Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Temporarily Under Construction

I don't have anything to say. I want to post but I can't think of anything except trash to write about and I really don't want to keep posting trash. So I will not post, except that I am posting to tell you I'm not posting.
Make sense out of that one. And I'll see you when my brain starts working again.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Beautiful Coffee Drinkers

Oh to be one of the beautiful people. To be one who drinks coffee in the middle of the day. To carry my styrofoam cup looking positively peaceful with myself. To walk into a coffee shop, order a venti, and walk back out, without the embarassing side trip to the milk-and-sugar table, the side trip characteristic of those of us who don't really like coffee but who drink it in an attempt to be one of the beautiful people. To wrap my lips around the tiny hole in the plastic lid, embracing the liquid warmth in my mouth, enjoying it for what it is.

On Monday I was in class and as I was bored out of my skull I thought I would write a list of things I enjoy. I had been going through a three-day slump of Hating Everything In the World Including...Everything so I thought it would be good for my soul to remember some of the good things in life. You know, considering that my life is so terrible and awful and unbearable and I can't even speak of it anymore. So I made a list.

The idea of a cup of coffee
Reading a good book

That's as far as I got before I quit. But do you see that first one? That one is a recent revelation. I have long considered myself a coffee lover, and indeed, I do enjoy a good cup of coffee. The problem is, I make terrible coffee and the coffee at school is never as good as I imagine it will be. In fact, most of the time if I actually drink a cup of coffee, it doesn't taste nearly as good as my imagined cup of coffee does. This is obnoxious. I can be watching TV or reading a book and the subject of coffee will come up. Or maybe I go to a friend's house and find that my friends are enjoying steaming coffee with their cinnamon rolls. Or maybe I am daydreaming and in my daydream I am back in Albuquerque, going to ridiculous lengths to stop by Sattelite for a latte before school, lengths that included waking up early, wasting money, finding a stinking parking spot, braving the cold and the Central traffic and being late for class. But then, when I decide I've had enough TV watching, or when I'm done reading, or my friend punches me for drooling in her coffee cup or I am jerked from my reverie, if I happen to get some coffee, it tastes more like sugary dirt than the beautiful blend of flavors I was hoping for. To be fair, the coffee I make at home tastes like sugary dirt, but Starbucks coffee, which they sell at school, tastes more like toxic sludge, acidic and capable of burning a hole in my esophagus.

So I have to come to terms with this. Maybe I have just been exposed to too much below par coffee. Perhaps I should suck it up and buy more expensive coffee for myself. Perhaps I need to learn how to properly brew. Or maybe, I just don't really like coffee all that much.

Once, a long long time ago, I wrote an essay called "The Beautiful People" that expressed the dischord between who I wanted to be, and who I really was. I am an entirely different person now than I was when I wrote it, but the point still holds true. Who I want to be is not necessarily who I really am, and maybe part of growing up is learning to combine those two people.

A little over a year ago I began seeing a counselor, partly for a class assignment, and partly because I really needed help processing the crazy upsidedownness that my life had suddenly become. Alot of things happened to me at once and I don't really deal with transitions well, so I spent some time in counseling. Looking back, I can't remember a whole lot that my counselor advised me to do, and I don't know that I came to any earth shattering realizations about myself or my life. And really, I was just as stressed and freaked out after I was done meeting with her as I had been when I started. It took another six months or so before I was able to stop feeling so overwhelmed and just be again.

When I look back and think about what triggered the change, I think I just realized that I needed to grow up. A large part of the crazy I was feeling was growing pain, the struggle between my childishness and the reality that it was time to grow up. And believeyoume, I'm not done growing up, I still have a long way to go.

So in honor of growing up, I think I will spend the next few days posting "The Beautiful People" in sections, partly because it is one of my favorite essays, and partly because it is a good illustration of Some Things I Have Been Thinking About.

