Jello Always Happens


Lots of pale images lately.  Not sure on the palette.  Not on purpose, I don’t think, but it is fitting.

I have been writing on the story today, but I kind of feel like I need the structure of the post to pull me out of my funk.  Today has been weird and lame, and bed-ridden for no reason.  But I was

So I made some shitty life choices last night like staying up until 3pm watching small town city council meetings.  And I almost completely fucked up our trip by refusing to look properly at the calendar and use my brain.  Enough so I had to call an actual hotel and talk to an actual person to verify that we were not going to have our asses kicked out on the street before the event was even over.  Because, honestly, if I didn’t have this advance notice, I’m not sure how in the hell we would have made this happen.  Sleep in the car or something, pretty sure that would not be allowed.  Or the ways we’d have to make this happen would have made it so much less pleasant.  Nothing would be easily accessible.  And the little sister would be really mad at me, rightfully so, because the whole thing about this is early access.

Sorry.  Monday = explanations.

So yeah, I’ve been sort of depressy and not doing anything today.  Nothing of note at all.   I am feeling really hungry and ready for a diet break when this is when I need to start paying extra attention.  I am not destroying the diet, I just need to get a grip.  Some focus.  Because I haven’t been losing weight, and I feel distracted and ready for giant bowls of popcorn and eating my way through this and I know that isn’t the right answer.  I just want to feel that feeling of being able to shut myself up and turn myself on and deal with all of my problems through carbohydrates.

I may chew through this whole pack of gum.

Now I’m just trying to gather up some of these crazy loose ends that I have about and get some focus for tomorrow.

I’m refusing to think anything about emails or things said in emails or times between emails or if I misunderstood tone or if things are happening without my approval emotion-wise.  Some percentage, of course, is thinking about it.  But it doesn’t matter, regardless, because I did what I wanted to do with it.

I am now done with the Great British Bake-Off.  Like Bee and Puppycat, all caught up on the two little episodes I’d missed. Epic Rap Battles of History. Watching Prairie Home Companion for a second.  Anything to fill the void, I guess. It’s Chris Thile, though, so it’s better that the usual void-filling, nostalgia for a place I’ve never been sort of feeling it generally provides.  Or Bioshock videos.  Something.  Something.

I want to run in the dark and start yelling.  I want to pull the pin on that old grenade.

Sincerely Dangerous or Dangerously Sincere?


Tumult.  I like that word.  Feeling it today.

Okay, I have to pause that.  A little birdie gave me some news and I can’t talk about it yet because nobody knows yet, but come Monday, I’m sure the great and wild lot of you will be given to know about the great fun I intend to have in August and where and when and how and what shall be happening. But I learned about something in advance and took advantage of that knowledge to make sure we’ll be a step ahead when everyone dances and prances in come Monday.

I know that’s vague and weird, but google alerts, you know, one little flag and suddenly, you have people paying attention.

That’s probably not true.  Nobody will give a shit, but I just want to explain why I am so up at 11:30 in the evening when I have a terrible headache that the aspirin has not really touched and probably I didn’t eat enough or buy enough food, but I’m also glad, because I had to set aside funds for this happy-making August business.  I’m also glad I rescheduled my hair appointment for tomorrow even though I NEEDS IT.  Because it’ll help make the going over a bit easier.

Ah, what else can I ramble about for thirty minutes and three hundred words?  I got the DVD version of my single favorite movie ever, Trust.  And I wondered, as I watched the little interview segment they added on there, was this my single favorite movie of all time?  The people involved seemed oddly ambivalent about it.  Seemed distracted, the angle of this little tiny nineteen-minute documentary seemed almost as though they had to be, if not coerced, convinced to talk about it.   But slowly, somehow, it just became intense and perfect, as actress and director, Hal Hartley, finally, with the thing almost over, sat down in the same space.  The whole thing looked askance, and I thought it was exactly right.  Of course, even then, you had Adrienne Shelly.  You can’t help but look in her eyes and search for something that could never be there.  Some foreshadowing of her terrible fate.  She is my favorite actress, was…Sudden Manhattan, her surrealist, magical, quirky as fuck film, blew my mind.  So weird, the comedy so black, the big notions falling, again, askance from what you expect.  But here, she’s Hal Hartley’s creation and the turn she makes from this big hair, Long Island teenage monster, with her hand out to her father as she demands five bucks and casually tells him she’s pregnant, as she goes from that to this penitent, self-searching woman who questions the basis of the crap relationships and experiences that brought her to where she is.  Who wants better for herself and the man she comes to love, a love that bends both of them in ways that we as an audience get to decide the value of.   I am rewatching it now and it is as perfect as I remember.

