Sea Monkeys

Here's one thing I've been working on lately. This chair is for CASA's Festival of Chairs, a charity auction held October 5. Those unfamiliar with CASA can read about the organization here: http://www.arkansascasa.org/. It's a good cause and I'm glad to participate.

 

I had a lot of ideas for chairs, but I ended up using these vintage comic books. There's such a charm in them that's missing in the new, glossy ones. While I may never have believed that "Coin Collecting is Exciting!" I certainly remember the ads for Sea Monkeys and Hostess Twinkies.

 

 

 

Why Blogging is Difficult

I haven't been blogging lately as I've intended to, not because I have nothing to write about, because that's never true. My mind is always going; I observe and think and feel things at an exhausting pace. I constantly compose things in my head, plan paintings, start projects. It's never a case of what is there to do, but what do I do first. I don't understand people who lack ideas, people who get bored, people who find it easy to sit still. I don't really even understand people who watch television.

The reason I don't blog more often is that so many of my thoughts are simply difficult to share. They're too personal, sometimes. Too complex, often. And so much of the time, especially lately, my thoughts involve other people: other people's struggles, or their failings, the things they do to annoy me or to encourage me, the things they say that embarrass me. Private as I tend to be, it's hardest of all for me to write about other people.

The reasons I censor myself are so varied and subtle that I can't even explore them here. Not now. But they come from a lifetime of being molded, rewarded or punished, for the things I say. We all experience that to a certain level, the pressure to express ourselves differently than our wont, but I have always felt it keenly. I realize that my writing is stronger, often, and certainly more interesting when I edit myself less but, barring an occasional slip of the tongue when tired or in an ill temper, I simply don't know how. In fact, I often think through what I'm going to say so many times before speaking that I leave things out, having forgotten what I haven't said.

For the most part, I'm not ashamed or embarrassed by anything I think, yet I'm still private. I try to accept my foibles and flaws as graciously as I do those of others. But I'm choosy about what I share with whom, because even kind and accepting people don't always understand. Writing my thoughts in a blog is counterintuitive. Anyone could read it, anyone could misunderstand, anyone could write hateful comments with bad grammar and repost on Twitter. Most often, I don't care about these things, because people are so often unreasonable. But sometimes I do.

The fact that my brain works the way it does--thinking many thoughts at once, following many paths back and forth--makes it hard to express thoughts in short blog posts. Imagine a spiderweb, where each thought has tendrils of thought leading out from it, and each tendril is connected to other tendrils in a spiral pattern. Imagine being aware of all these thoughts simultaneously, to how they interact and form connections, how they're active and alive, expanding and retracing their pathways, and forming new connections. Imagine experiencing this web in various ways: colors fading into other colors, each string having a different melody, a different tensile strength, a different smell, a different speed of movement. Now, imagine a mind filled with a hundred of these webs, each different, each sharing similarities, and each breathing like a living organism.

Imagine experiencing this every moment of your waking life.

Imagine, too, a memory that causes things from twenty years ago to be as fresh as yesterday. Imagine remembering, word for word, that thing your American history professor said in class on April 1, 1993, when he was talking about the Muckrakers, when your hair was wet and you were wearing that blue sweatshirt inside out. Imagine remembering the exact quality of sun on the morning you heard on the radio that a man had escaped from prison, when you were four, when your mother was planting zinnias in the flowerbed behind the house, and how you made your own raisins by laying them on an old board on top of the roof, and how you ate grapefruit for breakfast loaded with so much sugar it barely tasted like grapefruit, and how your hands were sticky and you wiped them on your yellow terry cloth shorts.

These last few weeks, I've thought a lot about people in my life: friends who've lost their parents, whose marriages and relationships have ended, who've entered new relationships which haven't met their expectations, who have health problems and struggles with old traumas and old demons. I reflect on these things, I think of blogging about them, but I don't. I listen, I help as I can, I offer my support, but ultimately, I don't feel comfortable talking about them.

It's going to take me time, but I'm eventually going to write about the more difficult things. There are things I believe people should hear, though I'm reluctant to be the person to say them, and there are things I believe I should say, if only to say them. All of it is counterintuitive; some of it is downright scary. But it's something I'm going to do.

Generosity (Meditations on Turning 40)

This is the year I turn 40, and I've been spending more time than usual reflecting on what I've learned over the years.

It's strange how you know things, and then later you really know them, and realize you didn't know them at all before.

