.

The End.

graceland

2009-09-29T11:07:00.006-05:00

And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody feels the wind blow

I am listening to a lot of Paul Simon lately.

I am trying a new yoga slash pilates class today.

I am looking for a rock to carry with me all the way to Reno.

I am looking for a new place to live.

I am not wearing any shoes.

I am anti-diamond anyway.

Envy and bitterness are ugly little feelings. Like little grains of sand in the blisters on your feet. Just mean and small and shameful, you know? Gives you a limp. Screwing up people's faces into sneers and I don't know why we can't just be happy with what we already have, let go of the grudge and the hope stretched beyond all recognition away from our own sweaty grasping hands.

I don't think I ever want to be taken out to lunch on Mother's Day. I am afraid I could not handle the irony. I do have a sense of humor, but I think the whole thing would just be too much. I think I might go losing my shit in a public place over a thing like that. And I do hate a scene.

regrets

2009-09-28T16:29:00.005-05:00

When I was fourteen years old, a boy named David wanted desperately to be my boyfriend. I was mean to him. I say "boy," but he was probably twenty-one. I don't remember exactly. Here in the real world, crossing the gap between fourteen and twenty-one is a jailable offense. But this was a trashy little town and I was a trashy little girl. Just so you know. Relationships between very young girls and men in their twenties were pretty common. Not that he and I had a relationship. I couldn't be bothered. He brought me cigarettes and alcohol and I let him make out with me on the couch in the tv room at my mom's house. I let him right up to the edge of my virginity. Night after night, whispering and giggling while my mom slept down the hall. It never occurred to me to take him to bed. It occurred to him a time or two. I laughed when he begged. I don't remember one kind thing I ever did for him. I was just mean to him, all the time. There was a party in the woods one night, and I took someone's bottle of vodka and walked around drinking it until I had to sit down and laugh about how my legs didn't work anymore. I was the only girl there. A boy from school asked me a question I didn't understand and I nodded, not wanting to admit that I didn't know what he meant. I kind of had a crush on him, this boy from school. And he kept unbuttoning my jeans. And I kept rebuttoning them. And we laughed. A fight erupted suddenly a few yards away. I can still picture the two of them, circling each other, mad as hell. The knife flashing in one kid's hand and the crowd surging forward with a collective sound of disapproval. Out of nowhere, David, the boy who wanted so badly to be my boyfriend, appeared. I think he might have brought me to the party. I don't remember. I do remember him telling me we had to leave. I remember laughing at him and telling him I'd find a ride home. Then I remember him grabbing a fistful of my hair and dragging me bodily away from the small group of people sitting with me who had gone quiet. I woke up filthy on the couch in my mom's tv room. Of course I didn't have a hangover. I was fourteen. I cleaned up and went outside to sunbathe on the front lawn. I had nothing better to do. David's truck pulled into the driveway and I didn't look up. He closed the gate behind him, walked across the lawn and stood over me without saying a word. He just looked at me. After a few seconds, I told him he was blocking my sun. Looking back, I think he must have stopped protecting me then. I had to fight off the next one, another twenty-something man, by myself. And the one after that. I gave my virginity away to someone else when I was damn good and ready, several months later. But it took me years to realize what David did for me, dragging me out of a pack of boys who were probably decent enough boys on a regular day, but there was a drunk girl in the middle of them and someone suggested a train and, well. We all know boys will be boys. And I wonder if he knows what he did. And sometimes in the middle of doing something else, the thought occurs to me that I never even thanked him.

laughter as communication (repost)

2009-09-28T15:05:00.003-05:00

Subject: laughter as communication
Posted Date: Sunday, February 05, 2006 - 10:13 PM

Pretty much everyone I've talked to about mushrooms has told me the same thing. I've made it a point to talk to a lot of people about mushrooms, so I thought I had a pretty good idea what to expect. Or at least what not to expect. Because everybody said they couldn't describe the feeling.

Visuals. Everyone seems to tell me the trip is in your head when you do these things, unlike acid in that there's less of a high and more of a feeling. Everyone says it differently, but everyone seems to be saying the same thing. You don't see funny shit, you don't lose touch, visually. One person even told me it was like being really, really stoned. I hoped that wasn't true, because I dislike pot. Intensely. It makes me feel slow and stupid. It also makes me twitchy. I'm a fidgety, fast talker anyway, so I don't need a chemical in my brain telling me to speed the fuck up.

So. Saturday night, there was a boy named [edit]. [edit] has eclipsed all other [edit]s. The name has now been cleared. That took some doing, but the bruises around that name are finally fading. That's a happy thing all by itself. [edit] had homemade chocolate for sale.

The only cure for a broken heart is to fall in love again, right? And the only way to heal a burn is to light yourself on fire. The only way to stop the bleeding is to cut deeper. The only cure for a hangover is to get drunk again.

I ate a square of chocolate. It tasted like health food. Like the chocolate with green chiles and pinon nuts you can get in New Mexico (or probably anyplace else). Then the musty taste flooded my mouth, like it missed the chocolate bus and had to run to catch up. I made faces while the boy laughed and handed me orange juice. My only word for it at the time was, "Bleh." Laughing, giddy and excited, a little nervous. It was two in the morning, or sometime around that. I kept flipping my phone open, waiting to feel something, not sure I would feel anything. What if this was just icky chocolate? We put on a DVD, lit some candles and waited.

The boy stretched out on the couch, already blinking sleepy eyes at me. I was tired, too, now that I thought about it, and I asked what would happen if I just went to sleep. Would I miss the whole adventure? Would I trip at all? He said I'd probably have strange and intense dreams, and not to stress about it. I checked my phone again. Twenty minutes. I felt a little queasy.

He said I was leaning into it. I said I didn't know what I was leaning into, since I didn't know what to expect. I had listened to a lot of stories, and not one told me how I was going to feel. He said not to lean into the nausea, or I'd psych myself into throwing up. I nodded, resolute. I was determined. I was a brave little toaster. I was starting to wonder if I wasn't a foolish, silly girl, eating candy from strangers. Deep breaths, holding for a count of ten, then sixteen, pushing the nausea away by force of will. It wasn't in my stomach, anyway. It was in my head. Once I figured that out, it was pretty easy.

Five or ten minutes of that, and I started to feel a little fluttery. I had time to acknowledge that, and then things started happening very quickly. I sat cross-legged in front of the heater, with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me, and everything was odd. The boy picked that time to take a nap. He asked for fifteen minutes. I curled up on the floor, telling myself the blanket wasn't making faces at me. That was a fold, not a mouth.

Things sounded all right. With my eyes closed, the DVD made sense. When I opened my eyes, the television was displaying tiny squares. The picture was pixelated, and if I stared at it, the squares bled over into the rest of the room. The flames in the heater started to dissolve, then crystallized into stacks of colored squares. I closed my eyes again, and the whole scene changed. The sounds were still all right, but the conversations weren't making any sense at all.

