Man, it’s been a while since I’ve cried. My last good session happened in April, while visiting home and feeling all that pressure for not yet being a parent/married/”settled.” I do believe that is the last time I’ve let go of some much needed crocodile tears. 

I’m sitting here at work, tearing up at my desk, which is always uncomfortable for obvious reasons. Not crying, just getting choked up. The lump. It’s a pile up, not just one thing. First the news story about an HIV+ man getting sentenced 35 years for spitting on a cop(are people STILL this uneducated about the subject? Seemingly so)…the idea of this just breaks my heart. This plus the weather—warm/cool with lots and lots of rain. I need a little sunshine, for sure. News plus the weather plus my ipod—the shuffle function seems to be currently stuck on melancholy, no matter how many songs I skip through. It’s all adding up to the fact that I need to release some shit. But now, at work, is not the time. Maybe post-five I will steal a moment to face plant into the pillow at home and just let it out. 

 And this bio writing, still struggling. I think I need to clarify the anticipated length, and I KNOW that relaxing about the entire task would help me tremendous. I’m never sure what to say about myself, besides the abstract and backwards. It all seems to matter, the details, the past collaborations and events and adventures. All of it adds up to a little bit of now. As does my mother’s absence and my father’s presence and the fact that I’ve been writing since I learned how to make a fist around the crayon. I started scribbling notes—I’m sure I will pull through it just fine. But oh the getting there

 Tonight I’m going to see Christina Springer do a poetry feature, gonna hop on the open mic and bring some flyers and push the show. I’ve been invited to read for some 8^th graders on the Friday after the book release and since I have the day off, I’ve graciously accepted. I’m going to go nose to the grindstone for the next few weeks to prepare—I’m really excited. I love any opportunity to interact with the younger folk, especially on the grounds of writing/poetry/creativity. I’m trying to remember what it was like—being in 8^th grade. I kind of remember. Kind of is the best I can do currently. We had the skating rink, the impending switch to the high school, the soccer games(the year I had a hairline fracture in my foot and had to wear a funny little boot for 4 weeks, plus crutches that ached my armpits and turned me to a crawl in the hallway between classes).  So see I remember some things. But what fears did I have? Not sure. Still painfully shy, still wrestling my hair, trying to lion tame it into something “normal.” I remember some urgency, the loneliness. The too-old-for-me boyfriend who wedged tobacco between teeth and lip and drove a Beretta. Oh sheesh now I’m remembering.

A fire by my house around 7:30pm. Leah pointed it out to me–I guess I tune out sirens a lot more now, because I didn’t notice the blast of fire trucks arriving. I live across the street from the hospital, so my immunity to those sounds must be building. Anyway, a fire. All of the front doors on all of the houses on my street popped open, one after the other. Little heads peeking out, faces. The woman in the house to my left said, “I knew my water pressure was low!” and then she took off down the street to the scene of the blaze, kind of half-running, half-walking. Very late for a very important date, apparently. Later Nick would mention the parents coming to watch the fire, who brought their children to see it as well. I guess everyone loves a good fire. I just couldn’t bring myself to be that interested.

In other news, the book the book the book. Shifting some pieces, making it work. Reading reading reading as if for the first time again. Getting ready to push them out of the nest. I think a release show would be nice, when the time comes. Although I must admit the idea makes me feel a little awkward, like I want to look down at shuffling feet kind of kicking at rocks like aw shucks. I like the idea of sharing the words that way, finding some writers to read at said event, etc. That will be a fun process. And! Maybe there will be tacos. Okay now I’m excited.

I danced all weekend. My knees are bruised, and the body is sore. Of course, even the best nights are not without their personalized strangeness–Saturday night an Edgar Winter man reached for the doorhandle to come in and last night witnessed a brief scuffle. Plus thai food and coffee and rum and shot glasses on strings. Oh and overly honest new mothers leaning over our game of pool at Remedy. Plus live music, new sheets and a block of knives.

Sick again. Back to the doctor tomorrow.