Lately I've been meditating on how often I must relearn the same lessons. There was a time when this would have bothered me, when it would have felt like failure, or at least a lack of progress. But more recently I've begun to recognize it as a benevolence. I may learn the same lessons, but each time I revisit them with greater depth.

There are days when I realize, with aching clarity, that I'm guilty of the same behavior that I recently condemned someone else for. It doesn't matter that, at the time, I recognized I had tendencies towards the same weakness, or that I really did feel affection for the person I was annoyed with. I judged that person, perhaps not harshly, but with a sense of superiority, an idea that I was aware of this flaw in myself and had overcome it. Maybe my criticisms were entirely justified, but those same criticisms were no less justified when directed at me later. I should have been kinder.

That's when it hits home just how much I still have to learn. It's the same old lessons all over again.

Ouch.

It's humbling, and yet it's a sign of how far I've come in life that, instead of condemning myself for this type of thing, I can accept the lesson with a mingling of regret and gratitude for my ability to recognize my failings. I can accept my weaknesses and my strengths equally, which deepens my ability to accept those things in other people.

So, that's one way I've been maturing over the past decade: learning generous acceptance of who I am, and who others are. The first one is necessary for the second. The thought isn't profound; I've thought that as long as I can remember. But I understand it better today than I ever did.

Brief Respite

I haven't blogged for a couple weeks because life has been unusually complicated and/or annoying. I did take a few days away, but it was an internet-free weekend out in the Missouri countryside, so no blogging was being done.

There was relaxation, though. Sleeping late and watching a bit of television. Taking a stroll through the garden. Venison teriyaki with garden-fresh vegetables. Really good coffee. Old friends and desultory conversation. Time to watch the hummingbirds and the nuthatches.

It rained much of Saturday, so on Sunday morning we set out for the wildlife preserve for a stroll. We walked the boardwalk over the swamp. The water was high and the native fauna were active. We saw a raccoon, a woodpecker couple, frogs, dragonflies, a crow, fish, skinks, a snake, bumblebees, and assorted other creatures.

My friend, who's been a city-dweller longer than I have, was more excited by the wildlife than I, but also of the firm opinion that it should keep at a distance. She talked about how peaceful it was, while I suggested it would be the perfect setting to film a horror movie. We get excited by different things, in different ways. Even in my excitement, I'm prone to be blasé, but she has no such compunctions. We've been friends for a long time.

Midway through our walk, we heard singing from the far side of the swamp, traveling across the water. It was haunting, beautiful but eerie, distorted so that we couldn't make out words. Perhaps my earlier rhapsodizing about the haunting stories that could be told had altered the atmosphere for her, because she began to feel creeped out. Oops.

We'd walked for almost two miles without seeing another human, save for one young man we'd passed at the entrance to the refuge, propped on a bench with a book of some sort. Not a reading book, some kind of journal, I thought it was, but he seemed to be seeking solitude so we had passed quickly. A swamp really isn't the place to get chatty with strangers. Was he the source of the mysterious music?

Of course he was. Not realizing we'd looped around a second time, he must have thought we'd already left. As he became aware he was no longer alone, he stopped singing, moving skittishly and looking up at us with a ducked head. We made a couple friendly comments about how much we'd enjoyed his singing, to put him at ease, and passed on.

A few seconds later, he'd recovered his wits enough to speak, and called after us. "It's National Pirate Day. That's why I'm dressed like a pirate!"

My friend and I exchanged amused glances, neither of us having noted anything remarkable about his skull-and-crossbones-patterned bandana or hoop earring. Perhaps we were both remembering how it was to have felt that young, that self-conscious, to feel the need to blurt out an explanation for our choice of dress to complete strangers.

"Oh, I've heard of that," my friend said, ever the sweet-natured one. Then we turned again and ambled on, noting the elms, sweet gum, and hummingbird vine.

At lunch, her mother asked us about the walk, and listed the wildlife we had seen: "Raccoon, woodpeckers, skinks, frogs, snake.."

"Oh, no, a snake!"

"And a singing pirate."

"A snake?" Apparently a pirate didn't seem remarkable to her. But a snake.

"Oh, he just ignored us. He just kind of flicked his tail and snaked away through the water."

"And the pirate was more afraid of us than we were of him."

I drove home that night, enjoying the novelty of highways marked with letters instead of numbers: DD, WW, T. I drove past the vaguely Anglian sounding waterways of Mingo Creek and Throgmorton Slough. In Arkansas, I barely resisted following the sign pointing to Success (Could it really be that easy?) but gave Scatterville a wide berth.

