Story on My Mind

Image of Saturn in a snow globe c/o the awesome NASA Cassini folks. If ONLY this were a real snow globe. I would TOTALLY buy it for my collection.

Lately, I've had the beginning of a short story in my head. It's odd. I haven't written a short story in YEARS. Well, I have, but they were all for work and are written for somewhere from PreK-12 -- not exactly the kind of "creative writing" that I can focus on and call my own. In fact, much of my professional writing has been written under fake names. I have a whole host of fake names out there in the world, in classrooms across the nation. Good times.

I did write a very, very short flash-fiction story a few years ago for one of the NPR Three-Minute Fiction competitions. I heard a story starter that I liked and I'd been tossing around a sci-fi-ish storyline in my mind for a few years, so I put them together and submitted the story. I didn't win or anything, but I enjoyed writing the tale. Flash-fiction is my favorite kind to write. You have to find a way to edit out all of the extra words, unnecessary details, and come up with a short, tight, meaningful story. It's a very fun exercise.

I find it rather odd that I've had this new story floating around in my mind for so long. What is the story trying to tell me? What is the character worried about? Well, I know what she's worried about. I have the main plot line all figured out. But still -- what are the fuzzy details I haven't figured out yet? What are her hopes and dreams -- the things that make her tick? I have to let her marinate in my mind for a bit longer before I will be able to sit down and write it out. She's a tricky one.

The other day, I found a collection of some of my old writing that I'd forgotten about. There were copies of a few published works and a whole slew of unpublished, old stories. I giggled as I looked through some of them. Many revolve around early-20s angst. But some of them were good. I remembered how WONDERFUL it felt to finish a story -- to wrap it up and print it out. I used to call my parents and read them my stories over the phone, the poor dears. Now, whenever I start reading them anything, they fall asleep. I have a dreamy, go-to-sleep reading voice, I guess.

Perhaps I will think about this story a while longer, write it all out, give them some caffeine, prop them up in uncomfortable chairs, and tell them a tale once again. It's been far too long.

My Life Is Going to Change This Year Because I Say So

Yes, that is a peeing sheep. I'm just checking to see if you are paying attention. And that goat next to it? Totally doesn't care. "Whavevs. I don't care if you pee on me."

Right about this time of year, I start to get a wild hair up my a$$ to buy a house. It never fails. As New Year's Eve creeps toward me, I start reflecting on the goals I had when I moved back to Farmsville in November, 2007. At that point, I was 99.99% sure that I would own my own home before 2008 was finished.

*giggles*

If you're a long-time reader, you'll know that I go back and forth about things like owning property/not owning property; having kids/not having kids; dating/not dating; getting married/staying a single spinster forever. I can't help it. It's my Gemini personality. And because I'm single, there's no one who has enough "weight" in my life to help me make these decisions. At one time, I had a significant other who I could bounce ideas off of and make large decisions with. Now, it's just me, so I waffle. But here I am, 4 years later, still renting Farmhouse Villa, single, and lacking a full-time/benefits job. So you can see that I err on the side of caution. I was raised to be frugal, thoughtful, and weigh pros and cons. These are good traits and all, but they can also leave me feeling... stuck. Especially when New Year's Eve is only a few days away, and I start to realize I did nothing remotely interesting in 2010.

(Why am I so hard on myself? Well, that's another trait I have. I like to shove myself in the corner and drip water on my own forehead once an hour for sh*ts and giggles. I am quite mean to myself for no reason. At least I'm aware of it.)

A year ago (just after NEW YEAR'S EVER, take note), I decided I was going to give myself my first adult vacation. I bought books about where I was going to go, figured it all out, and then realized how much money I was going to be spending. I was really excited about having a vacation, but then I shut myself down. You can't afford such things. You don't deserve a vacation because vacations are for families. Single people don't go on vacation, silly girl. Stay put and work. You owe the Tax Man a lot of money. 

