Going Dark

This whole blog thing started with me wanting to leave comments on other people's blogs, post some silly links, and tell a story about a mouse. Almost three years later, it's evolved into something else entirely -- a diary of sorts. And I'm often thinking that keeping that diary and making it public is something that might not be the best thing for me, personally and professionally.

Besides, isn't blogging just narcissism meeting the 21st century?

But I need a creative outlet. I need to write, to express myself through the written word. It is who I am, who I always have been. To me, it seems that I am not nearly as eloquent in person -- my witticisms are less witty, my earnesty less earnest, my hopefulness less hopeful, my sadness less sad. I feel the most when I am writing. I find myself crying rivers when I am writing, but am dry-eyed and logical when I am not.

I like the me that feels much better than the me that thinks.

Still, I need to figure some stuff out, and am too vulnerable here right now. Maybe eventually I'll write here again, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll work on that book I keep talking about instead or I'll start keeping a paper journal. Who knows? But, at least for the time being, this space will be dark.

Not Meant To Be

This is about the sum of it today:

Not Meant to Be - Theory of A Deadman

Stir-crazy

I am trying so hard to be positive, to think positive thoughts.

The hardest part, though, is that I am no good at sitting on my hands waiting for things to happen. I like to make things happen, to get concrete answers. I need to know what is going on. And, as I've said countless times to countless people, patience may be a virtue but it isn't one of mine.

I am driving myself crazy. I am making myself sick. I need to get out of my head.

Words

I love to write, but it's a challenge. When I am content, I often can't find things to write about. When I am upset, I often can't find the words to express my feelings. And I am always so concerned about what other people are going to think about what I write that it causes me to over-edit and over-generalize and over-simplify in an attempt to over-sanitize.

It is no different in my life. When I am happy, I focus on that -- but when I'm not, it's hard for me to express it -- to find the words, to articulate what I feel, what I think. And I am so conscious of other people's feelings that I keep finding myself burying my own. I am paralyzed by fear.

I have to work on that, because, for someone who makes a living as a communicator, I am not always effective at it in my personal life. I need to say things, to get them out into the open -- to make myself heard.

Baby steps

I worked on my novel again today, for the first time in months. It was just a chapter, but it felt like something major.

I applied for a promotion at work last week. It seemed like exactly what I needed to do to get back on the right track.

I spent time with my friends, some that I haven't seen in months, over the past several days. I went to happy hours and parties, had some drinks, ate holiday foods, laughed, and told stories. And the schedule of events on the horizon looks promising.

And yeah, I flirted. I had almost forgotten how good it can feel.

Observation #2

A positive side effect of having experienced actual tragedy is that it makes you better able to distinguish between the real thing and what is, for lack of a better term, just a bummer.

Seeing comedy in tragedy

I very rarely write about former relationships because I was taught that it's not nice to speak ill of the dead. (Just kidding! Or am I . . . .) No really, what I was taught is that if you can't say anything nice, you shouldn't say it at all. And while that rule doesn't apply to when I am sitting around with friends and family trading what seem to be witty barbs, it certainly applies to a written medium, and even more so to one that's as permanent as the internet.

But I keep thinking that there's something inherently comedic in this last breakup. Mostly because (1) I really didn't see it coming at all and (2) the location. And as someone who self-identifies as a writer, I can't get it out of my head without getting it down on paper. It plays out like a screenplay:

Enter scene. Urban IHOP, rainy evening. Girl walks into restaurant, in long coat, umbrella and shopping bags in hand. Sees boyfriend sitting at table, and goes over to him, grabs his hand.

You all can figure out how it goes from there.

The end is the beginning is the end . . . .

One minute, everything is going along swimmingly, and the next it's over. That pretty much sums up the year for me.

I walk into the room, thinking everything is normal, and then the floor disappears and once again, I am in free-fall mode.

I should know better than to invest in anything by now, but for some pathological reason, I keep on doing it. I need to stop setting myself up for disappointment. I need to stop expecting that things will work out. Clearly, they don't and the only thing I'm ever left with is a gigantic pile of defeat and heartbreak.

Getting close

I haven't bought a Juliana Hatfield CD since sometime around 1994, but for some reason, I've been reading her blog lately. A couple of days ago, I came across something she wrote back in June that really spoke to me:

The idea in this song was the push/pull of ambivalence — my simultaneous attraction and repulsion toward potential love objects. Feeling a longing for a connection to someone but pulling away before getting too close. Or not being able to get close. Being more than just afraid.

