Sometimes I wonder if all of the awesome stuff that I would have written, given enough time for it to occur to me, has already been done.

Anne Lamott on the importance of a likable narrator:

"Now, a person's faults are largely what make him or her likable. I like for narrators to be like the kind of people I choose for friends, which is to say that they have a lot of the same flaws as I. Preoccupation with self is good, as is a tendency toward procrastination, self-delusion, darkness, jealousy, groveling, greediness, addictiveness."

She goes on to cite an example from a short story by Abigail Thomas:

My mother's first criterion for a man is that he be interesting. What this really means is that he be able to appreciate my mother, whose jokes hinge on some grammatical subtlety or a working knowledge of higher mathematics. You get the picture. Robbie is about as interesting as a pair of red high-top Converse sneakers. But Robbie points to the mattress on the floor. He grins, slowly unbuckling is belt, drops his jeans. "Lie down," says Robbie.

This is interesting enough for me.

06082009

I found this journal tonight. I started it close enough to exactly a year ago that it feels a little too bizarre that it just so happened to drop out of my bookshelf tonight. Here's what I was thinking a year ago...

June 8, 2009

Jamie and JD got married tonight!

It was gorgeous. At the most spectacular time of day. Everyone looked great. Even I looked great (luckily my dress covered my massive bruising well) [it should be noted that I was in a car accident two days before]. It was, however, in a park in Lawrence. And I stepped in a heaping, steaming pile of dog shit. Oh well, you work with what you've got. What I had was a stick, some handi wipes and an unrelenting paranoia that everyone knew it was me. Also I ran into [...] and all I could think about was where I'd like to place my newly acquired shit stick.

It was short. That was nice. They wrote their vows. I didn't cry until Jamie told him that since day one, she'd never had to fabricate any piece of him to fit her. That's what got me. He is honestly and truthfully himself and she is honestly and truthfully herself and I am excited--nay, honored, to be a character in their story. I'm particularly excited that JD is my friend, too, instead of just a snuffleupagus. God, they are good people.

[And then some stuff that probably, would be of considerable interest to you but I can't just go revealing everything, now can I? Leave something for the book deal.]

June 9, 2009

It's raining this morning and while many others see it as, at least, a terrible inconvenience, I take it as a good sign [boy, I sure to love a good comma, huh?]. I'm glad that I left the window open and I can smell that dirty, wet smell.

Last night I was feeling so small and uncertain. I was 98% sure I did the wrong thing. I promptly called Gina so that she would tell me that I was doing the right thing. And she did. And she told me that she's proud of me and that it will hurt and suck but that it will pass and that good things will come. I think she's right. [She was right.]

It's moving day. I'm moving to McPherson, KS. Sarah is going to drive to Olathe today. I will pack the car and then in the morning--she and Alyssa and I will take my stuff to its various destinations.

Last night Jamie and JD seemed pretty sad to see me leave. Especially when we all realized that I won't see them until they get back from Korea. JD hugged me hard and made me feel special. Jamie cried and her makeup ran and I cried--it's been an insane week, it was high time that I wail publicly. How can I go from living with these people so intimately to not seeing them again for at least a year--maybe two? Who knows? Our bond is different than I've ever had with anyone before. I can't explain it but I know why it is the way that it is... it's about survival. It's about jumping in feet-first into a dark and scary pit [everyone has a different pit that pit was South Dakota for us] and we were met with cold and spiders and goo and we all came out okay with mild residue and lessons learned and friendship and inside jokes.

June 18, 2009

Much has transpired in these past ten days. I am officially couch-surfing at Adam and Arryn's. Tomorrow = day one of my job at the deli. I hope it goes well. I hope I'm as eager and motivated to work as I was while I was in Olathe. There, I lived for working. I loved it. I hated days off because it meant just sitting around, staring at Alyssa and her staring back at me--equally bored. We talked about her baby. What ever did we talk about before Jeremiah happened?? Now, if I don't work, I'll walk to the library with Genesis or hold Amos while Arryn does the laundry. I feel useful here. But I am anxious about working. Excited to get a life that is different from A&A's. Excited about having friends. I should really start showering and wearing makeup. That's another thing that will change when I get my own place. I will have mine own space and freedom to move at my pace, on my own time, and not feel so in-the-way.

