Hey Kids!

My friend Sandy and I went to the Science Museum of MN today to see the Star Wars: Science Behind the Magic exhibit. It was pretty cool, I must admit. I was this close to Han Solo's costume!!! Was it wrong to check and see if you can tell which way he likes to hang the boys?

I had the worst crush on Harrison Ford when I was in high school. Now, he's sexy in the way Sean Connery is sexy. In that "mature, confident in his own skin, devil-may-care kind of man's man" way that will have women dropping in their paths from instant (multiple) orgasms until the day they die.

Anyway, Han Solo has always been one of my favorite bad boy fantasies. I believe he may have been one of the main reasons for my never-ending fascination with Star Wars. Without a character like him in it, the movies just wouldn't have had the same ooomph, you know?

I won't say it was a perfect exhibit. I would have done several things differently. But then, I have a trained designer's eye, and am therefore not really a "civilian." That said, it was set up to work best for the short attention span of their target audience of 12 to 18 year old boys. Quick snippets, and sometimes longer videos, of information about models and costumes and worlds and robots and future technologies all relating to the Star Wars universe and it's impact on the real world.

I always find it amazing how the camera can fool us into believing we see one thing, when really it's something completely different. There are millions of hidden details, secrets, in every frame of a really good blockbuster epic. But it's only with Star Wars that I find enjoyment in knowing all the little oddities. Most DVDs today come with behind the scenes footage and documentaries giving away all the secrets, but I never watch them if I can help it. I just don't want to know. I like movie magic, I like that they can create a whole, completely believable world, and it makes me sad when someone pulls away that curtain and takes away my ability to live in that world with the characters.

But Star Wars I love. From the story to the characters to the movie history it made.

So, I bought a coffee mug with an original poster of SW: A New Hope on it. I wanted to get a mug for all three original movies, but they cost too much. I've decided to start collecting coffee mugs, and get rid of the ones I have. They don't hold enough, and they're boring. This way, I'll have a different mug for all my different moods. It pleases me that the first in my collection is Star Wars.

Jinx   

WTF, as they say.

To all and sundry, please disregard the last blog (in part, anyway). I am soon to be the proud owner of a practically new 1997 Ford Escort, in a light metallic green, that my dad has apparently owned for the last year. This one I get to pay $3,000 for. Phew!!!

I didn't know he owned a '97 Escort, in any color. It seems my mother, who probably heard the panic lacing my voice when I told them to buy the Focus, talked my dad into selling me his little treasure. He uses it to get around town, rather than his big truck. Saves on gas milage. It was previously owned by an old man who had to go into a nursing home, and won't be needing a car of any kind. Sad, but it means I'm getting an eleven year old car that's almost brand new. It only has 23,000 miles on it. That averages to just over 2,000 miles a year. Which is practically like having it parked for a decade. Sweet! 

No, I don't really have $3,000 just lying around, but I am waaaaaayyyyy more comfortable with that number. So, cosmically speaking, I am now $8,000 to the good. Heartbeat normal, blood pressure even, sound sleep guaranteed.

I feel so much better now.

Jinx 

I am now the (terrified) proud owner of a 2007 Ford Focus.

$11,300

I can no longer afford my life. I'm going to have to trade it in for something less expensive. Like death. Death is cheap. They must have reasonably priced condos in the afterlife, right? And with the wings, transportation is pretty much free, yes?

Just kidding.

Maybe.

I'm tired of living paycheck to paycheck. The whole point to getting a degree in design was a bigger paycheck while doing something I enjoyed, but I just keep getting deeper into debt with no way out.

Fuck!

I didn't want to buy a new car. I really, really didn't want to pay $11,300 for it.

I really don't want to have to get either a new, or a second, job. But I really, really can't afford not to, anymore. Really, really, really...

So, at a crossroads with no clearly marked path, no good choices, what would you do?

Apparently, my new car is a pretty, shiny reddish maroon color that still has 5 years and 50,000 miles still left on its warranty, and only 11,000 miles on the engine. The current owner is willing to knock a couple hundred off the price if I'm willing to let him keep it for another week, until he moves.

Why do I say apparently? Because I let my parents pick it out. They called me while I was at work tonight to say they were going to look at a Ford Focus that was $1,000 less than they'd seen them for on dealer lots.