***

I’ve only ever been truly at ease when I am all by myself. For the longest time I thought this meant there was something really seriously fundamentally wrong with me, but now I have begun to accept this truth about myself: I am most comfortable (most myself) when I am alone. And I am fine being alone. Happy, even. When I tell people this, they usually think I’m fronting or being defensive, and they say, “Oh, you just haven’t found the right guy yet.”

Maybe that’s true. Maybe. But if I am willing to concede that, okay, maybe I have never met anyone with whom I am compatible, then you who say I haven’t met the right guy yet must be willing to entertain the thought that maybe what I claim to be true is true, and that maybe I really want to be alone. And maybe I like being alone more than I’ve ever liked being with anybody.

On some level, I understand this. But I'm starting to feel otherwise.

Introspection

The other night, someone said to me that they wondered what I was like before my mother died.

I didn't know how to answer the question.

Have I changed in the past 10 months? Certainly. Would I have changed over the last 10 months, regardless of the loss? I think so. Maybe not the same way, but people have a way of evolving, like it or not.

Maybe it's a question best posed to my friends -- at least those who have known me for some time -- seeing as it's hard for me to really see the difference from the inside. But sometimes I feel the difference -- it's as if I stopped being one version of myself in the early morning hours of February 7. Sometimes I feel older and more serious -- but not all the time. Sometimes I feel more inclined to stand up for myself, since my mom's not around to (1) do it for me or (2) push me to do things. And on a more noticeable level, I'm sure I'm a little more quiet, a little more closed-off, a little more cautious, a little more introspective -- and a whole lot more sad.

Still, the two changes that I am most certain of are that I've become less inclined to believe that things always work out in the end -- they don't -- and that, no matter what, I am capable of picking up the pieces and moving forward. Still, those are lessons that I'd rather not have learned, given the cost.

Christmas Spirit

I am, at heart, a non-confrontational person. Yeah, I'm guilty of offhand sarcastic remarks and quips when things annoy me, but most of it is meant in jest. For me to really get aggravated -- and speak out about it -- things really really have to bother me.

Today, I was bothered.

On my way to pilates, I stopped at the UPS store to drop off a package. I was returning one of many, many catalog purchases of late. Apparently, one of the ways I dealt with not getting a birthday present from my mother was to buy new clothing and shoes. But I digress.

The package was prepaid. So, I just wanted to run in and run out of the store so I could get to my class, but there was no parking, so I wound up driving around for a couple of minutes looking for a spot. When I finally parked and ran up to the store, large box in front of most of my body (The box was 2 feet long -- no joke), I noticed that there was a very long line of parents and kids, most of whom were holding red and green balloons.

I quickly gathered that none of the people in line were actually there to conduct business in the store. You see, as luck would have it, the UPS store is in a neighborhood that was having its annual Christmas Tree lighting ceremony, and the store itself hosted Santa. So after exchanging brief words with some of the parents, I decided to bypass the line and go straight to the door.

Of course some blond woman yelled at me, "How rude! Don't you see that this woman with a stroller and a baby is trying to get out? You should have let her out first."

In my defense, I didn't see the woman with the stroller and the baby. The box was obstructing my view, especially while trying to hold it while keeping the door open. And in all honesty, all of the people and all of their kids seemed like they were moving into the store, not out of it. But on some level, I was not being very observant. I mean, I was surrounded by all of the kids and the noise, and all I wanted to do was drop off the stupid giant box.

I said, "Oh. I'm just trying to drop off this box and I didn't see her." I continued walking into the store, handed the clerk my box, and proceeded to exit. The transaction itself took 5 seconds.

On my way out the door, the woman started with me again. She said "You are so rude."

I was halfway out of the store, but I got annoyed. I spun back around and said, "Excuse me?"

She didn't say anything, so I started walking again.

Of course, then she said, "I guess some people don't understand Christmas."

I stopped again. "You really want to do this in front of your children?"

She glared at me and said, "I can't believe you are so rude."

I got a little defensive. "First of all, I didn't see the woman with the stroller because I was carrying a very big, very heavy box. And second, if anyone has the right to be mad at me, it's her -- not you. Mind your own business."

She said something else, but I don't even remember what it was. All I know is that by this point, I was fuming. So as I turned and walked back to my car, I said, "Well, I guess your kids are learning that the true spirit of Christmas is to be judgmental and rude."