I couldn't reach my phone, but I needed comfort. I couldn't imagine standing up. It just wasn't possible. I crawled across the floor and shook the boy. Whispered, begging, "I really don't want to need you right now, but I really, really need you, and I'm so sorry." He cracked an eyelid. Told me to check the time. I said lots of time had passed, I let him go over. He said, check it anyway. I crawled to my phone. Ten minutes had passed. I was mortified. He asked if I wanted him to eat the other square. I said no, then yes. I needed him awake, and however that was going to happen, him awake was better than him asleep and me alone.

I was trying really hard not to panic. Lines of color kept sliding across my vision. The circly things that you see--probably the fluid protecting your eyes, if you don't focus on things, but focus on sight--that's what I was seeing, except they were huge, intricately patterned, and brightly colored. Sixties colors, Laugh-In colors. Bright orange and purple. I tried closing my eyes, making sure the colors were real. They were there every time I opened my eyes. Closing my eyes changed everything. It was like changing channels on a television. I went from my strangely altered apartment, with my eyes open, to the inside of my head, shadowy and falling, with my eyes closed.

Somewhere in there, the boy caught up. I was worried that it wouldn't affect him. What if I was just a wimp, and this drug was too intense for me? What if it did nothing for him? It wasn't supposed to be a big enough dose to do a whole lot. One and a half to two grams per square, [edit] had said. My latest research had told me that three grams was the recommended dose, so I was taking it easy. The original plan was to eat the first square, wait for it to fully kick in, then eat the second, if the effects were too mild.

There was nothing mild about these effects. My peripheral vision had gone wavy. Lacy. Swaying like seaweed underwater. The safest thing was to curl up in front of the heater again, and tears slipped sideways, over the bridge of my nose, across my temple and into my hair. The boy told me I wasn't really crying, that it was an effect. I touched my face, looked at my fingers, and disagreed. Not only could I see and feel tears on my fingers, but the tears were a lovely shade of lavender. I was crying purple tears, and they were cold. This was okay. I was settling into whatever was happening. Aware that it was really, really easy to scare myself silly. Realizing that this could go in any direction, and if I wanted to scare myself retarded, I could do that. I thought about flowers. Fuzzy blankets. Puppies and kittens. The face in the blanket watched me, and I reached out and touched its mouth, pulling it open. The face looked distressed, and I smoothed the eyes away with jerky movements.

It had been hours, and I hadn't yet figured out how to smoke. I got as far as turning my head, looking at my cigarettes, and that was all I could do. My hands wouldn't pick them up.

The boy came and curled up behind me. He talked about the wavy lines of color, which I found exciting beyond belief. He was seeing the same thing I'd been seeing, except that I'd been afraid to mention them, because I thought this wasn't supposed to be a visual trip. He reassured me that yes, the colors were there. I asked him about the squares, but we wandered away from each other, curled up together on the floor. I realized he was missing the point, because he was not inside my head. I figured I was probably missing the point, too, from his perspective. It was frustrating on a human level, but we were approaching gods by now, so the human level wasn't so terribly important. It was sort of cute, even.

I tackled the cigarette problem. I hadn't smoked once, but the ashtray was full. The boy told me I'd smoked. I said there was no way, I was incapable. I finally managed to light one, and as I took a drag, I realized this had happened before. I couldn't remember how, but yes, I had smoked.

My voice was booming in my head, so I spoke in whispers. Even the whispers echoed. I kept asking if I was being too loud. I kept explaining things, asking if it was okay to be seeing this, or that, or feeling this. The boy finally told me he couldn't hear me. I was whispering into the blanket, with my back to him. I figured that was okay. Speaking it was enough. No one had to hear it. Everyone could hear it.

The boy was frustrated with me, asked me to turn around and talk to him. With a massive effort, I sat up and turned. I took a quick glance at his face, then covered mine, laughing hysterically. His face was like the sun. I couldn't look at it. Dawn was breaking in my living room, but the sky outside was pitch-black through the blinds. The sun had landed, and the candles were flickering to keep up. It all made sense. I was touching the edge of interconnectedness, and everything was starting to make sense. The things that didn't make sense yet, well, I obviously wasn't ready for those things. I was approaching a god-state, but I wasn't there yet. That was okay.

Trying to explain things was difficult, but the urge to do it wouldn't go away. I kept starting sentences, then hearing my voice trail off. I went to the bathroom to see if I could look at my own face. The mirror surprised me. I looked small and pale, but the same. I looked scared. I looked far away. I smiled to reassure myself, then got distracted by the pinkness of the towel hanging on the shower rod. Bright pink, and I was falling into it. Softness was an absolute wonder. I could feel everything, but I had no idea what I was wearing. I couldn't feel my clothes, but I could feel the lines in the floor and identify shapes with my feet. My lips were numb. My tongue was tingling. Focusing on any one sensation made the sensation spread. So I focused on my tongue, and let my whole body tingle.

I went back to explain it all to the boy, but I forgot along the way. Something about girls and everything being the same, pink and soft, and how one person was the same person as someone else, and I was shocked that I hadn't realized this before. But I forgot along the way.

The boy was amazing. He had the uncanny (to me) ability to step out of the trip, take care of something practical, then slide right back in. Me, I was having a bitch of a time just smoking a cigarette. My arms would lose feeling, just like they had gone to sleep, and I'd grope for the cigarettes and the lighter.

It surprised me every time I touched something. I expected things to dissolve under my fingers. I expected everything to be a hallucination. The boy curled around me, and there was a tiny black mote quivering at the edge of his pillow. I stared at it, thinking it was a drug-induced spider. I told him I thought it might scurry away. Slowly, and with great effort, I reached out through all the distance between us, and I touched the spider. It was firm and solid under my fingers, and I held it up to the light of the candles. A bit of fuzz, or dirt. Amazing, I said.

I still wanted to explain everything. I had almost started writing when the trip began, but by the time I formulated a plan to sit up and pick up the pen and the journal, I was weighed down by the heaviness of the air, and the distance between me and everything else was so far, I couldn't imagine crossing it. So I talked instead, but I talked in whispers and half-sentences. Frustration crept in, because I knew I didn't have the language to explain in a way that would make it understood, so I started laughing, so hard I thought I would cry, and I hoped the laughter could explain.

The fuzzy blanket was the only constant. The fuzzy blanket was warm, soft and good, even when everything else went wonky. There was comfort and laughter. The weight of the world, which had slipped away, became something I tossed like a beach ball. I threw it, then turned away before I could see where it landed. I knew it would be back when I woke up. I was grateful for the vacation.