He says he’s going to watch it.  He’s seen other Hal Hartley films, of course he has, but he hasn’t seen Trust.  But he will.

Nominative Determinism Quicksilver


I am in the interim.  Sister is still asleep.  I am up because I thought there was a breakfast meeting my boss was coming to pick me up to go to, but the roads are so terrible that she’s just going on her own and suggesting that we, on our own recognizance, decide about coming in.  I have some things that need paid today – not to mention the fact that payday is tomorrow and there may be more snow coming and I don’t think I can get access to all the pieces of information I need to pay them without physically going into the office, but at the very least, it seems we have some breathing room between trying to get there at nine and sweat and worry about it.  Because even if we left right now, it sounds like getting there is going to take some time.

But until we get this decided, I will be a bit knotted and anxious because it is morning and a work day and despite the fact that schools all over are having a snow day and things are closed everywhere, I have this internal dialogue that imagines I should find some kind of dog sled and Iditarod my way in.  That’s what a good worker would do.  When my car, the one with 4WD, only has one wiper and the sister’s tires on her car are dicey, I still feel this guilt about sitting here in bed with my socks on and a blanket and a cat blinking at me, considering if I could put on Dragon Age: Inquisition.  Or how much cleaning I could get done if this turns out to be a snow day.  I would much rather be told: yes, you must or no, we’re all not. This up to you stuff, you always wonder if it’s being tallied somewhere, even if just subconsciously.

So yeah, I got an email.  Another epic, knotty, (knotty, not naughty) email and I should have waited to reply.  I would have been more considered.  Less vulnerable, I guess.  I just responded really empathetically and wanted him to know that. That I cared, I guess, about his troubles.  That I understood.  Which, I don’t know.  I said some awkward things .  I should have waited at least a day for polish, but it’s much too late now.

Fuck, I, just, yeah. I know you can’t help me. I keep thinking that someone could help me, but they can’t.  I know the advice that can be given.  I should meet him, get it all made up of real things, let it live or die on its own lungs, knowing I’ll have to kill it once it starts walking.  I just have to stand here, feeling shit, and arbitrarily responding to what I feel and ending up where I end up.  I’m starting to get too comfortable in this bed. I’ve set an alarm so I will get up and make some decisive decisions, but I keep hitting the snooze button.  It’s like a metaphor or something.

The Arrant Sentinel


Yes.  Virginia.  There was a letter.  A letter apologizing for making me a bit longer for a longer letter.  Mostly because he’s been getting into a game I recommended he get into.  There may a poem to discuss.  I don’t know, y’all.  It isn’t anything, but it’s something.  It’s nice.  It’s stupid.  It is problematic.  It is still just two people writing at one another.

And I have been burnt by such a thing before.  But at the same time, there’s Griffin and Sabine.  Letters have power, a good letter can change your mood entirely.

I know I keep talking (by which I mean writing here about it and there’s a couple people who know that I have…they know as much as I’ve shared in this space) about it and I keep thinking in my head that I should just shut up.  I should just keep it, selfishly, sensibly, in my head where it can’t get overworked and overwrought.  Even if this is where the rolling pin comes out and stretches this little ball of conversation into a bedsheet-sized crust.  Apologies, I’m almost done with Great British Bake-Off and these doughy, unfortunately carb-laden analogies will stop, I assure you.  I even know I keep on dithering and pushing forward, casually.  I keep asking myself what a grown-up lady would do, but I don’t like the answers I get.