Imagine a skyscraper. Imagine standing right at the base, and looking up, up, up its side until you can just see the top. Leaning so far back your neck starts to ache, just so you can see the sky. Now tell me if you'd notice if a hundred story building was shorter by a story or two. What difference does $1,000 make when subtracted from $50,000?

I need a hug. My mother suggested I get a drink, and I must be in shock, because the very large Jim & Tommy I just had has only managed to make my cheeks pink. Not pleasantly fuzzy, like it usually does. Just a little warm.

But that might be the temperature. It's a little warm in here, and I forgot to turn on the fan before I sat down.

I keep telling myself I should think positive, believe that good things are on the way, that everything will work out fine. That I should set up my altar and start praying in earnest. To whomever is listening. To visualize my bank account swelling and interesting people coming into my life. And normally I am fairly optimistic, really I am. It's just that, I don't need to write about the good stuff, as much as the crap that happens, so you all get the cosmic junk I need to unload, and don't hear so much about the happy things.

I guess the truth is, ugliness happens, and I know it. I know it's unavoidable, that bad things happen to good people, regardless of how happy they seem to be, or how optimistic they are. I also know that things could be infinitely worse. I could live in Baghdad, and be terrified every single day of car bombs and being executed by the militia. This mentality is so Midwestern of me. As they say, my roots are showing.  

But I don't live in Iraq, or North Korea, or the Congo. I live in America, land of the free and home of the brave. I have a family, who while they don't really understand me all that well, love me enough to help me buy a new car, one way better than I could ever hope to afford on my own.

I know I'm blessed, and that most of my problems are of my own making. I know that I have the power to change the outcome.

I just have to buckle down and do it.

Jinx 

All day I've been thinking about writing, but after a first failed attempt this morning, when my mouse mysteriously jumped to the "Back" button when that wasn't what I intended at all, I gave it up as a bad job. But here I am, beginning again.

I guess there must be something my subconscious really wants me to say.

This morning I started by asking the question:

Why do I want a Jaguar so badly?

I've spent the past week so stressed out about my car, and wondering if I should or would have to find a new car, or buy a used car, or lease a car, or just scrap it all and take the bus, should I sell the car I have, or donate it for the tax write-off, and on and on, twisting in knots. And all the random advice, some asked for, some not, that is so very often conflicting. It all makes me feel like I'm out of my depth. I have no ingrained information to attach all these suggestions to, and know so little about cars and buying and financing them that I don't even know for sure what questions to ask, and what the right answer should be if I did know.

On the one hand, my boss thinks I should lease a car. And I have a friend who swears by leasing, since she likes to get a new car every couple years, anyway. My dad, on the other hand, says leasing is a bad idea. Because you just pay and pay and don't end up with anything for your money in the end. He's very big on ownership.

Everyone and their uncle has given me a suggestion on what's wrong with my car, how to fix it, who to take it to for a second opinion, even though I've already spent another $200 just getting the diagnostic and the damn warning lights haven't gone off. William (my car) is going to die, in the near future, and I don't want to be stuck on the side of the highway when it happens. I'd much rather have the choice already made, and the car safely in someone else's hands.

Which brings me to my original question. I have always, always wanted to have a Jaguar. I love their sleek, curvy, muscular lines. They look so much like their namesakes, as if they could shapeshift into a big cat with just a thought. I found one on craigslist today, while I was looking for a used car in my price range (as if I actually have one). Until that moment, I hadn't even considered looking for a Jag as my next car. I'd been so worried about having to find one in the first place, that I'd forgotten to do a little dreaming.

But this dream is in direct conflict with my pragmatic nature. Jaguars have notoriously bad repair and maintenance records, and I can just hear the disgusted groans from my father and brothers. "Why'd you go and get a Jag?" Blah, blah, blah. Still, I know they're at least partially right, even if their voices are only in my head. The last thing I want is to end up with a car that, while aesthetically satisfying, is essentially a money pit. Unreliable. Pretty, with no substance.

But I do so want that car. I am soooooo tempted to call the owner up and buy it, sight undriven. Not that I could take it for a test drive. It's a manual transmission, and I don't know how to drive a stick shift. Not that I couldn't learn, of course. My older brother won't drive anything but a manual, and he'd be more than happy to yell at me while I learn. Once a marine, always a marine, and he channels his drill sergeant really well. I've always been reluctant to learn how to drive a stick shift. I like the ease of driving an automatic. I don't have to worry about burning out the clutch, or wondering what gear I should be in, and I can keep my hands mostly free. But for a Jag, I think I might learn.