We were gods. We found the axis of the universe, where it all began and ended, and I was encased in a sphere of blue and shadow, with the faces of other gods drifting along the edges.

We were asleep in our own bed before dawn.

mutable

2009-09-25T12:46:00.008-05:00

A Croatian girl taught me to make Turkish coffee in my kitchen in Biloxi, Mississippi. With a little teaspoon, she measured powdered coffee into a djezva, "One for you, one for me, one for the pot," added sugar, and set the djezva on the flame. After a few seconds, she poured in water. She brought it to a boil three times, letting the mixture froth and foam. Am I spelling "djezva" right? Molim. My Croatian is nonexistent at best. All I remember is "ida mi na kurac" and "jebote." Ja sam turista. And jeben ti sunce. Hey, it's enough to get me around, right? She poured thick liquid into demitasse cups and we waited. She said it was important to let the particles settle. She worried that the caffeine would keep me up all night. It tasted like velvety chocolate, like coffee and darkness. And I slept just fine. I own two djezvas now. The original one, I ordered from a coffee specialty place all those years ago. A second pot joined me a few months later, a gift from my then-husband when he traveled to Turkey. I have never been able to part with either pot, though the "authentic" djezva, from Copper Alley, Ankara, has never been used. I've lived with my sister for almost five years now. She hates it when I grind coffee for the French press. She says it stinks up the whole house. I haven't made Turkish coffee once since we've lived together. It's not her fault, see. I just really need to live alone right now.

lawn ornament

2009-09-24T10:41:00.007-05:00

I've rented in Midtown Tulsa for a few years now. I live in a cute little house in a cute little neighborhood with cute little neighbors. Even my landlord is kind of cute and little. But he's selling the house now. So I can't live there anymore. When someone buys the house, they're going to want me to leave. I know, I think it's rude, too. They're going to want me to pack up my stuff and get out. In the meantime, the realtor doesn't like for anyone to be in the house while it's being shown. So Jess and I each get a call every now and then, a very nice person on the other end saying, "We'd like to show the house/come by and take pictures tomorrow." And we make plans to be somewhere else. It's a bit inconvenient, but they're really nice about it. The realtor's office is full of very nice people. I can't be all that put out. But it's a pain in the behonkus to have to vacate the premises for 30 minutes or an hour while strangers walk through my home. It may not be my house, but it's totally my home, you know? And it's unsettling. When I came home the other night, my living room blinds were open. I had left them closed. It's the little things. Someone I don't know has touched this and that. You know? So I prefer to leave. I love the house, I love the neighborhood, but it's time to go. I've been looking at apartments close to my office. There are adorable places right on the river, right on the jogging trail where I run, minutes from my office. Walking distance. None of them seem likely to accept a greyhound, so I might just have to put off getting a greyhound. Which makes me sad. But it's a compromise I can live with, I suppose. Today, though, I don't feel like apartment hunting. I don't feel like calculating deposits and mapping neighborhoods and talking to strangers. I feel like being homeless. I feel like pitching a tent (which I already OWN) in a quiet, secluded place, curling up in my sleeping bag (which I also already OWN) and forgetting all about floorplans and parking spaces. I already shower at work most days. I wouldn't need anything but sleeping space. I just need to either get permission to live in a tent on someone's property or actually hide it well enough to keep people from noticing it. And I have doubts about my talent for stealth. I'd need to rent a storage unit to stow all my stuff. I can do that. As for the place, well. What about your back yard? You using it much these days?