I just keep thinking of things we should talk about with each other.  Is that weird?  Like I want him to read my writing and tell me what he he thinks?  Like I don’t know about hanging out as people, but hanging out as disembodied sentient spirits which access to a keyboard?  It’s, I like it, like…a lot.  Everything else right now feels the color of winter and I know my energy allocation is off, I just…I have to be here now.

The snow is falling and I am home an hour and a half early as a result.  My windshield wiper is broken, that’s exciting.  But at least that super expensive warranty I stupidly bought should cover it, but it probably can’t get fixed until after all this snow is done on Friday. And tomorrow morning, new boss is coming by so we can go to a continental breakfast for our Point of Sale software company and I…

I feel like I want to be clever and coy with a letter to read while curled up in these blankets.

I’m typing this up so that I can play a game and not look at my email.  That seems like a good thing.


My brain has turned to mush, apparently.  Maybe I need to eat something.  I don’t know. I could have used that time better, but I watched the Parks and Rec finale and now want to watch every single episode of that.  And it’s hours later than my first few lines here and I still haven’t eaten so I am going to rise from my own ashes here and get some food in me.

Cloud Stacker



Word by word.

I am thinking about it.  The girl by the telephone can at least wait for a ring, can attend to other things, can’t cradle it to her ear or anything in these terrible lengthy pauses in our conversation.  I feel as though I want to know the moment it arrives (assuming it will) and so I, obsessively, glance at the number in my inbox for a tick upwards.

Paying this much attention to it…well, you run the risk of thinking that is the only thing that is going on.  It’s not, of course, it just feels that way.

And until there’s another word, another rung, another vote of confidence…there’s just me stacking clouds and clicking refresh.

Work.  My event is starting to get the tiniest bit of steam which is necessary and important.  Everyone’s really chipper and optimistic, but I’ve seen these things deflate mid-stream and nobody seems to know why.  But why is because right now, things aren’t coming together.  The planning has been secondary to me just being sure I’ve got everything rolling with my basic responsibilities.  I’ve got one maybe now, though, from a chocolatier, which is more than I had yesterday, and lots of support from the boss.  So, we forge ahead.

Writing.  Well. There’s an area that needs some attention.

Body.  I continue to have one.  Every time I do the hypnosis, I feel some benefit, but lately, as with everything, I’m rushed. We go to the store after work and that means I eat later and I’m caffeinated with this tea, but then I strain my brain for an hour to work out my five hundred words, and even knowing how important it is to getting this diet moving in the right direction, I don’t carve out any time for exercising.  If I’m honest, I’m outright refusing. And I have all these ways to do it where I could even get on the bike with my xbox controller for my computer and run myself all over the Hinterlands while I cycle about and nope.  I’m not.  My little sister did email me today and mention trying a free cycling/yoga class where I guess they turn out the lights and turn on certain music and I’d like to try it.  It, like so many other things I should try, does come with a tail.  If I enjoy it, it means trying to coordinate the getting there on a regular basis, or paying the exorbitant amount of money it would cost after we do this free class.

But I figure, it is something.  And it’s a free something.

Fuck my hands are stiff.  I’m typing way too slow for comfort.

I am also completely despondent that Parks and Rec is over.  No spoilers, please, because I won’t be able to watch it until it’s posted on Hulu tomorrow, but wow, that show has leavened many a night in my anchor of a brain.

So, yeah, off we go towards a tomorrow, and who knows, maybe a letter.

The Knitted Island


Yeah, it’s cold around here these days.  Snow on the ground, snow in our hearts.

I have these weird feelings, these totally normal, completely understandable feelings unless they’re not, but I can’t be the one to judge.  And some of which are personal enough that I don’t necessarily feel like I can or should just blurt them out here, because, well, I’m finding very little distinction between the sort of things I address in a blog post and the sorts of things I’d email to him and things are still…fluid?  I don’t want to be talking out of both sides of my face even if I am of two minds about this whole scenario.

But at the same time, this is my safe, venting zone.