There were traffic hold-ups--overturned trailers and auto accidents and slow, country drivers. But it was a peaceful drive. I made it home in one, albeit stiff and sore, piece.

It's the closest thing I've had to a vacation in years. It was relaxing, despite the pirate.

More Stuff I Found While Moving

 

 

 

Window Shade

I've been working on this window shade for a few weeks. I needed something to filter the light from the transom window above my bed, and, while I could have easily knitted one, this was faster and cheaper.

The project is made entirely from paint samples and paper clips, and hung with thumbtacks. The only real cost was for the paper punch, which I got for $10.

I love this window shade. I love the way the light shines through it, and how it looks different at different times of the day. It's my little bit of happy.

 

 

More High School Art

This is a squirrel I drew when I was 16 or 17. It must have been for a class assignment, because I can't imagine it being the kind of thing I would have chosen otherwise. I've always preferred to create more abstract/expressionistic art. But I take it as evidence that I knew how to draw.

Doodle

Here's a sad/worried/apprehensive face.

Art

I've been in the process of moving the last few weeks, and sorting through stuff to get rid of. A couple days ago, I found some paintings and drawings I hadn't seen for about twenty years.
The thing that struck me most about seeing my teenaged art was how surprisingly good it was. I remember, at the time, being terribly disappointed in all of it. But now I realize it's actually pretty good stuff.

What I've been thinking is that, removed from the immediacy of remembering what I wanted it to look like, the disappointment is gone. Years later, all that's left is what was actually produced. And, even at the time, no one else looking at it had any idea what image was in my head. They only judged it then by what it was, the same way I do now.

It's easy, when you're given to perfectionism, to dismiss what you produce because it will never match the ideal you imagine. Even worse, it's easy to never produce anything at all, because you know it won't live up to that ideal. If you aren't careful, you can waste years being unproductive.

It's easy to fall prey to this, whether you're talking about art or the art of living. People talk about the novels they've never written, the promotions they've never tried for, the relationships they gave up on. It's not just running out of time to do things, but opting out of a meaningful engagement in life. And, as the years pass, like Mark Twain said, "you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do."

So, keep striving. Be productive. Chances are, you're doing better than you think.

 

Sadness

I've been meaning for some time to write about a typical day. I've noticed that so few of my friends, family members, and acquaintances have any concept of what my life is like. The ones who aren't parents don't understand what it's like to be one, and the ones who are parents but have partners don't know what it's like to be a single parent. The single parents I do know, primarily, have ex-partners who still help out, or extended family members who take on some of the parental roles and responsibilities. Almost all of them have well-paying jobs (or at least jobs that pay a living wage); the few single parents I know who really struggle financially are all young, uneducated, and just starting out.

I'm in a kind of odd situation in that, while I have some things in common with a lot of people, I don't know anyone else who simultaneously is single, a parent, highly intelligent and educated, working full-time but still very poor, and (for all practical purposes) alone.

I've been trying to figure out a way to express what an average day for me is like: what it's like to wake up at 6:30 a.m., to get a highly inattentive and disorganized child ready for school, to meet with child's teacher, to pay bills and do grocery shopping and do laundry, to go to work and work very hard on my feet while supervising and organizing and coordinating employees (who may or may not show up), to pick up my child after 11:00 p.m. and drive home, feed the dog, get clothes and food ready for the next day, look over my son's homework, and try to tidy a bit before collapsing in bed at about 12:30 a.m., knowing I have to be up early again in the morning.

And it's not just that I do these things on a normal basis (which I do). I'm also doing them when I'm sick or tired, when the dog has figured out how to jump the fence and started wandering the neighborhood, when my son has been up half the night vomiting and I've had to change the sheets twice, when I've had a hard day at work, when I'm overdrawn at the bank and don't have groceries to last till payday, when I'm exhausted or moving or have been injured or have to schedule five appointments in a week for doctor 's visits or therapy. I do these things when (after three months of physical therapy) I still can't lift a one-pound weight without pain, when my heart is broken, when my friends aren't talking to me, when my son is acting out at school and collapsing in tears at night, when I haven't had time for lunch or dinner, when I'm in the process of moving across town, when my ex is harassing me, when I work an eleven-hour shift with half my employees missing, when people I love are ill or in the hospital, when a friend's ex-girlfriend is threatening suicide because he and I went to dinner.