My father is leaning towards a Ford Focus, new, direct from the dealer's lot. With a warranty and all. But just the thought of adding another $12,000 to $17,000 to the debt I already owe to various organizations makes my stomach hurt. Much better to get a used car, and not have to pay for the depreciation of just driving it off the lot.

I guess what I want is to just once make a choice based entirely on my own personal desires, and have it also be a good decision that won't came back to bite me on the ass. I want to be excited about the car I choose. I want this car to make a statement, be an expression of who I am. I want the pleasure of choosing not to be overshadowed by the fact that I just can't afford it, anyway.  

To this point, every car I've ever owned has been a hand-me-down.

First was Bessie, my parent's Caprice Classic Station Wagon. She was huge, a boat, able to haul 8 to 11 people. I took her with me to college. Had her probably 2 years. 

Then there was my Escort, Lily. I never even got the chance to drive her, since she got totaled in an accident. My father was driving her to school to pick up my younger brother, and got schmucked coming out of the parking lot by the wife of the teacher who ran the planetarium.

Then, there was Basil, the Dim-Wit King. A dark purple-ish/brown-ish 92' Ford Taurus that my father found after he killed Lily. I had him for several years, as well. I called him the Dim-Wit King, one to remind me of his license plate letters, and two, because like the car I have now, I kept having to take him in for repairs every six months or so.

And now there's William, or rather, Will Scarlet, my red 96' Ford Taurus. He was my mother's car, until they bought a new one a few years ago. He came to me already named Scarlet, because my mother's favorite color is red. But I knew he was a boy, whatever she thought, and since I couldn't just rename him, I gave him a new identity as one of Robin Hoods merry men. Or his younger brother, if you believe a certain movie. And now he's dying, slowly giving up the ghost, as it were.

So now I am in the unfamiliar position of being able to choose my own car, rather than just take what my parents pick for me. I could get whatever I want. I never minded letting them pick out my cars for me, don't get me wrong. As I said, this is terrifyingly unfamiliar territory, choosing a vehicle, and if my dad says a car is a good bet, I tend to believe him. But this time, I can get what I want. And in 30 years, when people talk about their first cars, I could say the first car I ever chose for myself was a...

All day long, I've been in this quandary. I know if I don't act quickly, the car I've got my eye on will disappear. That is the nature of the used car business. And the one I found is a beauty...

But I just don't know if it would be a good idea. What kind of gas mileage does a Jag get? What are the odds that I'll have to start shelling out more money for repairs in the near future? But what about the regret of a lost opportunity. Will I regret more not taking this chance?

I just don't know.

New car, old car, Jag or Ford or Honda or Camaro or Mustang...

Whatever way you slice it, I'm in a pretty pickle.

Jinx 

In the past week I:

Had dinner with some mobsters from Miami on Sunday night, after spending an afternoon with my mother wandering around my neighborhood. (This is the first time she's been to my place for any length of time since I moved in a year and a half ago, even though I've invited her a few times). We visited this really cool antique store on Lyndale Avenue, right next to The Wedge Co-op. But you probably want to hear about the first part of this little blurb, right? I swear, they're transplants to Miami by way of New York. The mobsters are now in-laws of my youngest brother, who got married last summer. They are swimming in money, and like to throw it around like it's confetti, all the while complaining about the bill, just so everyone knows who paid it. And just so you all know, too, my dinner was paid for by an 83 year old guy named Melvin, whose fifth wife Sylvia was sitting on his left, right next to the first husband (Woody-79) of Melvin's second wife (Bertha the Bitch), who was not present, but still managed to gain said title. I was sitting between Dave (K's father-in-law) and Gloria (grandmother-in-law). This family is crazy, and the weirdest stuff seems to happen to them. For instance, Dave told me all about the train set he had in his basement that apparently came from the collection of Gary Coleman of Different Strokes fame. I'm telling you, it was like being in an episode of The Sopranos, only with Jewish gangsters instead of Italians. Ironically, we were having dinner in an Italian restaurant. Ciao Bella. By the time we left, we all smelled strongly of garlic and were groaning about our pants being too tight. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I even got quizzed on my sex life by several octegenarians. They asked me if my mother had ever had The Talk with me, you know, about The Birds and The Bees. I said no, she gave me a library card instead. They thought that was a riot. Is it funnier that it's the truth? So that took care of Sunday. 

