Preface this with me knowing that I don't have any real problems.

BUT: I have hit the wall with being sick. I have read, written, walked the dog til my legs felt like jelly (read: five blocks), watched all of the crap television I can stand, and now I just want to murder something except that I don't have the energy.

And now my mom's all, "Sorry, can't play anymore online Scrabble. I have a life, you know."

All that's left is probably me getting drunk.

It's almost not fair what we can imagine, and that the world largely won't measure up. And that hope and despair walk around together.

And that my counseling and work on myself has me feeling emotions and it's all so freaking overwhelming. No wonder we make little safe harbors of our lives and get bored and frustrated and feel somehow that it's better than being out there in the shit.

This, by the way, is my response to the werewolf romance novel I just read.

A dog, a spot, tops a god, a

I have so much to do today, but here I am anyway.

index editing out the wazoo
clean for houseguest tomorrow
not drink
be a friend
help Scotty with auditions
psychically prepare for dental work tomorrow
move $$ around to pay for dental work
goodbye party for the tooth I hate

Self-identification and imagined conversation

I think it's mostly a Portland thing, but with some regularity I have to discuss whether I am or am not a nerd or identify with nerd culture. ANSWER: I do not self-identify as a nerd and don't think I am, objectively, by Patton Oswalt's definition (and who's gonna challenge THAT) (well, some nerd, but I'm not nerdy enough to pay attention).

A couple of my friend have insisted that I am, but mostly that's because they are and/or most of their close friends are, and the idea of having a friend who *isn't* is maybe a little disturbing or at least foreign. Or I get some points because I'm a librarian, but I'm not even a nerd about being a librarian. In fact, I think I'm about as far in with that as I want to get and am looking at exit strategies.

"So what is you, then?"

A stoner without the drugs.
A misanthrope who loves strangers.
Definitely a dork. And a generalist.
But I have magic.

That's today's working definition.

p.s. Happy birthday, Mr. Jones, wherever you are.

So much for the year of discipline

But... it's so early! I can't give up yet!

Sal kindly sent me an email about balancing my discipline with some love. Sounds good. I'll mull on that later. but right now I'm having a midlife career crisis because you know what? I don't give a flying fuck over e-books, digital blah blah blah, apps, techie stuff for libraries, any of it. I'm not interested. I just don't care. I'm 34 and want to retire, but I only have $8,000 to live on for the rest of my life. That is probably not going to work out very well.

But I am finally feeling the burning need to paint again... the burning need like the fire that I was afraid that I didn't have when I was in art school. Better late than never I guess.

So I either need to get cracking, or have someone punch me in the face. Maybe both. Not sure why that second option sounds so good right now, but it totally does.

Stranger in a strange land

I've been waaaaay into Leon Russell's 'Stranger in a strange land' lately, which turns out to be based on the Heinlein novel, which I now need to read. And that's how life progresses.

But anyway: strangers.

I think probably most women are targets for strangers who want to talk, and lots of times the experience turns out to be a creepy one and you learn to keep up your guard in public and ignore weirdos who try to talk to you. I ignore some people for sure (especially if their junk is hanging out, which happened a lot in Italy), but also generally don't see much harm in just seeing what people have to say before saying 'excuse me,' and shipping out if they have bad motives. Usually people just need to talk and it's pretty harmless, and if I've got time I don't mind listening.*

I had a marvelous stranger on the bus a couple of weeks ago. I was buried in my book when the guy across the aisle whispered, "Psst! Miss? Do you want this ring?" He looked a little skeevy but earnest, so I asked where it came from. He said, "I found it a couple weeks ago, and I've been trying to sell it but no one will buy it, so I just thought I'd give it to the next pretty girl I saw." It would be easy for this to be creepy, but he was trying very hard to be sweet so I accepted it. It was nice. And he didn't even keep talking to me or come over and squash in next to me or anything. Nice. And I've worn it and not gotten gangrene, and I will occasionally ask the universe to throw something good at him. It all came out nice and put lots of nice back into the world, I think.

Last Saturday I had a gross, sketchy stranger, probably just to remind me that that can still happen too. I was getting way to positive on the universe, for sure.

I had been out dancing (I KNOW I'M 34, OK SHUT UP) (even when I told Molly that someone invited me out dancing she said, "Do they know you're 34?," and honestly I don't know if they know) and then afterward I walked to the Hawthorne food carts to wait for Scotty to come meet me. I was sitting there with my delicious delicious tacos when I noticed a dude wandering vaguely in my direction. A young hippie-type guy, so very Portlandia. If I looked directly at him he changed direction and acted like he wasn't walking toward me (this will be considered a red flag in the future). I looked away for a minute and suddenly he was at my table. He asked if I minded if he sat down, and with my mouth full of taco I made a grand gesture toward the other side of the picnic table.

He asked how my night was going.

