Day 2

I’ve been trying to write more lately. The problem is that whenever I have a compelling thought or idea, I’m never near a computer or pad of paper. It would be really convenient if I could implant a chip in my brain that would record my compelling thoughts and ideas and transmit them to my laptop at home, where they would be typed up nice and grammatical in a word document. Unfortunately, I don’t think technology has quite evolved to level where this would be possible.

I mused to myself on the way to work today about whether or not listening to the theme music from Doogie Howser while I blog would help my creativity. In case you were living in Siberia during the early nineties, Doogie Howser was an American sitcom about a 16 year old genius who was a doctor. At the end of every episode, he would sit down in front of his computer and type a rather thoughtful, reflective journal entry about what had happened in that episode. It was kind of the “moral of the story” moment. I think I’m going to put “Doogie Howser: Season 1” in my Netflix queue and test out my theory. I predict that I will just end up watching “Doogie Howser: Season 1” and doing no writing at all.

Coincidentally, I was reading a book about writing the other night. Really, the book is about how to write a story, or live a story, that people will want to read. It said in the book that you should write everyday, even if you don’t feel like it. Even if you don’t feel like you have anything interesting to say. It’s like any other job. On days when you don’t feel like doing it, you have to do it anyway. This is how you succeeded in writing.

I agreed with this philosophy. I figured that if I wrote a few pages of my thoughts every day for a year, I might have enough interesting compositions at the end of said year to gather into a book. (Whether anyone would want to read, or for that matter pay to read, my book was another matter entirely.)

The next chance I got, I wrote a few paragraphs for my blog. I saved it as “day1.doc” and put it in a special folder named “365” (for the 365 days in a year). I was pretty proud of myself. This was two weeks ago. I have yet to get to day two. I’m easing into it.

It just seems like whenever I sit down in front of my computer to write, my mind is suddenly blank. Ten minutes before, I might have been mentally composing the funniest blog anyone has read, whereas a mere ten minutes later I sit staring at that cursed blinking cursor on my mockingly blank screen.

It’s hard to be interesting all the time, you know? I mean, I generally consider myself to be a rather boisterous, funny, interesting person. In case you didn’t know, It takes a lot of energy to be so interesting. Some days, if you are lucky enough to be a boisterous, funny, interesting person, you find that you don’t have the energy to be yourself. On these days, people usually ask you all day long: “What’s wrong with you. Are you feeling okay?” I’m fine, I think to myself. I just don’t have the energy to be me today. People always ask me these questions when I’m quiet. I usually tell them that considering how often people complain or joke about how loud and talkative I am, they should enjoy the silence while it lasts. They generally agree.

This has led me to wonder if there really are a lot more boisterous, funny, interesting people out there who are just too lazy or unmotivated to be boisterous, funny, and interesting. I went through a very long phase over the last year or two during which I was trying to make new friends and expand my non-existent social circle in Kansas City. Now, most people, if they are honest, generally try pretty hard to be interesting and cool when meeting new people or making new friends. This is especially true if you are interested in dating any of these new people or new friends. You want to be funny, cool, interesting, and charismatic. You're on your best behavior because you want these new people to think you're the coolest person they've ever met. You want to be that person everyone wants to be friends with and hang out with. Sadly, most of us never achieve such coolness, but certainly not for lack of trying. Annoyingly enough, most genuinely cool people don't really have to try that hard to be cool. Jerks.

Anyway, I was stuck in this "meeting new people" phase for a little too long. After a while, I'd lost my gumption. It takes effort to start up an interesting conversation and keep it going. Especially when the person you're talking to isn't that interesting. It takes effort to be funny and make people laugh. It takes a lot of effort to motivate yourself to go to social gathering after social gathering, even though you'd rather put your head through a wall than go to another get together where forty nine people ask you, "Where do you live here in town?" and "What do you do for a living." I hate these questions. They are the grown-up equivalent of "What's your major?" It especially annoying when it's very clear that they don't really care about or listen to your answer. I've thought about making up a different job whenever someone asks me questions like this.

Random Party Guest: So what do you do for a living?
Me: Uh, I'm a logger.
Random Party Guest: A logger? In Kansas?
Me: No, in Canada. I also have a pilot's licence so I log during the week and fly back to Kansas on the weekends.
Random Party Guest: Aren't you a little petite to be a logger?
Me: I can bench press a 40 year old oak tree.
Random Party Guest: *silence*

The other perk of making up random jobs is that you never see most of these people again anyway. I figure if they make the effort to talk to me again at a different get together, I might tell them what I actually do for a living. Although being a logger is a lot more interesting than being a customer service representative.

Luckily, I got my social mojo back. It randomly came back one day when I forced myself to have an animated conversation with one of the random party guests I'd met previously. We had an actual, interesting conversation for a good five minutes. I was pretty proud of myself. It didn't lead to a lifelong friendship, but it helped me reawaken the social dynamo inside.