Monday, February 18, 2008

I Cheated

Matt tagged in another meme. What the heck is a meme anyway? And how do you say it, meem or mem? This particular one has to do with books and posting the first 3 sentences of page 123 and then tagging 5 other people. Well, the closest book to me at the time is really my cognitive psych lab book. Now seriously, I am in school and I have some stupid books lying around my house and I am not about to waste an opportunity like this on COGLAB! So I found the next closest book, a non-school book, and guess what it was?

The Big Book of National Insults


I bought this book almost two years ago for a friend who was graduating from college and had every intention of sending it to her. However, this was the summer of crazy and I completely forgot. It remained wrapped and sitting in the bookshelf in our apartment that smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap flowery deodorant for a few more months before I unwrapped it and claimed it as my own. Now it resides on my mantle with several other books of note, next to my impressive assortment of empty pop bottles that serve as creative mantle art.

So here we go, the first 3 sentences of page 123.
"Most Boring Tiny Enslaved Country: Tiny Enslaved Latvia.
National Lampoon, 1972, under the heading 'George Sanders says: Here are some of the things that bored me to death.'"
"The Lithuanian is stupid like a pig but cunning like a serpent." -Polish saying

I have nothing against Lithuania or Latvia. That just happened to be on page 123. You should read the insults about Americans.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

As If I Were Some Kind of Pot-Bellied Bird

I am here at the other Perkins house doing my homework (ha!) because the internet at our house is working like a crabby old woman, sporadic and resentfully and with a distinct smell of dust and old perfume. Also, the other Perkins house has a beautiful red massage chair that reclines, has a foot rest, and does not make my back hurt even if I sit in it for three straight hours, which I will likely do since I have alot of homework today. And while I have alot of homework to do and should certainly be doing it, I cannot, because I was hit with the writing bug today. Yay! That is such a good feeling.

I have spent alot of my pregnancy (which is now in its 31st week) pondering the iconic pregnant woman and comparing myself to her. She and I? we are quite different. For the purposes of this entry, I will name iconic pregnant woman Alvira Elaine.

Alvira has many strange food cravings. After she was able to keep down food like a normal person, the first food she craved was pickles and ice cream. Since then she has had subsequent cravings for Dreamsicles and popcorn, apple slices dipped in ranch dressing, a bowl of sweet relish, warm Sprite, peanut butter brownies and orange juice, steak with watermelon on the side, and twinkies. Her husband, Theodore, has been sent on midnight runs for many of these snacks and never, not once, has he complained about it. He hasn't complained about it because he is a good husband and because he fears the wrath of the suddenly round woman in his home, the one prone to throwing dishes and crying over things like diapers, pine needles and his lack of concern for her swollen feet. Alvira does indeed have strange mood swings. She has turned into a verfiable crazy woman, equally likely to squall, yell, blow up, or coo at the cat when he decides to take a nibble of her toast. She has used more tissue in the past 7 months than a gaggle of pre-teen girls stuffing their bras for the after-school dance.

Alvira is always either hot or cold. Her body temperature changes quite dramatically. She gags if the neighbors three houses down mop their floors with PineSol. Her shoes don't fit anymore. She walks around with a protective hand on her belly, quick to protect it from errant chairs or baseballs. She has entered into the phase of nesting, where she begins padding and preparing her home for the new baby. New paint, new sheets, new shelves, clean floors and more soft blankies than could ever be used by one person. She glows with the goddessy glow of expectant mothers and her hair is thick and shiny.

Now we take me. I haven't any strange cravings, and have never asked Rusty to leave at midnight to get me a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. I've considered doing this at least one time just so he can have the experience, but I'm not usually awake at midnight. I'm not especially wrathful, or crazy though certain shows like Extreme Home Makeover make me cry. Rusty told me one time that he liked how chipper and nice I was and that he wanted to keep me pregnant. Ha! We'll see about that after he changes some dirty diapers and cleans up baby puke. My body temperature is fairly normal and I often forget how far my belly sticks out and will run into chairs or door jams with it (not hard, don't worry). Oh, and that pregnant glow? It's called sweat. That happens when I force myself to walk up the stairs to class rather than taking the elevator.

