Peter Cottontail: Day One Hundred Eighty-Five

1384119_85624779Can’t let the night get away with itself.  Have to take a moment and put a pin in things.

Here’s what I suppose will end up only being brief notes, not only because I’m distracted, with hair still wet from this morning’s bath which happened all of twelve hours ago, but because every now and then, that’s all the ammunition I have.

You got the bullets, I got the time.  You bring the bullets, I’ll bring the wine.

My mother apparently owns the most fetid, disgusting, noxious spray on the planet which I think is meant to scare away precious bunny rabbits.  They are, truth be told, completely obliterating our front lawn since the subdivision where they live is full of lush green grass and places that bunnies would like to go and eat.  It is sort of Club Med for baby bunnies.  I see them by the Easter basket-full.  With their sweet little cottontails and bright, tiny eyes, so small that you would like to cup them in your palms and sing little lullabies to them.   But, they are eating the grass right down to the dirt and it does make the yard look completely uncared for and for a woman, like my mother, who was born with a giant green thumb sticking out of both of her hands, this won’t do.  So she has a spray made of jaguar piss (this is what she told me – I am not going to do the google research to verify if such things are for sale in the general market or if she had to search the internet for some vials of the stuff), and it is the worst.  Emphatically, the. worst.

And she sprayed it all over the yard as I was leaving today with my giant Santa sack full of clean sheets and undergarments, and I will never forget the cooked diaper smell, the feast of durian fruit, the frying vomit stink that ushered me away.  Poor bunnies.   Their salad bar was just coated with jaguar wee – which has to be a bit of a confusing state of affairs when you’re just a single teacup full of baby bunny out on your own.  Hopefully, a rain will come and grow back the grass while the rabbits are enjoying the neighbor’s yard (who is a total dick and doesn’t deserve bunnies making camp on his flat, unremarkable square plot of astroturf he mows constantly – all while wearing a callous and sangfroid look on his face).

She did also allow me to eat a homemade burrito and some crispy kale and a homemade pudding-filled cream puff as well as wash my clothes, so I can’t complain overly about her gardening techniques.

There were no bullets, no gun, it’s all about the dual-wield today.  There’s only two days left of work this week, so basically, we can pretend tomorrow to be Thursday which immediately leavens the whole idea of dragging myself up and out into the world again tomorrow.

Guess I just have to hop to it?

:::in the distance, a  fictional, but no less audible starting pistol goes off:::

Space Cadette: Day Nine

The bank teller was confused by the pink in my hair. She asked me if I’d gotten my hair done for the weekend and I said no, I’d had it for a while, unthinking.  Then, she asked me if I’d been downtown yesterday, and the hell if I know what that means because I was kind of downtown in our small town right at that moment and I kind of forgot what day it was and then I thought it was some sort of weird come-on, it was so I tried to be Switzerland and said “I don’t know, maybe?”  Then she asked me if I walked or ran?  And I, simpleton, thought she meant to the bank.  So I said, quite seriously, I drove cause I had to go to the grocery store afterwards.

She looked at me completely blank-faced and completed my transaction.

I realized as I walked back out to my car.  Apparently,  she thought the pink streak in my hair meant I’d been in the Race for the Cure this weekend.   I told her I drove the race.   Ah, the vagaries and challenges of human communication.

So.  My loves, let’s get down to hard tacks.

I am trying very hard to take care of some organizational business tonight so that I can get to work and not be another space case because I don’t know where my shoes are or how to breathe.

I also don’t know what to do about Mr. 1.99% Crush.  Today’s upgrade comes courtesy of another 30 second encounter with said sir.  He turned up with his flag today…and his boss.  They both talked briefly to my boss, talking about relatively inconsequential things in my doorway.  I, being shy, and dumb, without proper face on, and not fully trained in the ways of Calling In Ones, smiled but kept working away.  Super Laura Linney in Love Actually-style.  Then, quick as they arrived, minus some talk about flagpoles I inwardly chuckled over, they were gone.

Maybe ten minutes later, my boss stops in front of my desk.  He says, “Oh, I shouldn’t have monopolized all his time when he came here to see you! (My boss did not and would not have used the word monopolized, but it’s the right word.)  He hesitated like he was trying to decide if he should tell me this, but then, he says that he stopped by earlier to set something up with Mr. 1.63% and rising Crush and he offered to take the flag then, but Mr. 1.87% Crush said he wanted to bring it down and say hi to me.