I think this kind of social dilemma re-enforces what the writer said in his book about writing. You have to write even when you don't feel like writing. Especially when you don't feel like writing. Making new friends is kind of like writing a good blog. You have to suffer through the boring stuff before you get to the good stuff. Suffering through the boring eventually pays off. Such is life.

Conspiracy theories, Patrick Swayze, and Coffee

Random thoughts from today:

My mother is a conspiracy theorist.

Patrick Swayze was really hot in Dirty Dancing.

I love coffee.

I'm not sure if it's really appropriate to address all three of these interesting topics in the same post, but let's have a go at it.

My mother told me today that the census is just a way for the socialists to take over our lives and try to find out as much as they can about us so they can ruin the world. Why do they need to know what time I go to work and come home? Uh, traffic patterns? Highway and road planning. That's rediculous. It's just a front. Okay.

My mother also told me today that you don't lose weight by excercising. Hmm. Well, I'm pretty sure to lose weight you have to burn more calories than you take in. It's not about burning calories. It's not? You have to eat right. That's how you lose weight. Uh, huh. So the show "Biggest Loser" is just a sham then? What's the point of exercise? It makes you healthy. Oh. It makes you healthy, but you don't lose weight by doing it? Right. Okay, it's all clear now.

I don't like spending time with my mother. Spending time with my mother is comparable to getting a root canal. It's really painful, but it's got to be done. And if you don't do it, the pain will get worse. If only there was nitrous around when I had to spend time with my mom. That might make it much more agreeable.

On that note, Patrick Swayze was really hot in Dirty Dancing. I think the fact that his character's name is Johnny really adds to his hotness. I'm not sure why. I feel like Johnny is the name of any typical bad boy character. Wasn't the guy in Greece named Johnny? Or was it Eddie? No matter. Patrick Swayze was smokin' in this movie. I can't say that I've ever before been a huge fan of the Swayze. I'll tell you what though, the scene when Baby seduces him with a sexy slow dance. Hot.

Patrick Swayze was not hot in Ghost, though. Or anything else I've seen him in. I don't think. I think the fact that I'm not a Demi Moore fan combined with the fact that I'm not a Whoopi Goldberg fan kind of ruin the whole movie for me. Plus, his name in Ghost is Sam. Not Johnny. Maybe if he'd been named Johnny in Ghost he'd have been hot. We'll never know now.

All I can say is, thank God for coffee. It's such a comforting beverage, and not just because it's hot. Cocoa is hot and it doesn't do it for me like coffee does. It's not even the caffeine because I drink decaff, from time to time, and it still does the job. I'm going to throw out there that it's not even the taste or smell of coffee that makes coffee so great. I think, for me, I psychologically have a lot of positive attachments, or associations if you will, to the word "coffee". I thank Folgers. Their Christmas commercial really hit it home for me. Or was it the one with Randy Travis on a tour bus? The best part of wakin' up, is Folgers in your cup. Not that it has to be Folgers. Coffee is magical and has healing powers. It warms my soul.

We'll leave it at that for today. (Unless the socialists kidnap us in the night. In which case we won't be here tomorrow.)

-9-20-09-

He

She feels so very ordinary, but he makes her feel matchless, unequaled. She can’t fathom why he is captivated by her. Every word. Every gesture. Every laugh. He sees what she doesn’t see in herself. Fragile and vulnerable beauty. He’s been waiting for her for so long. Everything about him feels like home. His touch, his smell, his kiss. The way he looks at her. The way he holds her face in his hands. Every word drips with significance. Every look is heavy with meaning. Every feeling is deep and real and true. He is her guardian and her shelter. In his arms she is protected. He has charged himself with her safety and sacrifices himself and his needs for hers. His eyes are always upon her, in waking and in sleep. He is jealous for her love, even though he knows he has it all.

Their connection is more than can be articulated in words and is better understood in the rhythm of their hearts. The most is made of every second, for the next they may not have. Like water in the canteen of a desert wanderer, their time together too disappears quickly. Leaving thirst for more. A thirst that is never quenched. Apart, the longing is an animal whose only predator is unity.

Rememberances of my Dad . . .

I remember the day my parents told me they were getting divorced.

I remember not understanding what was going on.

I remember sitting in the backseat of my mom's Taurus driving through the night to my grandparents house. I remember that when we came home, Dad was gone.

I remember Dad dropping me off one night at Mom's and I remember wanting to stay with him. I remember him picking me up and huging me. I remember seeing my mom watching us through the front window and I remember trying to wriggle out of Dad's hug because I didn't want mom to see me hugging him. I remember feeling guilty for missing dad.

I remember watching Doogie Howser at Dad's apartment on Wednesday nights.

I remember the smell of his apartment.

I remember how my sister and I had decorated the bunk beds he made us with Christmas lights and toys.

I remember climbing up the doorways in his apartment like a little monkey.