The woman with the baby and the stroller? She was long gone by that point. But if she had said something to me, I probably would have apologized.

Thankful

Tomorrow is my birthday; tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I've spent a lot of this past year grieving and trying to figure out how to move forward, which undoubtedly, is of more interest to me than to anyone out there in cyberland. But there are a lot of things that I am grateful for, even though I probably don't say it often enough or loud enough to compete with all the other noise.

Here are some of the major things that come to mind:

• My friends and family, old and new, near and far. It's been a tough year, and I cherish the love and support. I don't know how I could possibly have made it through the past year -- or at least the past 10 months -- without you. You are, collectively and individually, the best.


• My job. I really like what I do and where I do it.


• Nana. The past year-and-a-half has been really tough for you -- probably more so than anyone else -- but you teach by example that, no matter what, it's important to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep moving forward.


• My sister. Even though we disagree about things -- a lot of things -- I am so grateful for having spent the last 30-some-odd years trying to make each other giggle. I can't wait to be an aunt and tell your kid (or kids) about how wonderful it was to grow up having a best friend/partner-in-crime who lived in the same house.


• My brother. Thanks for making me laugh harder than anyone has a right to, for crying with me when we both needed it, and, in general, for being a good, good man. I am so proud of you.


• My dad. You are a rock. A crazy, weird rock, but a rock nonetheless.

Clearly, there's a lot more -- good food and wine, vodka, baseball, Entourage, cashmere, high threadcount sheets, homeownership, my Kitchen-aid stand mixer, naps, hugs, Robert Downey Jr. -- but the list keeps getting longer, and I keep thinking of more and more things. So I'll stop for now, count my blessings, and hope that this next year is better than the last.

Holiday musings

I miss my mother. I don't say it aloud very often, but it's there, all the time -- a constant subtext lingering just below the surface of everything I say and everything I do. Even when I am completely happy, it's not without a sense of profound loss.

Don't get me wrong -- I am happy. Things are good. In those minutes, the sense of loss strikes when I wish I could pick up the phone and tell my mother.

But I think that next few weeks will be a challenge of another sort. It'll start with my birthday and Thanksgiving, the first of both without my mother, and on the same day, no less. And then the rest of the holidays, which seem like they're off in the distance now, but will soon be rolling in like the tide. And even though I'm trying not to be sad or to dwell -- to keep things light and in perspective -- there's a part of me that wants to crawl into bed -- preferably with pie -- and not come out until after New Year's.

Interrogation, Dad style

My father called this afternoon. He's not a great conversationalist, to say the least, which is one of the main reasons we're down to talking about once a week. Generally, his conversations are pretty much, "Hi, how are you? Just wanted to check in. Have anything important to report? Heard anything interesting from anyone else? Okay, love you. Bye."

Today, though, he was trying to get information out of me. I was talking to him while wandering around the grocery store, and he said something that made me stop walking and ask, sequentially, "Why?" What have you heard?" and the kicker, "Are you trying to pry?"

He quickly backed off, saying, "I don't pry. Your mother would pry, if she was here. But I don't do that -- I just ask questions."

I laughed, because ordinarily, he doesn't even do that. And clearly, if he's going to get information out of me, he's going to need to refine his interrogation technique.

Dog Days

So this dog fostering thing? Let's just say that it hasn't gone swimmingly. Or, to be more precise, it has.

On Tuesday (gotta love federal holidays!) I took the dog to the dog park. Actually two dog parks. At the first one, there were three giant dogs that wanted to chase him, and he did not really like that. After seeing if the little guy could hold his own for a couple minutes -- he did surprisingly well -- my friend and I packed him back up into the car and drove to a different park. And PJ was really really good with the other dogs for a few minutes, until one little brown puppy (about half his size) drove PJ to run away -- into the creek.

So yeah, I spent my Veterans' Day fishing the dog out of the creek. And then giving him a bath. (He liked the bath a lot, but did not like being dried off. He growled and snapped at me like you wouldn't believe!)



Of course there's the other thing. The thing where he tries to jump up into my bed over and over again and keeps missing. Eventually he succeeds, but it is really really annoying when I'm trying to sleep. Combine that with the having to get up before the crack of dawn to walk him and let's just say that I am the most tired I've been in months.