[Some more of that stuff that we're pretending you wouldn't be interested in.]

July 12, 2009 [I used to keep a journal so regularly but my upset in routine sure threw a kink in that]

I'm at church right now. This is the second time I've visited. Right now I feel the same way about church as I do about boys (... guys... men... what do you call them at my age?) : "Don't hurt me. Don't hurt me. Don't hurt me." I know that I won't get hurt if I don't get invested but if I don't get invested, then I'm just wasting my time. I know I'm just wasting my time.

And that's where it ended.

Far, Far From the Madding Crowd

"Hell is other people." Jean Paul Sartre

There's something to be said for looking around your home and seeing everything that belongs to you. It is usually and certainly comforting. If you come into my house, everything that you see is exactly where I put it (or where my cat dragged it after I put it somewhere else) and for the most part you can see a lot of me in my home and I take so much pride in that. But at the same time I wish that all of this wasn't mine.

I have my favorite pieces of art all propped up on my mantle, all given to me by good friends with good taste. I have my movie collection, wimpy as it may be, shoved into a cubby hole--not accurately representing my cinematic appetite in any way but filling the spot nonetheless. All of my coats and sweaters milling around every side of the coat rack in the corner. The table cloth that I picked out at the thrift store (this selection based on price, size, and minimal stainage) and curtains that I hate (but that I receive so many compliments that I keep them because maybe I don't see what's so wonderful about them) flanking the dining room windows. Come in to my house--soak me in. Get a feel for my vibe.

Yeah. Great. But I'm so tired of looking at my stuff. I'm so tired of looking at my stuff. I'm so tired of looking at my stuff.

I want someone else's jacket swung over the chair when I walk in. Don't you know how good that feels? Don't you know how home it feels to peek around the corner and see someone else's shoes at the top of the stairs or hear the shower running? Don't you know how crazy I feel when I walk into the house and say hello--to a cat?

I'm not saying that I feel lonely. I'm just saying that I feel self-absorbed and it can only be cured by another toothbrush in the bathroom.

I just want to look at someone else's stuff.

Censorship or Just Plain Politeness?

I don't know why my blog, here, stopped feeding to my Facebook page. I'm not going to try to figure it out, though. I'm a little bit relieved, honestly. Back when I was sure that only one or two people looked at this page, I felt a little bit more free to say whatever I wanted to. And then I set it up so that it would link directly to my Facebook and for a while that was really exciting because I could say some stuff and then people would comment and then we could get a real discussion going. And that was fun.

But what about how, for the past month, all I can think to talk about are things that I really don't feel like getting into in such a public place. You see this? This is, to me, about the social equivalent of having a conversation with two friends in a coffee shop. There are opportunities for other people to listen in. They can if they want--but we all know they won't. I am 93% certain that there aren't any secret readers of this blog. (If I'm wrong, feel free to blow my mind and identify yourself.) I feel like writing a note on Facebook is, maybe, like taking an open-mic night. You can stand up there and say whatever you want to a whole lot of people and they can pay attention or they can keep making out with their girlfriends in the back of the room and at the end, someone will probably have thoughts about what you just said and, depending on the topic, it could get hairy. Or not. Who knows.