I remember when Dad met Janean and I remember feeling like I shouldn't like her. I remember not understanding why I couldn't like her. I remember not wanting to hurt Mom.

I remember the night I felt like Dad loved Janean more than me.

I remember the last day I spent with Dad before we moved away to Wichita. I remember that we went to Worlds of Fun. I remember having fun but feeling like I wasn't supposed to be having fun.

I remember sitting on the floor of my closet the day we moved in to our new house in Wichita, arranging my stuffed animals. I remember Mom handing me that big, chunky portable phone with the extendable metal antennae and talking to Dad. I remember it like it was yesterday.

I remember Dad and Janean coming to visit us and how we went to eat at Red Lobster. I remember Janean brought us sea stars.

I remember Dad and Janean coming back to visit us but mom told Dad to leave because he'd brought Janean and we just wanted to see Dad. I remember feeling like I didn't really feel like how Mom said I felt.

I remember when the phone calls stopped.

I remember missing Dad at Christmas one year and how Mom got mad at me because she could tell I missed Dad.

I remember wondering over the years how different my life would have been if I'd lived with Dad instead of Mom.

I remember getting cards from Dad on my birthday and Christmas. I remember that for a long time all Dad was to me was two letters and two checks a year.

I remember wanting to invite Dad to my high school graduation and mom saying that I couldn't because he would ruin everything.

I remember the night that I showed up on Dad's front porch after tenish years of not seeing or talking to him. I remember that I always knew I would see him again.

I remember the first Christmas I spent with Dad after all the years we'd missed.

I remember the time I asked him all those hard questions that had been building up all these years. I remember seeing the tears in his eyes as he struggled to answer them.

I remember how happy I was that Dad and Janean were at my college graduation.

I remember how my daddy and I were buddies. We still are.

Remembering is important. It reminds you of where you've been, where you are, and how you got there. It also helps to keep you from re-visiting places you've already been.

Musings from Florida

I’ve been thinking about a myriad of things over the past week or so. I thought this week would be a time of great self-exploration for me, and in a sense it has been, but not in the way that I expected.

The first few days of my trip were nice. I ventured out on my own and was having a good time. It was at about day four that I realized that I was tired of doing things alone. My sister was supposed to have come with me and she wasn’t able too. Here I was seeing the “sights” alone, having lunch at a restaurant for one, taking lots of self-portraits, and having no one around to get into trouble with or share stories with. I can’t say to anyone, “Remember when we were in Naples and . . .” unless I’m talking to myself, of course. I was driving down the road telling my sister how bored I was and in frustration at her suggestions I practically hung up on her. I was angry. I was tired of doing things alone. Yes, I repeat myself. I said exactly that to God. I’m tired of always feeling alone. I need good friends. I need my husband. I need community. I’m sick of being alone. So very sick of it. I know that the Lord is always with me, but I feel, guiltily so, that just isn’t enough for me. I don’t know how to get over that. I feel like I’ve failed God. I feel like I can never shake this feeling. It’s not that I don’t believe I will find my perfect husband someday, because I do. It’s the waiting in the mean time that is killing me. I wonder how long I will be alone for. Even scarier, I fear that after being alone for so long I won’t remember how to not be alone. I struggle to find peace with all this. I don’t know what the answer is.

I was also slapped in the face with the great disfunctionality of my family. I went to two AA meetings with my uncle Tom and heard him and others speak of their battle with alcoholism. He suggested more than a few times that maybe I could be the one to get my dad to go to AA. It seemed like a lot of responsibility. Adding in all the complications there already are in my relationship with my dad and my step-mom, all I could visualize was disaster. I asked myself whether it would be worth it to stir up all that trouble. Things didn’t seem all that bad. I have several other issues I need to resolve with Dad and Janean before I even touch Dad’s problem. It is of course possible that resolution of his drinking problem may well affect the other problems. I just feel like their feelings towards my sister and I are conflicted. I feel like half of them is glad we are around and the other half is not. The other half thinks we are a nuisance. The other half is irritated that we threw a wrench in the well-oiled machine that was their life before we re-entered it. I feel like a blow-up is inevitable. I feel like if I am in that house much longer and Janean says just one more thing or Dad tries patronizingly to squelch us being us I might just explode. I never realized until this weekend how ridiculous their “no raised voices in the house” rule is and exactly why they have it. They don’t like to address conflict. They prefer to ignore it. They bottle up their emotions deep inside. Sitting here writing about it makes me angry. I have to be careful because the Michelle that likes to hurt people with words would need all the strength on heaven and Earth not say something in an argument with Dad and Janean that I wouldn’t regret or have to apologize for later.

My uncle told me that I am a strong woman and that is a good thing that I inherited from my mother. I don’t always feel very strong. Last night Tom gave me his five-year sobriety chip from AA. He told me that someone else had given it to him and maybe one day I’d be able to give it to my father. I feel like I am leaving here with more on my plate than I came with. I don’t know what the answer is.