That's the thing right there: the more I tried to describe a typical day, the more I realized that there is no typical day. The only consistency in my life is that I do what I have to do, the best that I can, with as much kindness and grace as I can muster, day in and day out, whether I have help or not.

I'm not very good at sharing personal things. In fact, I almost never do. And even when I do, I always hold back. I don't trust easily or deeply, and seldom for long. But I've been working on this. I've been forcing myself to talk to people about things I never would have otherwise, trying to be open and authentic. Unfortunately, this hasn't necessarily paid off. But I hear it's a good thing to do, so, in the spirit of that, here are a few confessions about today:

I have nearly run off the road or had collisions several times this month due to sheer exhaustion. Today a car stopped suddenly in front of me and I barely managed not to rear-end it. I'm sore all over and was a little shaky, but I still went on to work and didn't even mention it to anyone.

I've been trying to catch up on my Oscar movie viewing. I rented Lincoln from Redbox over a week ago. I still haven't watched it. I feel guilty about the cost of keeping it for so long, but I still don't know when I'll find time to watch it.

I've recently received some completely unsolicited, out-of-touch advice from well-intentioned people who don't know enough about my situation to be helpful. Even though I'm feeling disrespected and annoyed, I still interact with these people because they feel like the closest thing to friends I have.

Tonight, when I got off work, I was so exhausted I nearly cried. Then I checked Facebook and saw that someone had posted pictures from a birthday party. Instead of being happy for her, all I could think of is that I have never really had a party, never had the kind of friends and family who would take me out for my birthday. I suddenly felt very lonely.

This deeply lonely feeling is new to me. I guess I never really expected anything different, so it didn't bother me much. But for a while I had a small glimpse of what it might be like to be that kind of person, to be someone for whom things like birthday parties and meals out with friends were a normal and expected part of life. And I felt like I was missing something important, one of those things that other people may take for granted, but still somehow seem to value. And I also realized that I not only have never been one of those people, but I probably never will be.

So, here on what is, for me, a typically atypical day, I feel an unexpected sadness. Not because I'm tired or alone, because I'm used to that. But because I think I'm always going to be tired and alone, and it's just occurred to me that maybe I don't want to be.

Funny of the Week

I recently discovered the parody site, Reductress. Considering how I absolutely detest "women's magazines," I've had a lot of fun watching them skewer the tropes.

There are so many things so wrong in our society; sometimes the best (and only) defense is to laugh at them.

Here's a particularly on-the-mark example:

http://www.reductress.com/how-to-not-get-raped-class-a-big-hit-in-indiana-town/

Enjoy.

Character

One thing that's been on my mind lately has to do with how people's actions often don't line up with the way they view themselves.

We think of ourselves as basically honest, for example, yet we lie. We think of ourselves as patient, but we yell at our kids. Maybe we think we're smart about relationships and even give relationship advice to other people, but we've never had a happy relationship ourselves.

You know that uncomfortable feeling you get when you've caught yourself behaving out of character? That "I can't believe I did that" moment of shame and confusion? Psychologists have a term for that: it's called "cognitive dissonance."  Cognitive dissonance is such an uncomfortable feeling, apparently, that no one can tolerate it for long. Faced with this threat to our self image, we quickly scramble to create a new explanation for why we've behaved as we have. We do it for ourselves, and on behalf of family and friends.

It's possible, of course, to just expand our understanding of what types of behavior we're capable of: "Wow, that was a really thoughtless thing I just said; I should watch that. I don't want to be that guy." Certainly it seems like the most logical approach.

But typically, that's not how we react. Instead, we tend to engage in some complex mental gymnastics called rationalization. Rationalization works like this:

"I wouldn't normally say something that rude. I must be very tired. Yeah, that's it, I'm tired and he just pushed one of my buttons. Really, he was asking for it. In fact, he should apologize to me!"

"Oops, she caught me lying! Well, okay, that's true, I did lie. But there were extenuating circumstances. I really did it for her, because she would've gotten so angry if she'd found out I was doing that thing she asked me not to do. Yeah, that's it, I was protecting her! It's not my fault she can't handle the truth. And it's just this one time. Well, this time and that time last week, but that's okay, there were extenuating circumstances then, too. It's not like I'm a liar or anything. I only lie about things that aren't important. I'm a really honest guy."

"People make such stupid decisions when it comes to relationships! They should be smart like me. Okay, so I may not have had a good relationship ever, or even had a date in years, but that's not my fault. I've just been waiting for a good man to come along. And there are no good ones! Really, when you think about it, men suck!"