Got many (mostly unhelpful) bits of advice from my family about my car situation. Since I know almost nothing about how a car actually works, and what sounds or noises would constitute a mechanical emergency, I couldn't tell them what was wrong. Other than the many and varied blinking lights that have been keeping me company the past week. My brother recommended that I take my car to the mechanic his in-laws use. This may actually be helpful, since I have no way of knowing who's a good mechanic and who's just going to rip me off just because I'm a girl. I'm going to assume these guys know what they're doing, and hope for the best. Right now, I have my very first rental car, ever. A grey Chevy Malibu. I don't like it much. It kind of smells like it's been near a farm, though I can't imagine why that would be. And all the stuff that makes it work is in weird spots that I have to waste time looking for. Still, even though I can't really afford a car payment, I'm sort of hoping they come back with a list of things wrong with my William that's so long I have to get a new car. I have no idea what I'd get, instead. Something with much better gas mileage, more energy efficient. What'd be really nice, would be to not need a car at all. No insurance, no gas, no mechanics. I could save a fortune if I didn't have to have a car. I imagine I could get by without one, if I really, truly had to. I should take the bus to work someday, just to see how long it actually takes to get from here to there. I'll bet its an hour or more. In my car, it takes 15 minutes.   

Got a wicked cool gift from some truly good friends. Warm fuzzies in the midst of cold heeby-jeebies. A silver lining so bright it should actually be called a platinum lining. A diamond lining, even. Something a lot more valuable than plain old silver, anyway.

Went to the library and got another couple (dozen) books. I am so greedy. I cannot resist the lure of all those words... stories.... lovely, lovely stories.

I did the dishes, and now I'm planning on finishing my brother's wedding present while watching a movie or two. I haven't decided what I want to watch, yet. Maybe BBC's Pride & Prejudice. I love, love, love that movie. Even if it is 6 hours long. You just cannot beat Colin Firth in a wet, white shirt with that adorably stunned expession on his face when he sees the object of his desire (namely, the opinionated Lizzie Bennet) casually strolling about his lawn. Soooooooooooo sexy. But I haven't decided if that's what I want to see, or not.

The Summer Solstice is this weekend. Midsummer's Eve. The longest day of the year, here in the northern hemisphere. And the shortest day in the southern. So many of our religious holidays, from whatever religion, are intimately tied to where the sun is at any given time of the year. Christmas was deliberately placed near the Winter Solstice to coincide with the pagan festivals of light, which celebrate the return of he sun after the long dark. Even though it's supposedly the celebration of the birth of Christ, who scholars believe was actually born sometime in late March. I'm not an anthropologist, so I don't know much about most of the other cultures on the planet, but I do know that what we believe is true here in MN would be ludicrous in a jungle village in South America. And Australia. Would they have such an odd sense of national identity if they hadn't had most of their cultural identity exported from Great Britain, only to clash with having the world be backwards from what they were used to? For instance, if Western religion (with all its European pagan origins and Middle Eastern mythology) had developed in Australia first, would Christmas still be in December, or would it now be in the heart of June? Just things I sometimes wonder about.

Well, that's really all I've got for today.

Jinx

It's 4 pm on Friday afternoon, and I've already had a hell of a day.

My friend Claudia at work likes to say she doesn't have bad days, just bad minutes. I like this attitude, and I'm working hard today to make it true for me.

Last night, after I got off work, I went to get gas. $50 later (man, I HATE that!!), I sped down the highway toward home intending to hit the grocery store on the way. Not five minutes later, the O/D light starts blinking at me from my dashboard. I have never seen this light before, because it doesn't ever light up. I'm thinking, Crap! What the fuck does this mean? and Will it be expensive $$$$$? Optimistically, I swing into the grocery store parking lot, hoping that when I come back out with a load of persihable items that my car will even start.