I found this picture on the internet and stole it. 2009-09-18T11:09:00.008-05:00 It's my great grandmother's gravestone. Well. And my great grandfather's too. I never knew him. I met her once. I have a vague but sweet memory of a tiny woman in a rocking chair. A frizz of white hair. An afghan in her lap. I don't know if I can trust that memory, which pulls along behind it like a duck on a string a memory of a farmhouse kitchen, someone offering me cookies. My mom saying no, we were just passing through, didn't want to impose, just wanted me to meet my great grandma. We called her Nana, if I remember right. Again, I'm not sure I do. I have her hope chest, which isn't really a hope chest since her husband made it for her. But I always call it a hope chest then have to correct myself. My great grandfather made it out of trees on the family farm. Colburn trees. The hope-chest-that-is-not-a-hope-chest is inlaid with her initials on the front. I've had the thing since I was twelve, I think. Maybe I was fifteen. Maybe I got it when she died. I don't remember. I googled her name and found the obituaries of relatives I never met. Or if I did, I don't remember them. I don't know where this urge comes from, this odd compulsion to go visit the grave. I never knew this woman, really. But I want to see who is buried near her. I want to see how families get along after they die. I know how we get along in life. We don't. We ignore each other, mostly. Well, my family does. Which sucks. Can yours adopt me? I'll bake cookies and everything. Can I bribe my way into someone else's family? waiting out a storm 2009-09-10T08:59:00.009-05:00 This is where I went last night. This is what I saw while stalling outside. This is what drew me down the street in the first place, on Monday. There I am in the window! When I finally quit stalling, I found this. This is what I saw when I looked back. And the rain came down. I ducked into a parking garage. Absolutely not. Someone is really not okay with smoking. Super not-okay. My car is in this picture. My car and my building are in this picture. I am not. The rain stopped eventually. We lived happily ever after. The End. sugary dirt 2009-09-04T13:35:00.003-05:00 My tomatoes are sweeter than yours. I'd say it's because I have lavished them with so much love, but that would be a lie. I neglected them half to death. It's only in the last couple of weeks that I've finally gotten out there and picked them up off the ground, dug in around them, pulled out weeds and reinforced supports. I cradled a baseball-sized fruit in the palm of my hand and stopped just short of talking babytalk to it. Because I know it'd tell me to go fuck myself. It's grown up on its own while I was out being selfish and forgetting I even had a garden. My tomatoes have probably been doing drugs and getting pregnant. And here I am eating their babies. Well. Par for the course. I don't quite get what the universe is trying to say here. I took the key inside, wondering if that was even the right thing to do. I will clean it up and see if there's any metal to polish under all that rust. I clean things. It's what I do. In an odd series of events over the past few weeks, I have been disarmed. Stay tuned and let's see what happens. up past phoenix cleaners where it used to be all cozy 2009-09-02T09:21:00.020-05:00 Last week, I met a man who calls himself Frog. He said he's seen me before, walking by on the trail. We had a brief chat. I was cordial. The end. Except it's not the end. I am not explaining it properly when it keeps coming up. I keep bringing it up, I know. I'm trying to wear it down and make it okay. Not that it's not okay. But. Running is something I think of as mine. I run by myself most of the time. Don't get me wrong; I've had a great time running in various groups of like-minded people. But most mornings, it's just me. I rarely even listen to music while I run. I like hearing my feet hit the ground. It reminds me to pay attention to my form when I get tired and sloppy. I start hearing the soles of my shoes slap the ground. I'm nice to myself. Roll over them, baby. Get your heel down and roll over them. Through your feet. Quiet as you can. Thatta girl. What else you got? Running while the sun comes up, I have a brief window between the meditative morning pages and the beginning of my workday. I hit the trail as early as I can and run for as long as I can, as much time as I can squeeze in before it's time to wind it up and hit the shower. My time out there varies, but never fails to offer up a chance to chew things over. I know where I am by how I run. I learn things about myself. Like realizing I'm okay with starting a new relationship. Like accepting my reluctance flat-out REFUSAL to participate in another cancer-research fundraiser. Like noting the need to call a friend I haven't heard from in a while. I learn where I am. Yesterday, for 45 minutes, I jogged. Gently. Easily. It was sixty degrees and absolutely gorgeous. Halfway back from Centennial Park, my ponytail holder slipped off my braid, my hair came flying down like Medusa's snakes and I did not break my stride while I pulled the elastic holder off my can of pepper spray and fashioned a new ponytail for myself. I've been looking for the ponytail holder I lost, but there were thunderstorms last night and it might have washed away. If you find a pink elastic on the Midland Valley trail, that's mine. And I'm sorry for littering. And you can keep it. This morning, I only had 20 minutes. I meant to take it easy, I really did. But my legs choose sometimes, and my legs chose to charge. So we hauled ass, me and my legs. So to speak. The run was bitter. It crystallized for me at the end as I walked past that place where I met that man last week. Place didn't feel mine anymore. Suddenly there were all these doors hanging open, opening into blackness. The rumble and growl of compressors and saws and unidentifiable power tools split the air. The other side of the trail at that point is thick with brush and vines, overgrown. Nothing has changed but my perception of the trail there, which is now thick with the startling idea that someone might be paying attention, watching me walk back to my car, sweaty and panting and muscles all atremble. This morning, my favorite trail felt like the set of a Hostel movie. But hey, I sure carried my little can of fuck-off spray. all old and out of order 2009-08-27T15:07:00.005-05:00 January 31. It's been five months today since her death. Yesterday was the hardest day so far. The pillow of shock has evaporated. The friends that expected me to fall over crying have stopped expecting that. Of course, that's when I fall over crying. I'm contrary like that. Three glasses of wine went to my head. I slept on the floor in front of the heater for the rest of the afternoon. My phone was next to me the whole time, but I never heard it ring. People knocked on my door, but never hard enough to wake me. ** I haven't finished learning whatever it is I'm going to learn from her. I might never finish. I don't know how it works, with mothers being mothers and dead mothers being dead. I know that I don't have a lot of patience for tedium anymore. I don't want to waste my life doing things I don't want to do. I don't want to be my mom. I know, I scoff when I say that, too. It's not possible. I just don't know how to articulate my own fear better than saying it that way. ** My mom and I shared a fear of heights. I never pass up a chore that requires a ladder. I maintain all points of contact I can muster, and I can't ever get my heart to slow down, and I instantly break a sweat as soon as both feet leave the ground, but I keep stubbornly climbing ladders. Because it's scary. ** The best thing about me is the part that's unrestrained. That part keeps getting smaller and smaller, and maybe that's just life. We only get less free as we age. I don't know. I have allowed myself to be strapped to this table. Some of the restraints I fastened myself. I didn't see any reason not to. I'm not sure I do now, but that unrestrained part says maybe I should be curious. I've figured out a way to wiggle my fingers. The room is dark and there is no one looking. The strap around my wrist is a little looser than it was yesterday. ******** Obviously, I am just too lovable. You all want to hug me and snuggle me and bring me candy. I understand; I'm warm, fuzzy and fairly squishy. Plus, I really like candy. I understand how difficult it can be to come up with anything negative about me. You all just want to pet my head and coo babytalk into my ears, and that's sweet. That's swell. Plus, my ears are kind of pointy, which leads to lots of elven extrapolations. Pointy in a cute way, that is. Like every other fucking thing about me. Yup. I can't help it. So. I am compiling a list. Reasons to hate me. There are lots, but these are doozies! Ready? I am staunchly pro-choice. I believe in safe, legal abortions for some, miniature American flags for others. I don't always cite my sources. I occasionally apologize for that, but I don't really mean it. If you don't get my references, maybe you're just shit out of luck (that said, I gladly explain if asked). I am staunchly anti-death penalty, but not as staunchly anti-death penalty as I am pro-choice. I do not believe that we as humans have the right to take human life. Seems to disagree with the above statement, doesn't it? Allow me to explain. I freak out when someone wants to set mousetraps, and I've saved more than a few mice from certain torturous death-by-cat, but I allow--nay, encourage--my sister's cat to kill and eat bugs. If it moves, and it has an exoskeleton or more than four legs or it's an invertebrate, it's a snack for the cat. He likes them, and I like the bonding experience that comes after--me patting his head, him licking his chops. Good times. Lots of people are creeped out by insects. I'm not, particularly. You want to know why it's okay, in my world, to kill them? Because they're smaller. Which brings us back to babies. Which brings us back to people (watch me go). Which brings us to the idea that if you're smaller than me, you might want to go ahead and justify your existence RIGHT NOW, while I'm holding this gun to your head. This piece is based on the assumption that most people on death row are (much) bigger than me. Absolutely no research went into this. Well, I did have to look up "invertebrate." That doesn't count for much. i was a stupid child... 2009-08-26T16:18:00.000-05:00 The first time I ran away from home, I was five. My mom helped me pack my sturdy red suitcase. I remember wanting to wear my roller skates, but we lived on a dirt road. Roller skates wouldn't roll on that. So the roller skates went into the suitcase, along with everything else I held dear. I distinctly remember packing a banana, as well. I told my family they had broken the deal. I was off to find my people. See, my parents and brothers had always told me I wasn't really my parents' child. They told me they had found me in the forest, as a baby. They took me home and took care of me, but one day an elf knocked on the cabin door. My dad answered the door, and the old elf told him that there had been a mistake. The baby was one of his people. My parents said they asked the elf in, and he came inside to sit by the fire. It was snowing outside. They asked the old elf if they could keep me, because they loved me. They told me the old elf thought for a while, scratching his pointy little white beard, before he said he would allow it. He said my parents could keep me, but I had to be loved. I had to be happy. If either of those conditions were not met, his people would come down from the mountain and take me back. My parents agreed to the old elf's terms, and he vanished, never to be seen again. So it came to be that I was five, and angry over something, and I decided that if my people would not come for me, I would go to them. Obviously there had been some sort of mistake. I was not loved. I was not happy. My mom helped me close the sturdy red suitcase. I lugged the thing out of the cabin and up the dirt road to a trail into the mountains. It took a long time, because the suitcase was so heavy and I had to stop and rest so often. I climbed the trail, dragging my suitcase, until I got to the top of the first bluff--a hill, really. It wasn't going quite like I had planned. I guess I figured I would have already seen one of my people. Honestly, I was the only elf I'd ever seen (my parents pointed out my pointy ears as proof of the truth of their story), so I wasn't sure who I was looking for. But there was