I started to answer that it was in fact going marvelously, and that even though I was 34 I went to a cool club and danced in the booty basement, but as I answered I noticed that he kept staring at me and moving his lips silently. I tried to start talking again but I was so weird and distracting that I gave up trying to answer and just said, "Are you whispering something? What are you doing?!"

He said he was saying a prayer.

I asked what kind of prayer.

He said it was an Arabic prayer consisting of the 20 something somethings (Arabic) which he then recited for me, clearly trying to impress me.

I felt like he'd assumed I'd think he was this cool, mysterious fellow who I'd fall over backwards in squirrelly awe over. So instead I told him that one of the Toltec four agreements is that he shouldn't make any assumptions.

It got all weird, surprise, and then thank god my phone rang and Scotty was there.

I said, "Well, my ride's here, have a nice night," to which he replied:
"Are you sure you want to go home alone?"

UGH GROSS UGH

But also: Jesus fucking Christ, you didn't ask me a single question about myself or notice my wedding ring and have assumed I'm going home alone? when I just said I have a ride?

I said, "I'm not going home alone; my husband is picking me up. But thank you very much for your concern."

UGH. I needed a ceremonial cleansing. I feel like I haven't even captured here how gross he was. The staring alone. Gah.

Anyway. I think I only like older or uglier strangers, as a guideline.

*EXCEPTION: if they are carry a clipboard I will ignore them at all costs, lie, and blatantly cross the street to get away. For some reason, to me that is a gross misuse of public space.

Goals update

•January freelance project - check
•Tutoring dyslexic student - check, in that he's totally ditched out on me. I've attempted so much follow up that I'm embarrassed. Just have to accept that this isn't my fault.
•Novel - progressing. Very happy writing times, and i scare myself when I write fight scenes. Whee!
•long road trip planning - check. Basically being done for me... because it's a book tour with many other ladies. I just have to show up at the appropriate moment. In the appropriate city.

I librarianed the shit out of yesterday and got lots of discussion and decisions out of my boss. I fight for our circulation team, because they work harder than everybody else. So much stuff that librarians should be doing gets shuffled off to them since we're a small team (and because DELETED RANT THAT WOULD BE UNWISE TO POST).

I am also siiiiiiiick after a getaway weekend to Mt. Bachelor and a million hours of hot-tubbing with Erin Jean and drinking and playing games and snuggling seven dogs and editing the index that was due today ("one of these things is not like the ooootheeeeerrrs"). It's almost worth being sick when Scotty brings me soup and toast in bed. He so nice.

If I were a suspicious person I would think my house is being cased. I got some broke-ass Washingtonian's broke-down caddy in front of my house as of yesterday, a guy tried to sell me moisturizing creams on the sidewalk (actually, he is my neighbor and works hard to make ends meet and I probably should have bought some. It was Cetaphil) and then 3 (THREE!) cable-innernet dudes with clipboards just rang my bell and were very interested in whether my dog is actually vicious.

They also reminded me that I have a doorbell. I forgot about that.

So, somebody's gonna drug my dog, steal my junk, and make off in a sweet 80's Cadillac. Not bad, grifters, not bad.

Figures

Oh my god, junior high school, fuck you so hard and forever.

Super annoyed that my therapy issues turn out to be seventh grade and my parents. That's so BORING. And it makes me cry. Boring, typical crying is the worst.

A fun side note: if you are already sure something is wrong with you but you don't know what it is, it's much, much easier to fall for it when someone says you're messed up and need divine help. And then you'll spend the next 9 years reenforcing your bad ideas about yourself, and then you'll wonder how you ended up on meds and emotionally unavailable, and seeking out other emotionally unavailable people who won't threaten you to have relationships with. Heyo!

So I'm now processing emotions from maybe 1990. Which backs me up even more than before. Now, if I realtime process all my junk, I'll get to my divorce in 2027 or 2028. Hit me up before then, innernets.

The thing my counselor said to me today that I have to fake and make into my mantra until I believe it: The world is a safe place for my emotions. I can barely type that. I do NOT believe it.

I took a yoga class with my awesome ladyfriend over the weekend. She's marvelous, and her practice is meant to address your whole being and not just your body, you know, not like gym yoga classes. About halfway through, I could feel the energy in my spine, and it was like someone had put one fist over the other around my spine and twisted each half 45 degrees in opposite directions. That's where I've been for the last several months and why my relaxation practice no longer works. I've been totally blocked, like a kinked hose. But I can at least feel that now. It's more or less a moral imperative that I keep going now.

In less vulnerable news, I finally framed the Mark Sandman print Scotty bought me a year ago. It's rather glorious. I've already married it. And Scotty again, for good measure. And my dog.

See? Lots is wonderful.

Forgot one goal:

The novel I'm already working on. Oh, yeah, that, the one I am in a writing group for. That one.

And maybe a class on editing. I'm being asked for editing help quite a lot lately and I'm totally wanging it.

Lovely realization: the more writing-related work I do, the more I get to work from bed. I might not get out of bed til noon on my 'days off' but cripes I'm productive there.

There are jokes to be made about that.