Just to tease me, the car starts just fine, and the O/D (Overdrive) light does not immediately come back on. Sometimes it happens like that, you know? So, I get back on the highway to head home. Halfway there, the O/D light comes back on, flashing a merry Christmas green, followed scarily by the caution orange Check Engine light. Grrrrrr.....

Today is my day off, since I switched schedules this week with one of the other girls, so I got up, took a shower, and drove my car to the shop. Dropped it off, and walked home, because it is a beautiful day. Sunny, breezy, and in full bloom. I used the time to hope fervently that the fix-it guy would call and say it was nothing major.

No such luck, my friends. $1200. One. Thousand. Two. Hundred. Dollars. Before tax.

And that's not even everything that's wrong with it!! The fix-it guy mumbled something about transmission leaks, and that they don't really work on that kind of thing there. But he'd be happy to fix my broken rear strut (which I think mostly holds up the back end of the car)!!!

I really hate cars. I hate having to fix them, or not fix them, depending. How do I know what's worth fixing and what isn't? I have to have a car. Where I live and work, its not really negotiable.

I expect the phone to ring anytime now, letting me know I can go pick the damn thing up and leave behind one of my most useful bodyparts in exchange.

See? Trying really hard to have only bad minutes today, not one whole lousy day.

I hope you know this means I'm going to have to put off my goal of visitng the Y by Saturday. No way can I afford the monthly dues there now. Not for awhile, anyway.

No, instead I'm probably going to have to get a second job. I need to get these damn credit cards paid off. They're stressing me out. Usually I'm pretty blase' about money, probably too casual really, but it's starting to get to me. I think I'll look for something in my neighborhood, that I can walk to easily. That way I don't waste more gas getting there.

I did spend a couple hours this afternoon making smoothies from all the luscious fruit and veggies I got at the grocery store yesterday. I put on my Footloose movie soundtrack record and pretended I was an aspiring chef on Hell's Kitchen, wielding my pretty red KitchenAid knives like a pro. I made a hell of a mess, but I've got enough to last me at least a week. So that was good. Positive. Optimistic, even.

Anyone got any winning lottery tickets they're not going to cash in? It would go a long way toward easing this awful knot I've got in my stomach. If I'm not careful, I'll give myself an ulcer. Or maybe I should just become a woman of action and do something about it.

I have this silk-screened tea towel in my bathroom that I got when I was in Florida last year. It has this blonde bombshell Pin-Up girl from the 40s, wearing a very tiny version of a sailor suit and hat and red peek-a-boo high heels that I've named Veronica. The caption below her says "Put on your big girl panties and deal with it!" I liked her immediately. Every day she reminds me of the type of woman I really want to be. Veronica would definitely know what to do in a situation like this one. She would have known whether or not she should have the car fixed, or scrap it and get a new one with the money she would have spent fixing this one. Better yet, she would have had a guy she could call who would have fixed it for her, if not free of charge, at least at a really big discount. So, I'm still learning how to tap into my inner Veronica.

Damn it. I knew I should have said, "let me call you back" when the fix-it guy gave me the price.

Suckered every time...

Jinx 

How do you know when enough's enough?

Hillary Clinton has come to the end of her run, and will concede the race this Saturday. I didn't know until her loss was definite that she was really the one I was rooting for. The pundits all say that Obama has a 60/40 shot at being the next president, provided he can keep his head above water for the next 5 months. I like Obama. I'm not unhappy with him as the candidate. I just think Hillary could do the job better. We'll just have to wait and see if he does the smart thing and taps her as his VP. With both of them on the ticket, their chances of beating McCain go up exponentially. 

The way our political system runs, either candidate could have bowed out at any time over the last 5 months. The Republican party certainly lost its share, with McCain emerging early as their front runner. All of them had to, at some point, say to themselves and their supporters, "Enough is enough." Call it a day. Move on.

I was listening to NPR (as I do every day), listening to post primary election coverage on Wednesday morning. One of the women guests, I forget her name, said in response to the question of why Hillary didn't concede right away on Wednesday after the polls closed that the grieving process hadn't ended yet. 

I guess that makes perfect sense. She and her staff and legions of enthusiastic voters had to give up the dream of finally having a woman in the White House, as more than the decorative party planner. That hard a battle needs just as careful planning to end it gracefully as it did to wage each skirmish. No one can begrudge her a few days to mourn the loss of that war. Of course, she can always run again in three years.