One of the dangers of this kind of rationalization is that we develop bad habits. If we make excuses for bad behavior, that behavior continues. Sometimes this translates into those kinds of minor bad habits people mostly overlook, like being perpetually late, or repeatedly interrupting people. These things are irritating, sure, but they don't make you a bad person.

There's a more serious problem, though, that often attends rationalization, and that's the blame game. We blame circumstances. We blame our environments. We blame our upbringing, our past, our health. Worst of all, we blame other people.

The blame game is dangerous. When we blame other people, we're not just abdicating responsibility for our actions: we're saying the other person deserved whatever they got.

"I wouldn't have raped her if she hadn't led me on."

"I wouldn't have hit her if she didn't deserve it."

"I don't think old Fred would cheat on his wife. She must be lying. "

Most of us want to believe we're good people. So, when we behave in ways that we don't think good people behave, we have to makes excuses for it. But the world isn't divided into intrinsically good or bad people. Every person is capable of good and bad things. But it's the choices we make, day in and day out, that determine the type of people we become.

If ultimately, our character is determined by our choices, and not by how we view ourselves, doesn't it make sense that we would try to evaluate our choices objectively? Wouldn't we want to look at what our loved ones do as rationally as possible? Wouldn't we have a better chance of being the good people we want to be if we admitted to our own darker tendencies?

Well, sure we would. But sadly, people aren't usually that logical.

Hope is the Thing With Feathers

I have heavy things on my mind tonight, so I'm trying to balance them out with lighter thoughts. Like feathers. Here's hoping.

Sometimes

A Little Honesty

I have a confession to make: I'm not good at telling when people want me around.

It's not that I think people don't like me. I honestly believe I'm as likable as most people, probably more likable than some. Let's face it, as a general rule, people suck. At the very least, I'm a person who tries not to harm others, though I often do so by accident. That's not true of everyone. There are people who go around spewing hate and bile wherever they go. Compared to them, I look positively rosy.

Sometimes, it's obvious when someone wants you around: there are times when you see people's faces light up as you enter a room, or they say how happy they are to see you, with feeling, or they call from out of the blue to invite you to lunch. But, in general, it's not that obvious. People tend to be busy and distracted, overwhelmed by responsibilities, worries, and heartaches. Maybe they want to see you, but they have too little energy left over after meeting all their obligations. Conversely, they may not feel like seeing you at all, but politeness dictates that they pretend otherwise. Even worse, there are people who will use you to distract themselves from their own loneliness, when they don't particularly care about you at all.

Like most things in life, I'm sure my confusion stems from my natural temperament combined with my upbringing. I was one of those oddly contemplative children who spent a lot of time in my own head. In my earliest years, I lived out in the country, away from other children. My siblings weren't close to my age, so I didn't have a lot of playmates. When I started school, I was shy, and the other children often overwhelmed me. Growing up, my family relocated often, and, while I honestly don't believe anyone treated me badly, I never did feel like I belonged. There were times it bothered me, but in many ways I preferred my own company to that of most people.

As an adult, I have a little more freedom in choosing who I spend my time with, and I've learned to be more outgoing. I've learned to look people in the eye and to smile, to focus on putting others at ease, to ignore my own discomfort. For the most part, I've conquered my awkwardness. And I've discovered people who I genuinely enjoy being with, who share my interests and sensibilities.
But there's still a part of me who feels like a nuisance. Even if I know someone cares for me, my default assumption is that I'm interfering, that I'm a burden. I've felt that way as long I can remember, and I have to work hard to remind myself that it may not be the case.

I'm not always aware of this kind of thinking, and that can cause problems. Recently I've hurt people, people I care about, because they assumed I wasn't thinking about them. I didn't call a friend on her birthday because I was in a negative frame of mind and didn't want to burden her. I was merely waiting until I had something positive to offer, and assumed she had other things on her mind. The idea that she would be offended, or even miss me, didn't occur to me.

I've made other mistakes, too, by appearing sullen or self-centered, or by simply not knowing how to communicate to people that I care for them. I find reaching out to other people difficult, having been emotionally self-reliant for much of my life. And when I do reach out, I can easily become defensive, because I already feel like I'm imposing.