In what can only be described as a bright and sharp tone, I told my boss I thought he was lying to me and he sounded almost genuinely offended.  He asked me why I would think that, in that paternal way he has, and I did not answer because he pays me and I pay the therapist.

Like I’m supposed to believe that Mr. 1.99% Crush has even .005% Crush on me and wanted to say hello.   I don’t want to be self-abnegating, but our interactions have been profoundly limited.  There’s no reason to need to say hi to me unless you want to and surely no need to go out of your way.

But he didn’t even say hello, really.  Maybe because his boss was with him on this courtesy call.  But maybe I am being lied to and he’s just being nice.  Or shy.

It’s hard for me to believe he’s just shy.  He’s obviously *not* shy.

It feels very Parent Trap all of a sudden and I want that to stop.  Like I don’t have the wherewithal to make this happen, and feeling like a chess piece in the “Let’s Get Everybody Married Off” game isn’t so charming. But I don’t want it to stop at all because I know the end is coming so swiftly when I post here my discovery that he is married or dating or gay or a bear or a part-time child murderer or something genuinely me trying to date him deal-breaking and I don’t have the werewithal.  Not yet.  I mean.  The last time I was asked out in real life, it was by some kid’s mother on his behalf, and I laughed until she went away.   I know it’s not going to work out not because it CAN’T anymore, but just because IT NEVER DOES. So I feel like this…this is painful at the same time it’s fun.  It’s a diversion, a badly needed social diversion to play at him being interested in me.

Maybe I shouldn’t write about this.  Maybe it makes me look as undateable as I am to be analyzing this with a fine-toothed comb and magnifying glass.

So.  Yep.

Impetus

So my septuagenarian breakfast date turned out to be a waste of time.

After spending five minutes talking about me and my job and how awesome I was, it turns out he just wanted to share with me the wonders of his pyramid scheme.  I mean, it’s a national thing, you’ve probably got some idea what I’m talking about, but I barely take care of myself in my free time…can anyone really imagine me cold calling and shilling products to hit my quota so that I can get my free car and go to the conference?  If you can imagine that, well, fuck off.  If you can’t, well, neither could I.   I can’t believe I fucking got up at 6:30am for this.

At least I just had the coffee and didn’t let him buy me breakfast so I didn’t feel that I had to put out, so to speak.   It was more amusing than anything else.  He is a nice guy, albeit with a name that makes me laugh/involuntarily retch because I’m the only one that hears it for the epic porn name it actually is and the horrors that necessarily ensue with that thought.  He is slicker than a pig in shit, though, and you can kind of imagine how without sensible people in the world how he could make this enough of a business to buy his groceries from its proceeds much less however much he purports to make.

I feel that this is something that could only happen to me.  But alas, tis truth.

Also, truth, I am a kind of hapless chump times deux when I turned up at the market and got wrangled into working it.  So I sat in the shaded sun listlessly and sort of thought nothing about no one and nothing except how maybe I should cover up a little better.

Psychic and internal numbness continues to be a sucky experience.

Things I know:

I don’t have something to work for.  I have to invent something.  Someone.  Some reason to drive me the way the concert drove me to make myself pay attention and get right with myself.

I have to get groceries.

I have to let myself rest.  Real, honest, stupid stillness.  Story time.

I have to clean up.

I have to get water.

I have to have a schedule and a schedule that includes writing and games and rest.

I have to forgive the waywardness.

I have to refuse numbness as a natural course.  Lop it off at its knees.

So, I can’t just tell you that I need to do these things even though, for you, that’s all that can be done.    For me, I will be cheered by the thunder and get out my charwoman gear.  Working on myself gives me a joy, I know that much.   I have a long way to go, but doing it, even if we never move from this nebulous spot, heals wounds I have forgotten I have.

There will be another concert.  I will be ready.

Laughter Check

I am bad at snow driving.  Driving in general, but definitely snow driving.  This is not only due to the fact that I genuinely have a bad car for conditions (no 4WD, I’m shocked I’m able to keep a scraper in it, and tires that are pretty much as smooth as a baby’s bottom), but because I make bad snow decisions.

This morning the sky was gray and it was snowing at the lightest intensity it could before you could no longer call it snow and just refer to the precipitation as a heavy mist, and even though I certainly wasn’t jumping up and down about it, it was doable.  And it was doable all the way until about five or six minutes from work when the snow started to suddenly get thick and heavy and I pressed my brakes and skidded and wiggled a bit.   As a result, I decided, to just go the back way, and of course, the snow worsens and I just want to get to work, so, I despite that I’m on a big wide road with no real traffic, I manage to fishtail about and come within 6 inches of hitting the curb.  Oh, clever, clever girl.