This does not change the fact that once again there will be a man running the country. It doesn't surprise me that Americans would swing that way. The attitude seems to be that if a minority must be ensconced in the Oval Office, then its better that we start off with a man, and that he be at least partially white. Take it slow. Change is hard.

All this political drama does nothing more than highlight the inadequacies that plague my own life. It's only natural that it should, because as everyone who reads my blog knows, the world revolves around me.

I have never been that strong. Always content to let the world come to me. Sail past. Fly over. Speed by. But always from a safe distance. I can't even imagine what the world would look like from the inside. I know that this insulated bubble I live in is pretty fragile, and someday, sooner or later, something or someone will pop it like a shiny, iridescent sphere of soap.

I walked south a few blocks the other day, a sort of advance scouting mission to familiarize myself with the location of the nearest YMCA. It was hot and sticky outside, and the building is Under Construction, though still open to the public. I walked all the way around, trying to imagine myself walking through the doors, on a regular basis. I can almost see it happen.

Of course, the three big black guys standing around talking in front of the doors, sort of blocking the entrance like having to walk a gauntlet, was a little intimidating.

Courage, my girl. This is supposed to be an exercise in building reasons for going, not trying to talk yourself out of it. 

What I should do is set a goal, a date, by which I must have at least gone for a visit to see the inside of the building. Who knows? Maybe I won't like the inside? So, if that's what I should do, then that's what I'll do. Today is the 6th. No later that June 14th (next Saturday), I will have gone inside for a tour. 

Deep breath. This isn't the first time I've joined a Y. I was a member of one several years ago, and all with the same good intentions. But I did solitary things. This time, I intend to take advantage of the free member classes, and do things as part of a group. I've always been an exceptional student, after all. Maybe with a structured schedule, I'll be able to get something done. 

Wish me luck...

Jinx     

Why do I so often choose my words more carefully now? Recently I've noticed a growing lack of courage in the confessions I write.

For some reason, my mind and heart refuse to allow me to delve too deeply, too intimately into what makes me tick.

I want to say that there must be some deep, dark secret I haven't yet shared that's eating me alive. That would make for a much better story, anyway.

But the truth is, I have hit a wall. No, not even that. Not a wall. THE wall. The one runners recognize when they hit that invisible mile where muscles refuse to go one more step. The wall that halts any progress. That missing clue that keeps a detective from solving the case.

The wall that must be circumvented, or walked away from.

Something needs to change, again. Something dramatic, drastic, dire, dangerous, a new action, a new course must be embarked upon. Soon.

The soul is a restless thing. It cries out for new experiences, new challenges, new choices. If I don't do something different, I will never get past this point in my life.

This journal has served its purpose, admirably. I had no idea when I began a year and a half ago that it would actually work. Never imagined that I would ever be able to say that the pain was gone. And while I don't think I will ever truly be able to say that completely, the pain I felt for so long, that I was certain would haunt me to my grave, is a pale, pale reflection of what it was. Even a short month or so ago. 

But now that I've made it to this glorious plateau, I need to see if the climb continues up into the mountains, or down to the sea. Metaphorically speaking, of course. 

I will continue to write here, because now I count on it. I need it. I just need to add something new to my daily repertoire of activities. 

My main problem has always been deciding, and then acting on, what I want to do with my life. I'm highly effective when given a task. I fucking love to be useful, needed. But I have never been good at giving myself real goals. Even here, I never set a date for when I wanted to be "healed." I just mosy along at whatever pace is most comfortable, instead of pushing the envelope too fast. I get rebellious and stubborn when pushed too fast.

And then there is the money problem. Anything I might choose to do that is daring and exciting and different promises to have a fairly high price tag attached. I have finally reached a delicate equilibrium where my finances are concerned, and it won't take much to upset the balance. Unfortunately, unless that balance is tipped by a sizable Lottery win, there's only one way that fulcrum will tip.

On the other hand, can I afford to let my money woes stop me from doing what I know is best for me? And what should that best thing be?

I know, it doesn't have to be just one thing. A smart woman would just go ahead and do all the best things for her, and be proud of herself for it. But if you think I'm that type of woman, you haven't been paying attention. Hello, definition of lazy procrastinator, here, remember?