I'm still trying to navigate the waters of relationships, and I'm not sure I'll ever be good at it. I know there are people who are naturally gregarious, who seem to gravitate to people automatically, who know the right things to say, and don't second-guess themselves. To these people, it may be easy. But I'm not one of these people. I'm one of those people who, all too often, doesn't know how to navigate the line between being a nuisance and letting people know I care.

Zombie Movie Poster

Today's doodle is inspired by a truly perplexing first world problem: what do you wear to your zombie prom?

I recently purchased an awesome knitting book: Knit Your Own Zombie by Fiona Goble. It has patterns for zombie parts which can be assembled in different combinations. As soon as I'm healed enough to do any sustained knitting, I'll be turning out my own zombie horde.

The book can be found at this link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/1440557160/ref=mp_s_a_1?qid=1365621548&sr=8-1&pi=SL75

Thompson the Octopus

I doodled this guy today. My son has named him Thompson.

Another Doodle

Here's to the Girls

Here's to the girls:

To the ones who learned, from the start, to be quiet and to be nice. Who learned to speak in "maybes" and "I thinks."

To the girls who learned to sit still and not to jump in puddles, to play baseball better than the boys, or to climb too high in trees.

To the girls who were told they were too tall, too chubby, or too skinny. To the ones who learned, at an early age, that their bodies would never be good enough, and that, therefore, they would never be good enough.

And to the ones who were praised for their beauty, who learned, at too young an age, that their looks were all that mattered, and that, therefore, they would never be good enough.

To the ones who were told they were "too smart for their own good." To the ones who were told they couldn't be good at math or science.

To the girls who believed they had to choose between being smart or pretty, between being successful or popular, between love and respect.

To the girls who were taught they couldn't be priests, ministers, or rabbis. To those who were surrounded by pictures of a male Deity, who never really felt they were created in God's image.
To the ones who were told they weren't funny.

To all the girls who were abused in subtle and unsubtle ways, who hid themselves and were never seen, who were afraid to show themselves, but wanted, desperately, to be loved for who they were.

To the girls who survived.

To the ones who didn't give up.

To the strong ones.

Here's to them.

Small Mercies

March is not greatly improved over February. Still healing slowly, still broke, still heartbroken. Last night, my phone bit the dust, and today I found out that I have six weeks to find a new place to live.

I have a very Lenten attitude, so I suppose it's fitting. It's like being in a holding pattern, waiting desperately for spring, knowing that no amount of effort can make it arrive sooner. My meditations in the last couple of weeks have been about this: reminding myself that, even when life seems secure and settled, that it's impossible to know what will happen next. These times of living in limbo are really no different in fact than the times when we think we have a definite future ahead of us; it's only a difference in emotional perspective. The feeling of security, of thinking we have the next month or year or decade planned out, is nothing more than an illusion. The future is always being written. It can change at any moment.

A friend once told me that, when everything around you seems to be going downhill, that the best you can do is look for the small mercies. Like when you lock your keys in your car, and appreciate that you did it after arriving at work, instead of before work, in the snow, while wearing patent leather shoes.

Maybe it's a fatalistic attitude, recognizing that things could always be worse, but this is the same friend who told me that I shouldn't look to karma for a reward, because "Karma would have to shower you with diamonds to make it up to you, and we should keep our expectations within the realm of possibility." I'm pretty comfortable with existentialism, all told, and understand entirely the attitude that meaning in life is found in the struggle to thrive. Sometimes the best you can do is to appreciate that you've managed so far, that you're strong enough to bear the constant uncertainty of this frail thing we call life.

So, in the spirit of "things could always be worse," here are a few recent "Small Mercies":

No matter where I end up living, I won't have to live with my ex husband.

The world still has ice cream, puppies, and daffodils.

I know some really awesome people.

Spring is just around the corner. Which means Lent will be over soon. Which means I can drink coffee again.

I Wish for You...

This, and many other good things, besides.

Nice Guys (And Why They Suck)

Being Dumped. Chances are, if you've dated, you've experienced it. And unless you're a masochist, you don't like it.

I'm not a masochist.

I've been on both sides of the dumping often enough. Despite the sheer awkwardness of dumping someone, which I always thought was worse than people gave it credit for, I'd still rather be the dumper than the dumpee. If you're lucky enough to have been on the easy side of the dumping more often than not, anyone who's ever been dumped can tell you, one time is still too many. Even when a relationship is falling apart around you, even if you can see the asteroid hurtling toward you and you've already put on your Anti-Fiery Cataclysm Jacket (TM), it still sucks with the force of a black hole.