no one in the woods. So I sat on my suitcase for a while. I ate the banana. I sat for a little while longer, then I left the suitcase where it sat and went home. My mom went up the trail later that day to retrieve my suitcase. She said she was glad to have me back. My ears aren't quite as pointy as they seemed when I was little. But they're still kind of "elfkin ears," according to fairly reliable sources. When I decided to leave Biloxi, I was twenty-seven. Divorced. My mom had cancer, but chemotherapy and radiation were still viable options. She was a warrior, I always said. Cancer wasn't going to slow her down, let alone kill her. But I needed to be closer to her, just in case I was wrong. Just in case I was right. I packed everything that mattered into my car, a sturdy little red convertible. Rosie. I packed books and clothes and my great-grandmother's hope chest. My fat old cat, Moses, rode shotgun. I drove for twelve straight hours, stopping only for gas. I finally stopped in my sister's driveway, carried Moses inside and dropped him on the kitchen floor. Mom's dead now. My sister and I share a house, just the two of us with three cats. Rosie sits in the garage at the moment, awaiting maintenance. I guess what I'm saying is, I was right when I was five. If your people can't come to you, you go to them. So here I am. (old one. 10/26/06) a scar i can talk about 2009-08-24T13:27:00.002-05:00 This song always takes me right back to Christmas on the Coast. I can almost smell the cold plastic of the Jeep. I had a picnic basket packed with tubs of chicken soup and a plate of brownies. I had the heater blasting but I shivered so hard my teeth rattled. There was nothing traumatic, nothing exceptional that happened. It was only the beginning of the end. When I look back, I remember pressing my hand against my stomach, right against the bottom of my ribcage. Right against my diaphragm. And I don't know if I really did it or only thought about it. My memory stops being so exquisitely detailed when I try to remember what it was I was thinking. Somehow I had swallowed a cold glass globe and it sat there tinkling against my spine, sending shivers out every once in a while. I can remember the red of my sweater, whistles and the sound of my own laughter bouncing off the porte-cochere. I can remember the sound of the Jeep's door closing, flimsy like a tent door, wobbling under my hand. I remember details from that night like a flashbulb memory, but it was just another night on the Gulf Coast. I was fucking a bellman at the hotel where I worked, having not started fucking the chef yet, but I was done with the other bellman, the first one. First bellman, I mean. Me and the South American guy from another casino had long since called it quits. Or had we? It's hard to keep those straight. I remember the smell of leather and the concrete pressing cold against the thin soles of my city-girl boots. I think I was not thinking at all. I think I was operating on faulty instinct. Fear of freezing to death had led me to light myself on fire, but I never quite managed to get warm. It only felt like the beginning of the end, really. The end was really very, very close. I had just managed to avoid feeling it until then, I think. And I think I was terrified and cornered, insisting I was fine with my face pinned into an appropriate expression. I wonder if I would recognize that look now on someone else. Something tells me I would, but I am not sure I would be able or even willing to help. People have to learn their own lessons, you know? Even if the only thing you learn is to stop being a whorefaced whorebag. you know it's really hard to hold your breath 2009-08-20T08:50:00.004-05:00 I kind of have a thing for bridges. Always have. I'm not good with heights and I have a thing for bridges. Maybe it's that feeling I get looking down from a bridge, that sort of swimmy-headed dizzy feeling that always makes me laugh a little on the inside. It always makes me take a deep breath. If I stop. Lately, it's been all about tagging the end of the bridge. I can't just run up to it. I have to run across it, even if I turn right around at the end. Lately, I reach out at my farthest point and brush my hand against whatever is convenient. Fencepost, guardrail, lamppost, gate, chain link. There is a mismatched little railing at the end of the pedestrian bridge on Riverside. Rust peeks out from under layers of peeling white paint. I barely brush the tips of my fingers against it, spin and let the bridge realign itself in front of me. The river spreads out a little there, at the low water dam. If you look to your left, the water is like old brown bottle glass. To the right, the water churns and foams, as if it has just woken up. As if it has just remembered it has someplace to go. Right, left, wherever. It depends on which way you're running. Chasing a train that doesn't run anymore. Seems like it should be easier to catch. But there are white flecks in the grooves of my fingerprints, reminding me that I am getting somewhere. Awake. And I have not forgotten, I have someplace to go. gambling recklessly 2009-08-17T14:40:00.005-05:00 Kids, man. I don't intend to have any more. I planned to, once upon a time. Those plans didn't work out. It's for the best, I think. Overpopulated planet and so on. Besides, I really like my selfish life. I like wallowing in the thrill of new nail polish. Buying a plane ticket for funsies. Indulging my own need for adventure, big or small. I do plan to get a greyhound. But a greyhound can run with me, which makes it way better than a baby. And I won't be changing its diapers or trying to teach it how to be a good person. It will come to me almost fully trained and all we have to do is get along. It's not the same as having the full responsibility of a little human life on my hands. That's the last thing we need, right? Me trying to mold a little human? But my brother's wife has this kid. And he's twelve. And he likes me. And I am bowled over. And I think that when a kid looks at you the way this kid looks at me, you have to step up. I picked him up on Saturday afternoon. His parents came to get him Sunday morning. In our sixteen hours or so, we drove around downtown looking at buildings, visited my office, went grocery shopping, saw a terrible movie, played video games and baked brownies. What is it about kids, anyway? It's like they reach their dirty little hands right through your ribs and pat on your heart, and all the germs from their grubby little mits react with the chemicals in your blood and burn that little handprint right into the muscle of your heart. And right on the heels of that bitter thought, "I don't fucking deserve this," comes the saner, wiser, clearer thought, "I am not worthy of this." I don't need the voice in my head saying this isn't going to last, don't get attached. I hear it in my kitchen. My sister standing in the doorway cocking her head at me, watching me watch chocolate melt in the microwave. She says, quietly, "You know this isn't going to last. You know you shouldn't get attached." They say God never closes a door without opening a window. I don't believe in God. So I just leave my doors unlocked. birdswallows 2009-08-12T09:07:00.002-05:00 A lady who sat next to me during meditation and prayer thanked me at the end of my week. She said I was "a rock." I laughed and said, oh no. Thank you, but no. I sit crosslegged and take a deep breath, elongating my spine, imagining a string pulling my back straight and my head high. I lay the backs of my hands on my knees. I feel the faintest twitch in my arm and I acknowledge it without fighting it, without dwelling on it. I let it be. I take another breath. My heart pounds, then hammers, speeding up. My neck gets hot. I want to pant, but my breath feels like the only thing I'm really controlling. I sit like a statue and picture myself calm. On the surface, I suppose I look calm. If you don't look too closely. I feel my palms getting clammy. My breath is still coming too fast. I hold it for a count of four or six and a burst of hysteria explodes in my chest. I am seconds from sobbing. I try to breathe it out. There is a bird trapped inside my ribcage, panicking. It batters itself against my ribs and I think if I threw up, I could maybe get it out. I think I might throw up. A series of invisible twitches runs up one arm and down the other. I note its path without looking. I imagine the ghost of a mouse and I let him be. I concentrate on soft eyes, soft throat, relaxed tongue, teeth apart, lips touching, breathing through the nose. I try not to suffocate in the open air. My heart still hammers, loud in my ears. The bird is still trapped in my chest. While keeping my outside self as still as I possibly can, I abandon all pretense of meditation and turn my attention to the bird. I let my breath soothe it. I think calming hushing mothering sounds at it. I imagine it in the palm of my hand instead of trapped in my chest. I imagine the tiny claws pricking at my hand as it finds its footing. I feel its tiny weight change as it fluffs out its feathers, extends its yellow wings and takes off. It was a canary. All this time, I thought it was a sparrow. I guess a canary makes more sense. old priest, young priest 2009-08-05T09:04:00.003-05:00 I need to get cracking on that Catholic correspondence course. I've had it sort of back burnered lately. Exorcising Your Ex has shipped, says paperbackswap.com. I'm ordering self-help books now. It'd be hilarious if it weren't so fucking sad, you know? So it begins, again. I hate running in circles. That's why I don't like running on a track. I prefer to slingshot, out and back. Every time I clean my room, I find the same scrap of paper. I'm going to start leaving myself notes. I'm tired of reading the definition of escape velocity over and over. The minimum speed a body must attain to escape the gravitational pull of another body. But this morning's run fell apart and tomorrow is a rest day and it will be Friday before I get another shot at it. Maybe it was running in eighty degree weather. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was running three days in a row, pushing for something faster. Maybe it was just too much. The drill sergeant in my head took the day off, so maybe. I peeled out of my shirt and mopped sweat off my neck with it. My ponytail dripped. My breath slowed, one hitch at a time. I will pay for taking it easy today. But not today. I'll pay later. I'm on the easy credit payment plan, so I get to pay for the rest of my natural born life. There is something important here, I am sure of it. paging electra 2009-08-04T08:55:00.002-05:00 My dad's birthday is coming up. Normally, this would mean nothing to me. Last year, I didn't even call him on his birthday. He's turning 70 this month. You have to time things properly with my dad, see. And if you want to talk to him, you'd better call him in the morning. Before noon. He starts slurring around lunchtime. Makes it difficult to have a conversation because you can't understand him. He goes off on tangents and he rambles. Plus, he won't remember it right the next day. So yeah. You gotta call in the morning. Last year, I didn't call at all. I think I probably put it off too long on purpose. "Oops, too late to call Dad. Shucks." I guess I've been mad at him for so long, I don't really feel it anymore. I'm still mad, deep down. I'll probably always be mad, on some level. And he deserves it. He's been a son of a bitch. A drunk. Unreliable at best. Mean as fuck at worst. A staggering asshole, sneeringly contemptuous and self-aggrandizing. My whole life. Give or take a week or two, he's been drunk for my whole life. Maybe give or take a month or two. I'm not trying to paint him worse than he is. None of it, though, none of it changes the fact that he's my dad. I don't know if I will ever forgive him. I'm not sure if that's even the point, you know? But I don't hate him. And as angry as he makes me, I have to acknowledge that he pushes my buttons so very skillfully because I came from him. Because in some ways, we are the same. And if I can put my own sneering contempt aside and walk carefully for just one day, it's just barely possible that we might have a mildly pleasant family gathering. A family gathering. What a novelty. Now, don't get me wrong. All we have are three siblings -- maybe four. Jonathan, if you're blogstalking me, please call me. Or call Jess. Our numbers haven't changed. Anyway, so it will just be the kids and their dad. That's all that's left. I think it's more than enough. Pardon me. I have to go bake a cake.