Side note: My neighbor across the hall, Dan, got himself a new video game last week, and he's been playing it almost nonstop when he's home ever since. How do I know? My normally quiet negihbor has the volume cranked, and I can hear the digitized gun shots rat-tat-tatting from hear. I cannot tell you how annoying that is... Almost worse than the damn bells. And in a couple days, it will probably surpass them and I'll be forced to tell him to shut the fuck up. Which will suck, because I hate being a bother.

Back to the discussion.

Best things.

Join a gym or take Community Ed classes. With my health insurance, I get a discount for attending at least 12 times a month, which equals 3 times a week. This would definitely qualify as a dramatic change. 

Get a second job, to help pay the bills a little faster and easier. Doing what, I ask myself? Barrista? Stock clerk? Hooker?

Eat more fruits and veggies. Already doing this. With the discovery of smoothies, which I can make myself, I have one with lots of fruit, plus a handful of spinach and broccoli almost every day. And sometimes a dollop of yogurt or cottage cheese to balance it out.

Volunteer for something I care about. I strongly believe in volunteerism, and giving back to the community. I just can't decide what it should be, anymore. All I know is, I feel better when I'm doing something useful. (Is there an echo in here?)

Go dancing more often. I love the 90s. I love to dance. But I don't like going by myself, and none of my friends are into club hopping. Still, I might run in to people I know. The last time I was there, a random gay guy called me a goddess. (A girl gets that vibe when she's with someone she loves, I guess.) I did look pretty fabulous.

See? All good things. Signs of a life well-lived.

I know which one I should do. A basis to leap off for all the others.

But I am not good at leaping. I need a good, strong, yet subtle push off that cliff. Or at the very least, someone to catch me at the bottom.

Jinx    

E

I'm trying this new background, and I don't know if I like it all that well. Kind of weird, I think.

The latest book in my Anita Blake series came out today, and I've been waiting for it for so long I actually forgot to go get it from the bookstore. Dingbat. I am soooooo curious about what happens next, you know? I'll have to go get it tomorrow instead. Which might actually be better, anyway, since then Thursday is my day off, so I'll be able to just read. And read and read and read. Because honestly, when I start one of LKH's books, I cannot put it down.

Maybe to eat.

But mostly I just read.

Greedy. That's me. Books and potato chips. I have an addiction. I don't buy potato chips, but books I won't/can't give up. The withdrawal symptoms would be horrific, I assure you.

I went shopping for new clothes yesterday, since everything was on sale for Memorial Day. Got a whole bunch of new pretty shirts, but I'm not sure any of them are suitable for my brother's wedding. Must think of the pictures. I'd rather like to blend into the background, so the focus is on the bride and groom, while my natural tendency is to wear the brightest colors I can get my hands on. Sigh. Comfortable is also key, since it will be the 4th of July on a boat.

Side note: For some reason I spelled went like wen't (up there at the top of the previous paragraph), and spent several minutes trying to figure out why the contraction didn't look right. It is a testament to my distracted nature that I actually believed for those several minutes that wen't is a real word, and I was simply forgetting a letter, though I couldn't remember what it should be. Weird, huh?

As I was driving around, lamenting the price of gas all the way, and yet driving around anyway, NPR was playing several special Memorial Day radio programs. What is it about patriotism that inevitably brings tears to the eyes? Stories sad and glad, poignant and funny, tragic and heartbreaking, all seem to have the power to make me cry, just a little. 

There was a special about War & Place on Liner Notes (broadcast live by the BBC from the Queen Mary II). Stories about how wars affect the places and people who are part of them at the time, about the people and families left behind when soldiers go off to war. It is true that, here in America at least, we as the public don't really know we're at war right now, at all. It's so far away, and we're so tired of hearing about it. So much easier to pretend it isn't happening than wonder just how we're going to get ourselves out of it. Or admit that we may never be free of it.

Memorial Day. When it was first begun nearly a hundred years ago, it was alternately called Armistice Day, which means Peace Day. The end of holding arms against each other, but holding out hands in a symbol of peace and friendship and cooperation. The War to End All Wars had taken a grievous toll on psyches and bodies, reshaped entire countries (many not for the better, as we see even now in our most recent conflict), and set in motion a new era of industrialization and personal freedoms. They didn't call them the Roaring 20s for nothing. 