Okay, that’s important, blah, blah, blah, life is very strange and ridiculous and I survive it and I do alright.  I didn’t break my car or my face, and that’s really the main thing.  Went to lunch with the office people and the snow slowly dissipated and I was able to drive home and get dinner completely unscathed so that’s all good.

What IS important is that I am achieving one of my weekend goals of awesomeness:  laughter. Laughing like death is an alternative to keeping on laughing but going ahead and keeping on laughing anyway.  Supernatural tonight was probably one of its best episodes ever which is something that you’d really only understand if you’d been watching it for a while if not since its inception.  I was pretty sure that my innards were going to spontaneously explode or combust or slaughter me with joy.  It was just perfection and after last week’s disappointment, I was pretty fucking delighted.  Meta beyond meta beyond meta.

And now, on top of that, I get to chat with my friends and they are so wonderful.  No, seriously, I know people say that (particularly when they’re drunk) but my friends are tremendous people and good people and more than that they make me laugh so hard.  I haven’t had that kind of unbound deep psychic release in…a while.   Where you don’t have to be any particular kind of person but who you are and who you are is funny and okay.  I love that.  I need that.  I miss that.  All the work laughter lately feels forced and followed by hidden eye rolling.

And now, we’re going to watch Birdemic and that’s pretty much the end of any humor dysfunction I might be suffering from.

Holy, holy hallelujah.  We are children of little sorrow and great joy.

 

Le Jour Le Plus Froid Du Monde


Oh, weathercasters, you are retarded.  No snow.  Barely a thin sheen of frost on the roof of the adjacent condos.  We so often live in terror of things that will never be.

Blonde over blue, one word from you is all I need to be inspired.

It has been months since I’ve been able or willing to post in the mornings.  It makes for a nice change of pace, actually.  I thought that if I sat down and tried to be thoughtful about things beforehand then maybe today wouldn’t get away from me.  I got on the scale.  158.  That’s a number that can make you mad or it can make you relieved depending on how you look at it.

Today I need to venture out after straightening up as much as I can before I start rending my clothing and tearing my hair and go to the store.  I have the list but it is making me nervous in the morning light.  I really don’t want to spend 100.00 dollars on good food and end up throwing it out.  Seriously.  This is the kind of ridiculous headspace I’ve been dealing with where I’m so manic for fast food and unhealthy things that I don’t even allow myself to consider going home and cooking even if that meal is as tasty and good for me as anything else.  Since I have to drag my Christmas ham (oh, that sounds like a terrible aspersion on myself) over to my parents, I probably should go to the grocery store over there and deposit my check.  But if I go there, the likelihood is high that I’ll sit around or be dragged to the mall where the little flame of willpower promptly is blown out by the prospect of a joyful/numb 20 minutes in a food court.

I know myself well enough to know that I will make a fool of myself at every given opportunity when I’m hungry or bored or in between hungry and bored.  I’m an incredibly dangerous person in that way.  Stand in awe.

So, all that being said, I do need to eat and while we may have a new generation of penicillin growing in the fridge, we do not have breakfast in there.   This is getting rather overwhelming and it feels like time is slipping away.  When you get overwhelmed, here’s what I do when I’m thinking straight – write down five things on your to-do list and do those things, not other things, not additional things, no other things until those items and tasks are done.  Once that’s true, you can look again and see in what other direction to go in.

You definitely don’t want to turn on the Netflix and watch a random episode of Law and Order.  No.  You have things to do, you’re a mover and a shaker (a terrible aspersion?), you’ve got people to see and hams to deliver and life is right outside the door.

Random recommendation: watch Misfits.  Do it.

Sometimes I can understand French when I don’t try so hard.

Your Moment of Zen

Ugh.  I have a Christmas carol as sung by the perky singers they hire to sing in the street (not the lovely Victorian caroler), instead teenagers with bleach-fried hair and whose voices unfortunately have gotten progressively worse since they were first hired three years ago.