• Woke up at 5:45am with the radio/alarm and totally thought it was Saturday, and that I was on the beach(courtesy my HomEdics machine). Needless to say I was quite unimpressed to come to terms with it being Tuesday and I was not on said beach but rather in a too-small bed with a cat on my head and swollen eyelids.
• Rode in today. At a stoplight on Penn a little kid gave me two thumbs up. Then his mother yelled at him.
• It’s almost 70 degrees and it’s January.
• My coworker has switched from smoking cigarettes to stogies only. I am not kidding. He’s very “this is a logical step in the right direction for me.” I don’t really get it, but whatever. His 15 minute smoke breaks are now 25 minute cigar puffings. Congrats, It’s an Idiot!
• The Croatian candy bar on my desk that is “Punch” flavored.
• Accompanied by a mini gummi hot dog. The mghd is frightening enough–more creepy is not knowing how this appeared on my desk. What cubicle gnome is sprinkling the creepy sweets?

Well, my niece Maddie has been tossing cookies left and right for about a day now. My goodness–even observing is exhausting. Seeing a baby get sick just breaks my heart, but my sister and her husband are simply amazing, attentive parents. They have a tag-team thing going when it comes to clean up and cuddling that no American Gladiator could contend with.

Things are winding down here for the evening–a few friends are over and a movie is on, but the movie is just too mainstream and corny for my tastes. Or maybe I’m just missing the attention span necessary for optimal viewing. I myself am recovering from Thanksgiving dinner–of course I had to have a bit of turkey, and of course I ended up getting quite sick myself(I’m a vegetarian, so yeah I took a risk on that one. Stop making turkey good and I’ll proceed with more caution, maybe).

Before I dive headfirst into some muchneeded writing, I thought I would share the following:

The Bra Stash

Satin Bra Stash allows you to carry credit cards, currency, room keys, or valuables in your bra. It is a satin, washable pouch with snap closure, with two straps that snap around the base of each bra strap. Very lightweight and comfortable, it is even hidden when wearing a tank top.
3.5in X 4.5in

Survival kit-in-a-can

Contains 38 items which can provide warmth, shelter and energy in life threatening situaions from the desert to the arctic. Compact, lightweight, and watertight. Items include waterproof matches, boulion soup packet, bandages, compass and more!
4.25″ x 3″ x 7/8″

from flight 001

The What the F or, what they call, the Lillebaby Euro Tote:

Who the hell carries their kid like an under the arm hot dog?

Camera From Paris

Disposable camera that contains 27 undeveloped souvenir shots of Paris photographed by up-and-coming artists (every camera is different.
(from up to you toronto )

From Law & Order to the presidential race of ‘08, here comes Fred Thompson.  In the new Rolling Stone, there is a fantastic article that pretty much rips him to shreds.  He wants to be president. He’s been quoted as saying the following in regards to playing one on tv and being one in reality: “neither one of ‘em are hard.”

Anyway, read the article.

I just want to say that I think having an actor as president is horrific in a fantastic way.  Reagan did it. Life in Hollywood, how the famous are treated and perceived, is quite different from Ronnie’s days though.  I think a lot of Americans feel “relieved” to see a familiar face in office. If you watch Law & Order in a dedicated, consistent manner, then Fred Thompson is in your living room at least once a week.  Like an old friend, eh? 

Personally, I think it’s a damn joke that he’s running.  It was so last minute that I wonder if he felt peer pressured to do so because of the hype, or his actor street cred, whatever you want to call it.  But how poetic is it–Hollywood in the big house.  People eat that stuff up.  We live in a time where Britney Spears’ hair clippings and half-empty Red Bull can are sold on e-bay.  We know the name of her kids and the status of her downfall better than we know our neighbors, or that person we see on the bus 5 mornings a week.  Pop culture is small talk. 

 As Americans, the media has shown us more socialite vagina than war casualty facts.  We text instead of shake hands.  Everything is too personal, but estranged. 

 I see a common thread between Tinseltown and the White House though–drama/scandal pave the roads to both.  Hell, some politicians deserve their own star on the Walk of Fame at this rate–lying with a poker face and feigning regret when caught. 

I could go on, but that’s all I have time for.

This day has been one helluva roller coaster. My relationship is ending. My dad’s girlfriend is losing her father. Got to see Bob Log III at the Warhol. Found out I’m being audited.

Oh, joy.

I just finished packing for Ohio–going home for the weekend to see the family.

I feel like every thread of me is fraying.