I've dated more than my share of emotionally stunted jackasses, which explains the reason for the dumper/dumpee imbalance. But I've always have a soft spot for Nice Guys. And no one can break your heart like a truly nice guy. Here's why:

1. Nice Guys want to let you down easy. They say things like, "You're too good for me" or "I have to get my act together before I'm ready for a relationship." Nice Guys dump you because they're insecure, or they have issues with commitment, or because you scare the crap out of them. They go to great pains to make sure you know it's Not Your Fault. Nice Guys don't want to you to blame yourself, so they hold your hand and tell you how beautiful you are, and how they don't deserve you. Then they bail.

2. Nice Guys don't want to hurt you. They obsess over everything they've (theoretically) done to displease you and blame themselves any time you feel unhappy. Nice Guys are so afraid of failing you that they set themselves up to fail. They think you deserve something close to Perfection and, since it's impossible, they give up. They hurt you because they're afraid of hurting you. They justify this to themselves because...

3. Nice Guys assume you'll be Okay. You're strong. You're loved. They didn't make you happy anyway. You're better off without them. And, worst of all, you'll Find Someone Else.

4. Nice Guys don't understand irony. They dump you because they want you "to be happy." They honestly think that the best way for them to address their Intimacy Issues is to break up with you and start seeing a therapist.

5. They want to Be Friends. This is the worst of all, the way they expect you to maintain cordiality, to still come to birthday parties and family functions, to smile and maintain polite conversation in the presence of other people. They post on your Facebook wall, share funny stories, and message you to ask How You Are. They Offer To Help. They thank you for Being In Their Life.

The reason it hurts is because you have no reason to be angry. Anger is energizing. It gives you the pep you need to Move On. It helps you to remember that you deserve better. But when a guy is so kind, so complimentary, so Interested In Your Well-Being, you don't have any way to mask the rejection. Because, in the end, Nice Guys (despite their sincere best efforts) remind you better than anything else in life that you just weren't good enough.

February is out to get me

Easter is early this year, which of course means that Lent came early as well. Like many people of faith, I look forward to Lent with both positive anticipation and a little bit of dread. Lent is, after all, about giving up things. It's a reminder of your frailty, of how much you can live without, a pledge to discipline. Lent isn't about resolutions or self-improvement, but about deliberately choosing a form of poverty, of recognizing the impoverishment of the spirit. Lent is a reminder of your dependence on God.

This year, I gave up coffee. I gave it a lot of consideration, asking myself repeatedly if I really wanted to put my coworkers through that. I decided I did.

The thing about giving up coffee is that it's difficult. A Lenten discipline should be difficult, should be something you think about often, should disrupt your daily life enough to serve as a reminder of your place in the universe (hint: it's not in the center). It's a fundamental attitude shift I take on: When others jokingly remind me of how good their cappuccinos taste, or when someone ignorantly offers me a cup of coffee, or when I go to the coffeehouse for free Wi-Fi and I drink tea...it's a reminder, and I feel gratitude for the reminder.

Lent is about giving things up, and giving up coffee was hard.

Little did I know I would be giving up so much more. (Cue dramatic music.)

At the beginning of February, I had an accident at work. No details are necessary, other than it wasn't my fault. I hurt, a lot, and have reached the end of my tolerance for the painkillers. I've lost a good bit of flexibility and most of the strength in my dominant hand. This has made it impossible for me to perform the very physical job I had, the promotion I had worked so hard to get, and of course is a setback to my career advancement.

I can't knit.

My alimony has ended, and I can't pay all my bills. To add insult to injury, the small raise I received last year has made me ineligible for Category A Medicaid, and I now have to pay a portion of my son's routine medical bills. So, my financial insecurity has deepened.

I've lost time, due to doctor's visits and physical therapy. It wouldn't seem like much, but 4-5 hours of appointments a week are a real time suck.

I also had the flu this month, which resulted in more time off of work (without pay).

My boyfriend and I broke up. That's a huge loss.

I've even lost my dignity. While groggy and numb from hydrocodone, I scratched a big gash across my forehead. It's a beauty, let me tell you.

I'm really hoping this is a February thing. February's a short month, just a week left. But I'm afraid it's a Lent thing. It feels like a Lent thing. I'm just having a hard time feeling grateful about it.

Ten Things Men Should Learn (Like Right Now)

1. Your tight pants are not hot. Even if sperm motility isn't a concern for you, please have consideration for the rest of us. I'd prefer to keep my eyeballs.