I did not give Santa Claus the boot, instead, I blearily managed to make it through the day. We had a manageable crowd, and a parade that went overlong but was fun enough, and Mr. Rochester complimented my Sinatra hat.  I felt sort of Michelin Wo-man in this fluffy white coat with a red coat over it and a had and an askew scarf and realizing this, I once again booked it out of there, though not before making a fool of myself by staring into the middle distances and nearly tipping a whole stack of books over.  Nobody cares, really, but it’s these things that add up in your head and make you think of yourself as a spastic rather than the graceful swan the good Lord intended.

I did see a lovely sunrise and for a moment I remembered the good in the world, natural good without any human mediation or control.  No jingles or theme songs in a sunset.  There was an instant recognition and calm and being up at six in the morning to see it was a blessing and shut me up with my whining for a brief moment.  Being able to click into that mode means a lot because right now, you almost think that your circuits are burned out in that regard.  You meaning me.  Now meaning the holidays.

Tips for what to do when you’re feeling psychically thwarted: one.  watch Holiday with Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant.  This just softens up that tough, weather-worn exterior of your dippy heart with the idea of the right people finding each other despite the world’s best intentions.  Two:  sleep.  Just stop fucking around and go to bed, bench yourself for a few hours and you’ll wake up a little bit more able to face reality (or your distorted, funhouse mirror version of reality.)  Three:  get in a car with someone and shriek and holler and stop pretending to be a creature on some track to redemption.  Just be a funny mess.  Talk about monkeyballs.  Talk about the stupidity of Starbucks closing at 9pm on a Saturday night.  Talk about the car in front of you and run over cats and make terrible noises.  Stop measuring acceptability.  Be stupid.

In this way, you’ll stop taking yourself so damn seriously.  You’ll stop looking around with this disparaging eye like the world is supposed to go a certain way, or bend to please you.  Your plans stop being  life and death.  This instant isn’t the critical instant and not everything’s on you.  You’re not Commander Shepard and you can be okay and dumb and laugh without grace and love people without reason.  You can forgive yourself for not emotionally nourishing a universe at your own expense. Did I mention the monkeyballs?

A Mensch, A Virgin and A God

I had genuine plans to write a heartfelt post today.  A state of the union address, if you will, about dieting plans, about the sudden and truly terrifying emergence of all these boys in my life and another one who wants to ask me to coffee and and how conflicted and actually angry I am about the whole situation and my inability to stop terrorizing myself over it and treat it like a grown-up or…something, and also about the soft, goodness of the day – my little vacation – a day where I actually did my hair and makeup and got out of the house and made something of myself before tomorrow crashes feverishly down on my head.

But I’m not sure if that’s going to happen.  As part of my day off, I finally got myself in the right mood to watch my show and it’s fabu-tacular.  I couldn’t get the internet to work at chez parents so here’s my copypasta whilst watching.  I was intending to write while watching the show in order to distract myself…but that wasn’t possible so:

There’s cat food in there, cat!  Oh gosh.
Watching Supernatural, finally, and typing away on my little laptop
Okay, kind of awesome, that. Kind of hot damn awesome.
I don’t know why I was so avoidant.  I guess I just needed this to happen at a certain time, with a certain light and .  MEG.
Yeah.  Okay, marvelous..I’m amazed by this episode right now and I’m not really talking about any of what I originally intended to talk about about and who knows .
I have had a very nice day off.  Sort of balanced in a way I haven’t been balanced in a while – writing, cleaning, playing, thinking about others instead of just me, me, me, baking, enjoying the season (I think a winter void of snow is fairly unexpected and entirely enjoyable.)
Oh, Castiel!  Oh, show!  OH SHOW! OH SHOW! Why did I wait so long, oh show!
——

Um, my needing to write this is being complicated by my ability to put together sentences.
Um.  UM.  GUYS.  GUYS.
UM..  GUYS.
UM.  GUYS.
Okay, what’s the deal with this shit.
UM.  GUYS?I feel like I’ve died all out on my own out here with this.  Definitely miss watching it with friends all of a sudden.

….

Back to your regularly scheduled blog post.   I can be pretty dang ridiculous when confronted with excellent television.

I still want that state of the union, but I don’t know what internal resources I can call upon to describe my absence of self-determination and the weird good impulses that are filling that gap despite my worst intentions.  Like I made all these cookies and just left most of them over there, because I don’t actually need a giant tub of cookies.  Or how I did pots and pans this morning despite no one telling me I had to.  Or how I didn’t go get miserable bad food to eat for dinner.

I just have to let the breezes from the wings of the better angels push me instead of thinking.  Thinking seems to be where the trouble all starts.