I don’t know.  With Mr. Rochester and those before and after that are of his type, I had my hand on the spigot.  And I tried to be careful about how often and how much to turn lefty-loosey.  I didn’t want to seem invested at all.  I didn’t want anyone to have any idea, because everything I felt could never happen, it embarrassed and stressed me as well as thrilled me.  But that meant never, ahem, getting my cup filled.  Always being thirsty, being comfortable with a dry throat and silence and lapping up dewdrops.  But nothing could be foisted upon me.   I could wax rhapsodic and daydream and never have to put up with shitty opinions or days when neither of us look that great or having to be fucking supportive and interested like a human being.  Now, I have to drink because I’m concerned that if I don’t, later, when I’m parched, there won’t be anymore.

And if I am too demure about shit right now, then, to take this gross analogy further, he can quite easily cut the water off all on his own.  Neither of us, at this moment, seems interested in that, but I don’t know the rules or the ways.  I am just answering the emails, freaking out about the tone that has been ratched up, how many of the seven veils I have left (probably seven and a hundred to spare).

So when I write back, I worry.  Because he knows more words than me.  Because this sort of semaphore we’re using with one another has subtext, has allusions that are becoming knit into new, shared language.  I’m not the Word Girl, we’re the Word People. I have to pay attention and be present for it.  And it was this elevated, intense correspondence, this sort of tennis match.  And this last time, I felt just chatty, just casual, just like I was writing a post in response to this epic thing.  Not like I was trying to be this coy, elegant, mysterious thing.  It was much more of an integration with my actual self.  Which is healthy, but the unhealthy part finds it very disappointing. Mildred cackles and rattles her chains. You’re already boring him and you don’t even LIKE him.  She caws.

Sugar Fog


Well, yesterday was a cheat day and I know all the pitfalls of cheat days.  Or, in the form they’re taking this year, so far, cheat meals.  But, for better or worse, trudging across the street to Old Chicago and ordering up every bread-ish, carb-based thing, I think was actually an okay idea.  Because I discovered that I don’t really like their pizza.  Or their cookie thing.  I think I never have, but when you’re in the sugar fog, you don’t really care about things like taste.  You just know that you have to stuff yourself with food.  And that was the tack for the cheat meal – appetizer, entree, dessert, leave no opportunity for flagrant, unhealthy eating untapped.  Because if you do that, then, when the meal is over, you’ll keep thinking about it and justifying more and more. So I ate a lot of carbs for lunch yesterday.

I actually went just about a whole month between them.  I told myself it was a calendar thing.  One each month so if I had one on the 31st of one, techically I could have the next on the 1st of the other, but I haven’t wanted it.  I think the ol’ Crimson Tide came into play and I’d been marathoning the Great British Bake-Off and we had a shit-ton of snow and pizza sounded pretty perfect.

But everything tasted…marginal.  Like, oh, yeah, this pizza has always had a pretty tasteless crust.  And wow, this garlic bread is oily and that hot cookie thing is so heavy and dry and even the chocolate chips tasted…it was goo, ooze, a sweet, almost burnt tasting glop.  It was all really disappointing.  I had leftovers, but they stayed on the table.  I did think, later, as I was writing yesterday’s lengthy email, that I wouldn’t mind it if I had those leftovers, but it was immediately followed by the feeling that I was glad I didn’t.  Glad that I stuck to the rules of the cheat meal and that these after-effects are things that carbs do to me, things I don’t experience while on my low-carb situation.  Exhausted, stomach like a fist, unable to focus.

I’m still going to have my monthly cheat meal because I think it helps deflate a desire that builds in me, like it or no, where I have to test the premise.  I have to be sure I want to be on this side of things.  But I re-opened my My Fitness Pal account and linked it to my fitbit and am going to get tracking my food and drink so that I can get focused on progress again.  If my half-sister does decide to have her wedding in England, I want to go, and I want to be the best version of myself not at another event frustrated and wishing I’d just worked on this in these lengthy hours I have to do exactly that.

Yeah, sent the letter off.  I have no idea what I’m doing, but it doesn’t matter.