However, the nesting one. Oh my sweet goodness, the nesting syndrome has hit me like a 10 pound sack of potatoes. I went to the grocery store today and when I got home, I organized the canned food, the boxes, and the chips. Then I organized all my tea. Then I cleaned out the fridge and the freezer. Then, (folks I am not kidding) I vaccumed my bed. Not under it, not around it. I vaccumed the blankets on the bed. Am crazy.

This weekend we painted the baby's room. I wandered around WalMart today trying to think of things we needed to make our house more homey. I bought new sheets and may end up ironing them before I put them on the bed. And last night? I took care of my clothes before I went to bed. I believe I may be losing my mind.

Alvira and I have at least one thing in common, our husbands should take our debit cards before we end up spending hundreds of dollars on good smelling candles and new picture frames to frame the baby's sonogram pictures.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Forgive Me One Last Belch

I have been a little disgusted with myself lately. That's ok because I think a little self loathing now and then is healthy. It forces you to take stock of who you are, and think about whether who you are is really who you want to be. I think people are too quick to skim over thier melancholia, trying desperately to find a happy place, when what they really should be doing is taking note of their own personal blues. We learn beautiful things about ourselves when we are not on the top of the world, when we are, rather, in the musky crevices of the world making friends with the spiders.

I do this, skim over my melancholia. Somedays I wake up in a Funk and before I even get out of bed, or put on my glasses I can tell that it will be one of those days. I get a particular hollow ache in my belly, a feeling that I have never been able to put words to. And when I wake up feeling this way, I usually close my eyes and ask God to take away that feeling, and to change my attitude because I don't want to feel that way. It's not fun. More often than not, if I wake up in a Funk I stay in a Funk all day, no matter how hard I pray about it. Perhaps that's because God isn't listening to me. Perhaps that's because there's something I need to learn about the Funk.

Over Christmas break when Rusty and I were in Roswell I was talking to my mom about blogging. She mentioned that she had read in a psychology journal that so much of blogging is about narcissism, that people write things that used to be written in diaries and journals, but are now written for the intent of other people reading it. I told her that my philosophy professor said the same thing, that everyone in the world has a blog and everyone in the world thinks everyone else in the world cares about what I ate for lunch. So I've been thinking since Christmas break, trying to come up with a defense for my blog. Surely I don't write because I think everyone else in the world cares about what I ate for lunch. Or do I? I would like to say that I have a blog and I write because I am a writer and I cannot be a writer if I do not write. Then, when I think about the things I write, I have to acknowledge what a lie that is. 90% of what I write is junk, word vomit, if you will, that I belch onto the screen and publish without a second thought. In fact, this very post will be word vomit, belched onto the screen. How ironic.

I am disgusted with myself because I remember when I used to write, really write, and while what I wrote was not always good (it was often very very bad) at least I thought about it. I took risks, I pondered, I fretted, I stressed over which word more correctly fit, whether I should take out sections or leave them in, whether I had made my point. I am disgusted with myself because I cannot think of the last piece of writing I was actually proud of. I am disgusted with myself because I know I can do better.

So maybe for Lent, in addition to giving up TV from 8-5 (oh that terrible terrible TV habit) I should give up belching as well.

Quickly Quickly

Just a note to update. I don't have much time because I have to go to class.
The baby officially weighs 3 pounds 9 ounces as of yesterday. It could be more now since I ate a piece meat the size of my head, a baked potato and two pieces of King Cake since then.
The baby has the cutest face this side of...anywhere.
I will post pictures veryvery soon.
None of my clothes fit. No seriously, my pregnancy shirts are too short and my pants slide down. Again. Only this time they slide down because I have a 3 pound 9 ounce person in my abdomen, and not because my butt is too small for them, because trust me, my butt is NOT too small for my pants anymore.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Mean Mama

Ok, the next time the baby sticks its feet in my ribcage I am logging onto babyGap and buying these shoes quicker than you can say "Care for a round of croquet Charles?" in a snooty British accent.

Though, I cannot say for sure if its a foot and not a cranium, so perhaps I should buy this hat too, just to be safe.