Dialogue of the day:

The doctor looks at the paper, then looks at me. “Well according to this you are down to 14 points from 20. At least we’re moving in the right direction right?”

She’s referring to a list of statements on a piece of paper that I have just looked over and applied to my own life/situation. 6 months ago I scored a 20, which is high and refers to being very depressed, as opposed to my current 14, which I assume represents a “mild” glum rather than “very” glum. Or something. It’s a stupid list where you can circle “not at all,” “somewhat,” “more often than not,” or “all the time.”

I felt the tears damming up behind my lashes and I heard myself say to her “Yeah well all I know is how I feel in my life day to day–not what some stupid survey on depression tells me I feel.”

Then she left to print out my scrip and I sat in the chair wiping my tears off with such shaking fists–I was so angry. Angry and defeated because I sat alone in that room, and I felt like I had found another dead end to curl up in. Why isn’t there an answer for this? Who tells the truth on those damn things?

“Do you feel like you still struggle with anxiety?”

“I know I do.”

They referred me to the in-house psychiatrist, sent me off with an elevated doseage and instructions to talk to the front desk about scheduling an appointment with said psychiatrist. On my chart the doctor has noted “asap.” Funny thing is the psychiatrist’s next opening? Late-October.

Commence the pre-recorded, canned laughter.

The etiquette of the office bathroom has become the latest “huh?” in my mental arsenal of baffling things. 

I’ve voiced my concern to several friends and acquaintances, and now I post it here.  The concern pertains to the women’s bathroom, one particular stall.  It is the stall farthest from the door, the stall notoriously known for being the most spacious.  It is the stall for those with a disability that prevents them from using a regular stall with ease. 

For whatever reason, office workers insist on using this stall for the dropping of the deuce.  It is the farthest from the door and therefore, I suppose, the most polite place to do the business.  Personally, I don’t get it.  Didn’t they read the book? Everybody poops!  This includes elephants and mice.  It’s okay if you gotta go.  Just go.  It’s okay if it stinks. That’s normal.  Make use of the courtesy flush if the embarassment of a bowel movement in a public restroom is overwhelming.  Office toilets flush so fast anyway–you could successfully courtesy flush as bookends to the deed, and one in the middle if necessary.  Or, do what some of the ladies do–enter the stall to do your business, and then remain completely still and quiet until everyone else leaves the restroom.  As soon as you are alone, poop like the wind.  Faster than the wind, even.  If someone enters, pause.  It’s a sort of camode chameleon.  I am equally confused by this phenomenon.

However, if you have brains, just go.  For the love of goodness, just do your business, flush(it still kills me that people forget this part of the deal), wash the digits and get on with your day.  It really is just that simple. Nobody cares, really, they don’t. 

This is what concerns me:  the abuse of the handicap stall.  Why do office women insist on dropping the deuces here, and only here?  My concern lies with those in the same building, on the same floor who use the same bathroom, who actually USE the handicap stall.  Not only do they use it, but they NEED to use it, because the other stalls are not suited for their needs.  I think it’s downright rude to constantly be dumping in the only stall that some workers can use.  Real nice.  If I had a disability and I could only use the handicap stall, I would be pissed off about the constant potential stinkage.

I am guily of using the roomiest stall for other purposes–two times a day during the week, it is my phone booth.  I ride the bike into work and this is the easiest, most spacious place for me to change into my business casual and get on with it.  I don’t piddle around in there–I get dressed, I get out, done and done.  And my deuce droppage?  Done in the first stall(my slight form of protest), or whichever one is available if that one is occupied.   

I know, perhaps it is a silly thing to baffle me, but it does!  I’m concerned with how timid and sheepish grown women are about these natural occurances.  I’m concerned, but not surprised.  I would not have brought it up, but this morning I did my change thing in the last stall and noticed that someone had put a can of air freshener in there, next to the toilet dispenser.  Proof to my theory that others are treating this as their throne of droppage.  I wish I could explain how close I am to hanging a sign in there that says “Please crap in the other stalls available to you, you inconsiderate, selfish, scared little dumpers.  No one’s shit smells like roses.  Get over it.”

And speaking of crap,  I do not like Hillary Clinton’s little Sopranos-spoofing campaign ad/commercial about choosing a campaign song.  Horrible.