pusillanimous was one of her favorite words 2009-08-03T11:15:00.006-05:00 My mom died four years ago this month. She did not want a funeral, so we never had one. She never told us she wanted her ashes scattered in any particular place, or shot out of a cannon, or anything. She wanted to donate her organs, but cancer made that impossible, and she never told us what plan B should be. In dealing with a loved one's looming death, it is easy to overlook details. The "last wishes" conversation can be uncomfortable. So we probably changed the subject or something, you know? Just so we have it settled between us, I don't give a shit what you do with my cremains. I'll be way past being offended. Use me to fertilize the garden, if you want. I honestly do not care. Do what's convenient and cheap and makes sense to you. If you have anything to say about it, I mean. I'm cool with whatever. And maybe my mom didn't care either. She wasn't big on ceremony. She liked a good joke. She didn't like dramatic displays of emotion. She had a tenacious and unflinching sense of humor. I hope I have a tenth of what she had. I do wish sometimes that I had a gravesite to go to, though. I know she didn't care, but she's dead. I'm alive. And I need a place to go sometimes. I always had a key to her place when she was alive. I miss that. Yesterday, I was sorting out my day, writing morning pages and stretching out muscles stiff from running and dancing the day before, when it occurred to me that I really, really miss my mom. More sharply than usual, I mean. So I went to her old office building. She worked there when she first moved to Tulsa. I got my first office job there, at seventeen. We worked on different floors, but we took smoke breaks together. We went to lunch together. I drank so many cups of coffee at her office. She had a Garfield comic strip over the coffee pot. "Bottom-of-the-pot-sitting-plugged-in-all-day-coffee." I didn't go inside yesterday. I didn't even try the door. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot, but there was a spot open under a tree, so I pulled into the shade and sat. I had the end of a loaf of bread in a bag in my purse. And some tissues. I started crying just looking at the place, but I'm a crybaby that way. And I loved the bejesus out of that woman. So it's allowed. When I finally got out of the car, I walked to the place where we used to stand on smoke breaks. I remember winter, standing in a patch of sunlight, trying to stay warm. I remember wearing skirts that were too short and being too skinny. It's funny, the things that come to mind when you revisit a place you haven't been to in years. I walked to the middle of the rickety old bridge, slowly. It creaked, but held. I'm not great with heights, and I had tried to come up with a different place to stand to feed the ducks, if I saw any, but the bridge was really the only place. The bridge was where my mom used to feed the ducks. She wasn't great with heights either. I tossed chunks of bread into the water. Fish darted in, then ducks, then a turtle. I fed them quietly, one chunk at a time, until my bread was all gone. Then I stood on the bridge with no bread and bawled my fool head off. The end.