Still, I wanted to tough it out with him -- but my neighbors are not in agreement. The dog apparently barks at every single noise that he hears, which, in a mid-rise building in a quasi-downtown area, is a lot. When I'm there and I tell him to calm down, he gets quieter, but when I'm not . . . . And the neighbors have been complaining. So, as a result, as of tonight, the dog is going to another foster home.

Ultimately this dog experiment has been an abysmal failure -- but at least I've learned that maybe it's not the right time or place for me to have a dog and maybe that'll help abate the puppy envy for a while. In the meantime, I'm pretty sure that the agency will find PJ a suitable permanent home, and, as an extra added bonus, I will always have the memory of a tiny little dog humping a giant orange cat-shaped pillow.

Puppy pictures!

So, here's PJ. He's a Maltese.





Right now, he's alternating between standing at the door barking at my neighbors, and lying in front of the door gearing up for more barking.



As if he's big enough to protect either of us.

Police

So after telling off the girl who cut in front of me in line Friday night, I spent the rest of my Halloween at the Coldplay concert -- which was very good -- and then eventually went home and went to sleep, gearing up for a big excursion to Ikea the next morning.

At about 3 am, I woke up when someone started pounding on my door.

Disoriented at first, I initially thought it was part of a particularly peculiar dream. But then they pounded again.

So I got up and went to the door -- without my glasses. I tried to look out the peephole, but I didn't see anyone, so I said, "Who is it?"

"Police."

I didn't want to open the door, especially since I couldn't see anything. So I said "What do you want?"

They asked for some girl named Emily Carroll. I told them that they must have the wrong apartment. They then said the right apartment number, and I told him that no one by that name lived there. So they left. I never even had to open the door.

I went back to sleep, annoyed and confused. Why would the police be knocking on my door at 3 am unless it was an emergency, and if so, why would they go away that easily? The whole thing makes no sense.

Out of Character

I'm not sure whether it's because of my profession or in spite of it, but for some reason, I have evolved into a particularly non-confrontational person. Unless it's of dire importance, I generally let things go -- or, at worst, passive-aggressively complain after the fact.

So, if, for example, someone cuts in front of me in a line, my general reaction is to let them do it. Sometimes I'll turn to the person behind me and say something loud enough for others to hear like "I don't understand why people think they're too important to wait in line," but more often than not, I'll just let it happen and quietly stew.

On Friday, however, I stood up for myself. I was on line to put my name on the list for a table at a busy (and somewhat overrated) restaurant about 90 minutes before the Coldplay concert. Some girl pushed in front of me to get to the hostess stand. Initially I thought that they had called her name for a table, but when she got up to the front, she was putting her name on the list -- the same thing I had been waiting to do, the same thing the girl in front of me had been waiting to do.

It only took me a second to decide to put an end to it. I took a step over to the side and said "Did you actually just push me out of the way to put your name on the list?"

She said, "Oh, I didn't know I did that."

I said "How did you not realize it when you physically pushed me out of the way?"

The hostess had no choice. She took the name of the girl that was really in line in front of me, and then my name. The girl who cut in front? Well, she didn't get her name on the list, and left in a huff, clearly embarrassed.

And I felt vindicated. Maybe I should stand up for myself more often.

Baseball v. Hockey

I went to my first hockey game of the season tonight -- my first game since last season's playoffs -- the debacle that was Game 7. But that's besides the point. Fresh off a horrible baseball season, and in the middle of a football season that I'm not too excited about, I started thinking about why it took me so long to really appreciate hockey.

So I started making a list comparing my favorite sport, baseball, against hockey.

The players:
Baseball -- Southerners, Latin Americans, and the Japanese.
Hockey -- Canadians, Eastern Europeans, and the occasional kid from New England or the upper Midwest.

The fans:
Baseball -- People with crewcuts and old Jewish men.
Hockey -- People with mullets.

The music:
Baseball -- A lot of country, with a little rap and salsa thrown in.
Hockey -- Rock N' Roll.

The weather:
Baseball -- Ideally, warm and sunny on a Sunday afternoon, but mostly hot and humid on a weekday night. And then there are rain delays . . . .
Hockey -- Cold. Earmuffs would have been nice.

The pace:
Baseball -- Leisurely.
Hockey -- Frenetic.

The resolution of a tie game:
Baseball -- Extra innings.
Hockey -- 4-on-4 overtime, and if that doesn't work, a dramatic shootout.

Somehow, I think hockey wins.

I promise I'm not ignoring you.

I'm just really really busy and tired this week.

And the World Series is on.