Anyway, I don't mind having a conversation about things that I care about deeply. I don't have a problem defending myself and I don't have a problem throwing myself out there for public debate. The problem with saying what I'd really like to be saying--and then broadcasting it into a much more public (and still incredibly personal) venue is that the people on my friends list know me. Or rather, they have an idea about me already. They knew me when we were in the third grade together. Or they changed my diapers. Or they wandered into my life during the Fundie-Evangelical years and then we lost firm touch before I found my head. And all of these people have ideas about me from back in the day, and they can't help it. I do it, too. It just takes a lot of effort to introduce yourself over and over again. A lot of times it's just easier for me to stay quiet or avoidant. I know all that does is help to maintain, if not solidify, those preconceptions. It's not all their fault--they can't help it. I realize it's me, too.

Maybe I'll tackle those things soon. I'll talk about my thoughts on politics, religion, sex, personal identity, food and my ambiguous future. All of those things that I'm not really afraid of--but I am much more happy to leave alone.

Anyway. This will probably be the one post that does end up feeding into my Facebook page. Who's looking forward to that irony?

I'm going to write about books next.

I Plan to Look Like This All Day

I'll admit that I was wearing half-pajamas when I left the house today. And I am aware that half-pajamas, under all circumstances, equals Probably Shouldn't Be Seen In Public attire. But it was 8:30 and who could blame me for rolling out of bed and deciding to make use of my free-drink coupon at The Well? One large skinny vanilla latte coming right up. I made some effort. I washed my face, applied deodorant and even combed my hair before pulling it up into a ponytail. Easily Overlooked was the look I was going for and so I grabbed my purse, added a cinnamon roll to my order and commenced with the reading, listening and watching. I go to The Well way too often. Maybe four or five times a week. But here's the deal, a dollar and a dime will buy you unlimited coffee and it gets you out of the house for as long as you like. And not to mention, I like that guy that works behind the counter--he talks to me and it's coming to my attention that I'm not super awesome at maintaining my side of conversation all that often. Regardless, he's always friendly to me. He told me his name a few times, actually, but I never remember it and he never remembers mine so I say we're even and I like not knowing his name. So if you know it--don't tell me.

Really, the reason that I got out and about so early was because I was going to the Opera House thrift store. I'm hoping to spend about $8 on about 10 picture frames. I plan to spray paint all of them white and then hang them on a massive wall in my bedroom. My bedroom is depressing and I never keep it clean. I dress in there. I undress in there. I lay in bed until I have to pee and then I leave that room. I keep the doors shut and there's nothing I like about it--not like my living room. My living room has picture frames and jars of things and curtains and books and flowers and candles and other ultra femme things that I was at one point a little bit embarrassed about but now I'm unashamedly in love with.

You shouldn't hate your bedroom. You should love it. So that's why today I'm cleaning it big time. Shipping clothing items to the thrift stores and finally unpacking that suitcase that's been on the floor for coming on three weeks. I'll dust and open the windows and work on this art piece that I've been mulling over for quite some time. I have all of the stuff to do it except for one very important component--a canvas. And I prefer found materials anyway so "canvas" isn't at all the right word to use. Maybe it's dumpster diving time? I mean, what else do I have to do with my days except rifle through our garage and the neighbor's trash and wait for Lois to call me and tell me that I passed the drug screen and that I can start work tomorrow.

Hey, Remember 2005?

Back in the day we all blogged on Xanga. Remember that, ladies and gents? That was before I even knew what "blogging" was (I'm still not totally sure, I don't think). I don't know what I even called it, to be honest. Xanga was a fierce addiction to many in my group of friends in college. That was before Facebook. That was back when you had unlimited space to fill people in on your status. And boy did it cause some drama. I loved it. At the time. I haven't the patience for that, now. But then again I'm so much older and, obviously, so much wiser but still with the need to have an uninterrupted space that you will all pay attention to. God bless the ego boost.

On Xanga there were three different kinds of entries: The Recount, The Pensive, and The Jackpot.

The Recount
This sort of blog is really boring. I never read them. If I were to write a Recount blog right now it would read like this, "Got up at 6:30 because my cat was making noise. I watched Good Morning America and learned about the volcano in Iceland. I texted some of my friends even though it was not even 8:00 am. It is my sister's birthday."