2. Your weird chest tattoo freaks us out. I like Edgar Allen Poe as much as the next literature nerd, but his face is the last thing I want to see during sex. Unless you plan to keep your shirt buttoned up during all future intimate moments, choose your tattoos carefully. Or, you know, get your dead, alcoholic authors tattooed on your bicep like the normal dudes do.

3. Do not show me your weird chest tattoo the first time we meet. I suggest a third-date field test, at the earliest.

4. If I'm typing away on my laptop and mention all the work I need to get done, that means I do not have three hours to listen to you talk about football, your job, and your ex. Even if you buy me coffee. The rule is: You can talk to me for as long as it takes me to finish the drink. If I go bottoms-up with a piping hot venti, take the hint.

5. Thank you, little hipster boy, for complimenting my sweet frames. I wear glasses to help me see things, like how you didn't know how many lords were a-leaping. And how you were so busy complimenting my sense of style that you nearly let the door slam in my face.

6. If you can't glean the lesson to be learned in number 5, try this one: Listen. For example, don't ask me a question, then interrupt me mid-sentence to start talking about football. Or about how much your job sucks. Or about your ex.

7. Never, ever make the mistake of assuming that appearance is directly related to interests or lifestyle. Comments like "You don't look like a geek!" or "You're too pretty to be single!" are demeaning. That's why I like to respond with, "You don't look like a loser!"

8. Comments like the ones above aren't compliments. Neither is suggesting you would like to have sex with me as though it's a favor you're bestowing. Especially when you do that kind of thing at work. Especially when I'm your boss. Especially when I'm old enough to be your mother. Especially when you haven't finished your work. Especially when you're an idiot.

9. A smile is not an invitation. Neither is a short skirt. Or a nice figure. Or happening to be female.

10. You are not automatically the most important person in the room. This is true even on your birthday. If you're lucky enough to be the most important person to someone else, realize that others may not share that opinion.

That Whole "Resolution" Thing

For a few years, people have urged me to blog, you know, regularly, and--while I did capitulate on a couple of occasions--it's obvious to anyone who read those two blog posts from December of 2011 that my heart wasn't really in it. I had a secret blog once, which scored a lot of page views (probably because of my frequent use of provocative search labels, heh), but even that wasn't something I felt invested in.

This blog has more unpublished drafts than published entries, including notables like "10 Things Men Should Learn (Like Right Now)" and "Dead German Poets are Geniuses (And Other Logical Fallacies)." I know I started "Secrets and Confidences" more than once, which morphed into "The Really Juicy Secrets," followed by "I'm an Open Book (Mostly)." At some point, "Secrets and Confidences" turned into a play, then a screenplay, then was abandoned altogether.

The reason I abandoned the blog (and the other blog, before that) wasn't because of poor ideas or poor writing. It wasn't because I couldn't find an audience or because I doubted my own thoughts. There was some of the old "rediscovering my voice" to be done, sure--which is much more of a thing than it sounds in that trite phrase--but even that wasn't exactly it. Certainly, I needed time to let some of my thoughts coalesce, blah blah blah...I'm talking about myself thinking about my thoughts, horriblly self-indulgent and I'm boring even myself.

Congratulations if you made it through to the end of that last paragraph. My blog, my rules, my shameless obsession with my own thought processes. Win-win. For me.

I don't remember the last time I made a resolution at the new year. I usually make resolutions during Lent, which is great, because 40 days of resolve is about all I can handle. Plus, it seldom means stuff like jogging outside in winter weather. So, the renewed blogging isn't really a resolution.

The reason I'm blogging again, this time, you know, for real, is because recently a few friends have expressed their frustration with the cultural climate for women. Yes, we've been taking steps backward; we've got the illusion of having arrived as a feminist culture, and yet have lost ground where it really counts: in the political and social arenas. Women are more divided from one another, across racial, socioeconomic, and generational lines. "Girl culture" has morphed into some type of consumerist, ironic hootchie-mama nonsense that makes many of us cringe.

A week or so ago, a woman I only know on the internet sent me a message of thanks for my "voice of sanity" in a decidedly un-woman-friendly environment. I may repost it here later, but it was remarkable. It mattered. And after two or three other friends expressed their recent despair over the loss of their voice in this postfeminist culture, I've decided it's time to have a forum for the things I've been saying already. You know, a positive place for women where so much of that is lacking, the internet.

I'll probably also talk about knitting and movies and things like that. But, you know, in a feminist way.