A few weeks ago, it was Veteran's Day. Set aside to honor all the men and women in uniform and out of it, remembered and forgotten, honored and reviled, depending on the prevailing mood of the country. The reaction to the vets from the Vietnam War is unforgivable in my country's past (and present, I might add). I was only a child when that war ended, so I have no true recollection of the events surrounding it, but I have to believe that I would never have condemned a man for serving his country, despite my personal beliefs about the war itself. I cannot do so now, and the parallels between Vietnam and Iraq & Afghanistan are spooky. Plus, there was the Draft (which I am very glad isn't in use for this war). How can you spit on, hate, or abuse a man who had no choice but to go to war, or become a draft dodger and flee to Mexico? I don't understand that mentality. 

I can only hope the American public has learned its lesson about believing everything they're told, and following blindly out of fear. A few more months, and maybe we'd have had better Intelligence to base our decisions on. But I doubt it would have mattered. Bush was reputedly planning an attack on Iraq even before 9/11, regardless. It was just his dumb luck that gave him the perfect excuse to blindside us with a war that we would never have sanctioned without a direct attack. 

So here we are, watching our idiot of a president doing all his presidential things "for the last time," as if we're supposed to feel all nostalgic and sad that his time is coming to an end. Bah! Good riddance, I say. I think president Obama will do a fine job, come next January. Talk about change! He'd better be prepared to be as audacious as his book says he is. I certainly wouldn't want the job. 

Jinx     

What do I want?

What is it I need out of this life to make it worth the living?

What do I really want?

This is a simple question with no easy answer, apparently.

No matter what I do, I cannot seem to figure out what it is I want, much less how to go about getting whatever it turns out to be.

Where does this lathargic response to life come from? Other people seem to have no trouble figuring out what they want, even if they then have to struggle to get it. The struggle makes it all the sweeter when they do finally get what they strive for.

But what to do when you don't really know what it is you want? What would make the struggle worth it in the end?

I know this fatalism is an unhealthy response to the beauty of a day like today. Hot, muggy, the promise of a rip-roaring thunderstorm, lilacs in bloom on every corner, a strong breeze flipping the new leaves and exposing their silver-green undersides to the elements. I went for a long walk, and kept asking myself, what do I want?

I don't know which is more terrifying - the silence or the answers.

I want what I've wanted for the last year and a half. To change who I am and how I respond to the world at large.

Be honest, be honest, be honest. I must remember my mantra. I have to be honest.

There's something my head or my heart wants to say, but I can't seem to make my fingers lay it on the screen. It's like there's this huge wall blocking my view of the truth, or maybe protecting me from it, that I can't seem to tear down or climb over.

It is more than that I want to change, so much more.

How do I change how I respond to the world at large, when I learned so early that the world is not a kind or forgiving place?

How do I allow myself to actually want something, as if I deserve it?

Ouch. That little zinger hurt. This may be hard to believe, but I actually typed that before I thought about it much. Contrary to popular belief, I don't plan everything before I say it here. There are things I erase before I publish, but not much. Kind of defeats the purpose. So yeah, I guess I have to work on this self-esteem thing a little more. 

What do I want?

Some people say they know it when they see it. Others know from birth. Others fall into it just by happy accident. And some never do find what they're looking for.

What do I want?

I want the relief of knowing what I want. I want this horrible indecision and vague dissatisfaction to go away.

I want to be different.

And yet, with all that, there is still no direction. No clear path to be followed. Like wandering in a forest, blind and in the dark.

I'm tried of being afraid of life.

The only person I can change is me, and I'm working on that. Little by little, I am turning things around. I wish I were the type to do things in a big way, take huge leaps, giant risks, make mega changes. But I'm not. Try to make me do anything too fast or too huge, and I run. This is why I need a keeper. Someone to gently push and prob me into being better than I am on my own.

There. That's what I want. A guide. A keeper. No, a guide. Definitely a guide. A keeper implies locks and boundaries that cannot be crossed without serious penalty, while a guide shows the way around and through locked doors and passed boundaries. A guide, the good ones, have been there before you and been through all the battles. They know the way, the perils, the pitfalls, the joys, and they revel in the challenge of bringing their charges through to the end of the journey. Side by side, every step of the way. 

Too bad guides don't come cheap. Know where I might find one?

Jinx