progress as promised

2009-07-30T08:56:00.012-05:00

It takes 5 minutes to walk from my car to the Midland Valley Trail across Veterans Park. I stay off the sidewalks. I like walking on the grass. It's springier. This morning the guy sleeping in the shelter in the middle of the park popped his head up from his picnic table bed to say good morning to me as I passed. We both laughed. Maybe you had to be there. It was one of those little moments of clarity, a tiny pocket of illumination. Everything looked so absurd, so amusing, so harmless in that moment. By the time I got to the trail and started running, the peculiar magic of that moment was mostly gone. I'm just typing this to try to remember it because it made sense. The homeless guy and I shared a laugh, two and a half minutes from the trail. I ran in the rain with my heartbeat in my ears. I blinked raindrops out of my eyes. Water flew from my feet in little sprays and I laughed to myself as I kicked water downhill, then uphill. I run with a stopwatch in my left hand because I run with a can of pepper spray strapped to my right. I used to just carry the stopwatch in my right hand, which was easier, but people expressed concern. My friend Beej told me an unraped vagina is my best asset. I'm inclined to agree. But I still feel like a tool, running with this thing strapped to my hand. It feels like an advertisement of fear. And I am not afraid. Maybe I should be. Regardless, I carry it. So people will stop scolding me for not carrying it. Advertisement of fear. There was a booth at the Bixby Green Corn Festival selling Safety Kats. I wandered over, curious (and maybe a little lightheaded from running the 5k just a few minutes before). The lady running the booth was friendly and talkative. She chatted with my sister while I blinked at the merchandise. She turned to me and instructed me to hold out my hand, sliding a Safety Kat onto my fingers as I did so. The effect was -- barbaric. It was like ultralight brass knuckles, but with sharp points. It was like being engaged to the Marquis de Sade. It was like, well. It was like what it was. Carrying a bladed weapon -- does it count as a bladed weapon, legally or otherwise? -- in broad daylight. On my keys? I said, "No, thanks." What almost came out of my mouth was, "I'm not that fucking scared." I bought a fan instead, from another booth at the same festival. I've needed a fan for awhile. It gets hot, dancing. Remember when I used to avoid dancing and running on the same day? That was so cute. Saturday, I will run the Route 66 Quarter Marathon 5k (don't let the name mislead you -- I will run the 3.1 mile 5k, not the 6.55 mile quarter marathon). I'm hoping to break 30 minutes. Finally. Maybe. There will be pancakes after the race. Somewhere. There might be blueberries in the pancakes. One can only hope. I have to earn the blueberries. After pancakes, I have tango class. After tango class, there is a ballroom dance. Sunday will be one hell of a rest day.

all got the same bloodflow

2009-07-24T10:43:00.002-05:00

I've missed her. I didn't miss her so much while I was off forgetting myself, but I think part of remembering has to do with acknowledging that odd need, the way I can feel panicked and trapped and lost without my car. Years, man. Fucking years.

I'm a very slow learner. A remedial student in everything that can't be graded. I was always a really good student in that tiny world of tests and approved reading lists and papers and word counts -- I miss that world sometimes, where things made sense and goals were grades that rang like bells at the ends of semesters. Or maybe I just miss the smell of textbooks. Maybe I should go back to school -- it just seems so decadent, to go back for the fun of it. With no "career path." Because ugh. Not being suicidal isn't the same thing as being happy, but it's a really, really good thing. Right? I chased myself down a rabbit hole, ran me down like prey and chased me through tunnels until I got to the end of the tunnels only to find smooth plastic blankness. There's nothing there. Or maybe there's something there, and I just can't get to it. I don't know. That's the whole thing. I don't know anything. It was progress, progress, progress, nothing. Blank smooth wall where there should have been dirt and blood and the rough, honest things I understand because you don't have to be smart to know about blood and bones and the moon. Bricks and grit and water. This blankness encapsulating nothing or everything or something not even important, this smug eggshell curving away from me that absorbs even the sound of rocks hitting it -- this is the crisis part, really. So I'm sitting here resting and thinking and using this wall for my backrest, and I'm thinking it might need some graffiti, if anybody's got any markers. And I'm trying.

it's all about the melvins.

2009-07-08T16:12:00.002-05:00

Melvin is an old man. He has liverspots on his scalp, clearly visible through the thin white hair he combs across the top of his head. His hair is still thick on the sides, like rabbit fur. It looks soft. He wears pastel cardigans over his golf shirts, which he pairs with slacks and loafers. His jowls tremble and swing a little when he smiles, which he does a lot. Melvin lives in an apartment. Every Thursday he goes to a dance studio not far from his apartment and dances, ballroom style, with anyone who will dance with him. He foxtrots, waltzes and cha chas. Sometimes he asks women he meets at the dance studio to come home with him. As far as I know, no one ever has. All of this is true except that his name is really Fred.

on a long enough timeline

2009-07-02T15:52:00.004-05:00

What looked preposterous in January became unlikely in June and might be reality by May. One never knows, does one? Me, I've been watching old movies, pulling weeds, running, eating junk food, drinking Italian beer, playing violent video games, reading books -- Did I tell you I've been thinking about adopting a retired racing greyhound? I purchased car insurance yesterday. I'll look into getting a tag tomorrow -- Did I tell you that my car was never really broken? There was never anything wrong with my car. There might be, by now, but she was fine when I closed the garage door. She was alive when I left her, I swear. It's not so dramatic as all that. I've been driving her around lately, getting everything moving. I bought an atlas. I had been trying for a long time to kill the hope that bubbled up and made me cry. Hope is the cruelest month, you know? Six months, really. Longer. I don't know. I thought, since I am so determined and whatnot, that I would persevere and I would conquer hope. Squash hope. Murder hope until hope died from it. Unfortunately, I found out that hope is every bit as determined as I. And that's okay. I'm just going to hope things work out. Pray to catch the bus, then run as fast as I can.

nobody's business

2009-06-16T10:48:00.004-05:00

This doesn't feel like it is mine. But it was me in that hospital room and it was me wobbling and bawling while someone who was also bawling but not as wobbly held me up and there was a room full of people all of us with wet faces and soggy tissues in our fists. I don't remember waiting for anything. I was only there.