The Pensive
Reads something similar to this (no proper grammar--it's about the art, folks), "dampness". The Pensive is irritating as hell and only meant to confuse your readers so deeply that they can only assume that you are some sort of philosophical genius. But, really, all that makes you smarter than everyone else is the fact that you have found a way to manipulate people into admiring you without actually doing anything admirable.

The Jackpot
Since Xanga was the pre-Facebook, this was how we got to know each other without actually having to meet. Jackpots were the best and very hard to come by. They include story telling with personal opinion and a certain level of instruction. They are for sure what I'm always striving for when I write anything. It's impossible to know, for sure, when you sit down to write whether or not it will be a Jackpot. And that's why you rarely get a blog post out of me.
The internet, these days, is often times unintentionally used as sort of a Home Shopping Network for friends and lovers. It was through the Jackpot Post that I decided the people with whom I wanted to be friends. For example, I read this huge post that was written by an acquaintance of mine (I'm saying, it could have easily been a solid three pages, single spaced, or so) about a car that he had in high school and it was right then when I said to myself, "I wanna be friends with this guy." And I made that happen. And we're still friends. And I am occasionally still impressed by his story telling. And that's why you keep the Jackpotters around.

My favorite thing about Xanga, though, was that at the beginning of your post you could tell the world what you were currently listening to or watching on TV or reading. I loved to use this space to tell everyone about the obscure music I listened to or to get people to think that I really was reading Kierkegaard in my down time between classes. Yeah, right. Like that was ever happening. But for the sake of nostalgia, let me tell you that I'm:

Currently Listening: Rosie Thomas, These Friends of Mine

Currently Reading: Anne Lamott, Imperfect Birds

Currently Watching: Rachel Ray

My Sweet, Glossy Weakness

I don't know if it's obvious to you or not but I have a sincere love and adoration for magazines. Oh my darkest days, a stack of magazines has a sort of healing notion. They're shiny, they're full of shoes that I'll never be able to afford, dresses that I'll never fit into and make up that I'd never wear anyway. But fantasy is fun. Who doesn't want to be Jennifer Aniston wearing underpants and a leather jacket--if only for a minute?

My favorite magazines, in order, of appreciation:

1. Dwell: Here's what Dwell does for me, it makes me feel a strange combination of hope and jealousy and future-nostalgia and planning all at once. I want to grow up and live in a cool house/ apartment. Also, I am kind of a geek for floor plans and European design. And in this magazine, almost all of the houses that they go to are inhabited by a man and a woman who have two different last names. So they're either partners and friends who never did marry or they did marry and she kept her last name. Either way, I love the idea.
2. Cosmo: Don't judge me. As a feminist, I really should not love Cosmo the way that I do since it's pretty much all about how to land a boyfriend and then how to keep him sexually satisfied until he either decides to marry you or break up with you. But it's not like you don't have those mindless indulgences that may or may not barely conflict with your personal convitions. This magazine smells delicious.
3. Interview Magazine: My first draw to Interview, honestly came from the format. It's big, bigger than your average magazine. It's, like, 11x13" or something. It's great. And it's not perfect bound, just folded and stapled and I just love it. Also, I don't know about you, but I love a good eavesdropping. Stop judging me, would you? I'm just trying to be honest with you here. How can our relationship blossom when you keep holding it against me every time I bring forth my reality? Okay, then. Anyway, my favorite articles come in a He Said, She Said sort of format so that I'm more or less just noseying into their conversations. All of the articles in Interview are really just conversations between two people. And not an unknown reporter and someone famous like usual. Like, the most recent issue is an article about Carey Mulligan by Susan Sarandon. That's cool stuff, man. My favorite article was about David Benioff by Jason Bateman. Also, the photography in this magazine is phenomenal.

That's all. What are your favorite magazines?

I freaking love magazines.

And I probably freaking love you.