It surprised me when someone wheeled in the bodies. I might have run away, but the crib was between me and the door and someone was still holding my arm, but he was not holding me up anymore. So I held him up from my side. I saw then that there was someone holding him up from the other side. We leaned against each other quite literally, crying ourselves dry. We sat on plastic furniture and kept our arms around each other and poured out all the love we meant to give to two children who never got to see it.
Grief is grief is grief. I mean, that had to be what, nine years ago? And it's not like they were my kids. Turns out, they probably weren't even related to most of the people in the room. Ain't none of mine.
The only thing mine is my slice of that day. Which I'm keeping. When I asked what I could do, she said she only wanted her mom. And I didn't understand. I got out of the way, but I didn't understand. See, I'm all right until I run out of things to do. I can bring you socks. I can bring you flowers. I can hold your hand while the machine shows that there's a problem. I can hold you while you cry. But when it's all over and there's nothing left to do but bleed and breathe, that's when I fall down a hole. Because those tasks have formed a catwalk over a yawning canyon of grief and sadness, and I can reach from making coffee to picking up the kids, and my foot will find laundry to do and pets to feed. Without that structure, that soothing mundane routine, I'm like Wile E. Coyote as he realizes he's just chased the Roadrunner off a cliff. Again.

2009-06-15T20:52:00.001-05:00

"I'll tell you why I don't want to know where you are. I got a joke I've been dying to tell you."

actually, i'm hilarious -- photos from my phone

2009-06-15T14:33:00.014-05:00

Cheap lipstick on paper towel with water bottle and barrette on handmade inlaid chess table (which I hate). I am still fascinated by the amount and variety of junk in this photo, which was taken as my sister and I walked to the lake to get some air and let my dad forget the argument we were just having about global warming. Seriously. Global warming. The gentleman behind my sister seemed distressed at having his photo taken. I found that very funny. Note my sister's defeated look. This is what happens when we visit our father. This is my sister on the phone with my brother while Neitzsche, Emily's dog, pointedly stares at me, refusing to come over and sit with me, apparently preferring to be IGNORED by someone who is ON THE PHONE. Whatever. I'm not bitter.This was taken later that night. The washing machine is my safe place, especially when there is wine involved. Shut up, YOU'RE weird. This is the wooden lizard I found at the thrift store. This is the more emphatic "no" piece.

I love phone photos.

did you see what I did?

2009-06-15T11:42:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I...

discovered I share a birthday with Pablo Picasso
walked the dog past the Tulsa Fire Alarm Building, which now houses the local office of the American Lung Association and is one of my favorite buildings. See?
finished Lesson 2 in my Catholic correspondence course from the Knights of Columbus
discovered "fetch" in all its awesomeness

Saturday, I...

hiked at the Keystone Ancient Forest
agreed to become a volunteer trail guide at the Keystone Ancient Forest
accidentally shattered the glass globe covering my bedroom light fixture
successfully distracted the dog long enough to get the mess cleaned up so nobody bled to death
decided that my plan to roadtrip between places to hike and camp is the best vacation plan ever
took advantage of Philbrook's free day and nerded out with the audio tour
stood in front of the mural of Philmont in the Santa Fe room and cried like a wuss

Today, I mailed my entry fee and form for the Bixby Green Corn 5k. My goal for this 5k is to finish in 30 minutes or less. Like ordering a pizza. Or something.

Today, I had a good run with the dog through my neighborhood.

Today, I sang along to Billie Holiday songs in the car on the way to work.

Today, I am telling myself that I can immerse myself in work for a while, but I must keep a balance. So far, so good.

Today, I am trying to accept the term "heartsick." Because I think it applies. Also, it has some hope in it, you know? The chance of getting better? I sure hope there's a chance, anyway.

Heartsick is better than homesick. Because I do have a heart, you know.

2009-06-12T21:47:00.001-05:00

From this angle on top of the washing machine I can see forgotten corners and I remember why I love this house so much.

all i need is an atlas and some snacks.

2009-06-11T10:46:00.003-05:00

My car has been out of commission for a very long time. Long enough that I've taken to taking it for granted. I don't drive. That's my life. Except that it's not. I can drive. I am licensed and adequately skilled. I have just chosen not to drive. Emily is going to France for a couple of weeks and leaving her car (and her dog) with me. It's going to be the first time I've had a vehicle at my disposal in years. Years. I am unable to convey how very huge this is. Or how huge my gratitude is. Neitzsche will be one very spoiled puppy. We might run a different local trail every day. It's the least I can do. And it's a very big deal to me. But it's part of a larger piece. I've been working, slowly and patiently, to reach financial independence. We're not going to talk about money here, but I've been working my ass off and exercising fairly strict self-discipline and budgeting. I am finally starting to see, not exactly an end, but the glimmer that says there is a light at the end of this tunnel. A glimmer is a good thing. My car should be road-ready very soon. How soon, I'm not exactly sure. The work she needs will cost money, which will take time, which means I have to be patient -- is anybody else thinking about George Harrison right now? He's my favorite Beatle. I also admire the hell out of his wife. But I'm off track. I've always been good at jumping the gun, so today I found myself mapping a road trip. A big road trip. A park-to-park camping road trip. National and state parks, I mean. Because it's me. Because I like camping and hiking. Because I have never driven my own car for fun. Because she deserves to be driven. Because I could use some concentrated alone time, and I could use a little adventure. Because it's about time. I haven't decided where to go, but I'm really thinking Northwest. I'm thinking of going places I've never been but always meant to visit. Yellowstone. Pike's Peak. Grand Teton. Crater Lake. Dinosaur National Monument. Day hikes, not crazywild backcountry expeditions. I think. I don't know. I'm still planning. I could still head Northeast, as well. But that's a whole other long list of places. And I do think of myself as a Westerner. I don't know how far outside my comfort zone I am willing to travel. Like I said, still planning.

from a booth in the midwest ten years ago

2009-06-08T12:48:00.003-05:00

It's all wrapped up together. I wasn't planning to run. I thought I'd be exhausted. I spent an hour writing a letter, junior-high style, the kind of letter you never send. The kind of letter you burn on the barbecue grill. The kind of letter I used to send, because I have not always had a very strong self-preservation instinct. The kind of letter that tells a person exactly how they hurt you, exactly where they let you down. And I found that I was angry. I shouldn't have been surprised. By the time we left that smoke-filled cabin, he was too drunk to stand up to hug us goodbye. He'd been standing when we arrived, hugged us hello. But we had stayed too long. I had argued too much. We waved as we left, but I paused in the doorway and said, slowly and clearly, "I love you, Dad." He blinked at me and it looked like he was waiting for the room to settle into place. I took that as acknowledgment and I shut the door behind me. I wrote out my favorite grievances because when I realized how dangerously close I was to begging for comfort, I knew I needed to be angry for a while. I forget sometimes why I can't be comforted. I forget sometimes that reality is my only choice, and reality means being alone. So I wrote a letter and wound myself up until I was angry enough to stop crying and the anger propelled me up out of the chair, down the street and through the neighborhood. I ran until I thought I might throw up. Then I ran a little longer.