I conned myself out of my wonderful, literary-dream vacation rather quickly. And then I felt all sad that I wasn't going. And then I moaned with envy when my sister went to BlogHer '10 and took a side vacation to Disney with my extended family members. Somehow, a whole sh*tload of Dorothy's photographs got uploaded to my computer once, so I have endless photographs of Little, Beloved, and Dorothy at zoos, on beaches, and visiting random fun places together. And now, I also have pictures of my aunt, uncle, cousins, and their kiddos all at Disney together. It's quite the buzzkill when I'm feeling blue. Oh yeah, that's what families do. Too bad I can never do that. (But, of course, I won't delete the pictures because everyone is so happy and cute as hell.)

But then I remember that my superfly friend Terry took her single self to Hawaii for a hula vacation this past year. And I recall that my single-mom friend Pinkie went to the Virgin Islands a few years ago by herself for a week long vacation. I know there are people out there who vacation alone. I'm not naive enough to think that single people really do just sit at home by themselves year after year and only use vacation days for spring cleaning. I think it's me. I think I'm literally afraid of going on vacation with myself. What if I get bored and lonely? Hotels make me lonely because they remind me of business trips. I do not have any fun, vacation-ish hotel memories. Only work, weddings, and being exhausted. I have one memory of a fun hotel room at BlogHer '09 with Dorothy, Cagey, and Average Jane, but that was almost 3 years ago.

*crickets*

Where am I going with this... ?

Oh yeah, so this morning, I spent a bunch of time looking at real estate listings to torture myself. No house for you! Then I thought about plans I want to make and things I want to do. This isn't a New Year's resolution thing per se, it's just a moment to give myself a reminder to DO THINGS in 2012. Interesting things. Fun things. Oh for the love of GAWD Blondie, don't be such a Debbie Downer in 2012. Let's shake it up!

So here is my list for 2012 so far (it helps that I'm truly convinced something wackadoo is going to happen on December 21, 2012 -- maybe not the world ending, but "resetting" in a way):

• Take an acrylic painting class, which I'm already signed up for.
• Investigate/learn how to play a violin. (I recently spoke to a local woman who is taking lessons and she told me I could and should DO IT, so I got information about where to take classes, etc.)
• Go to BlogHer '12 in New York City, which I'm already registered for. (HOLLA!) (Also, since I've never been to NY, I'll do the following while there, time permitting in this order: Meet whooshER (that one will happen FOR SURE); go to Ellis Island; drag my deathly-afraid-of-heights a$$ to the top of the Empire State Building; walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.)
• Sign up to win every single free trip known to man in the hopes that I will win one. OR give in and actually pay for my own weekend vacation somewhere I've always wanted to go. (I've always wanted to go to: anywhere in North Carolina; Savannah, Georgia. I think Savannah will win. I want to see the cemeteries.)
• Convince Chicago Cousin, Kira, and Dorothy to have an Iowa girls' weekend at Lake Okoboji -- we will rent a cabin, sun ourselves, and giggle like when we were little girls.
• Find some way to go on a cheap/free hot air balloon ride. (The Oz festival sadly didn't have them.)

And this last one? This last one pops out of the list and gets its own space. When I was living in Oregon, I went to visit Dorothy and complained to her that I'd lost my sexual mojo. Not that I was a whore in my past or anything, but I had once at least been aware that I was a female. By the time I went to see my sister, I didn't feel sexy at ALL. You know what I mean? I had lost my ability to be remotely attractive or flirty. I felt a-sexual, if you will. We went out and did some fun things around Kansas City, and she took some pictures of me at local sights. When we looked at the photos, she found one particular one and said, "There it is! You still have it! Look at you!" And you know what? I did look kind of sexy in the photo.

I want to be "sexy" again. Not physically, per se. I want to be attractive and interesting to MYSELF. When I am, I attract interesting people. I'm having a hard time explaining this in words, but I think you understand. I want to find the WOMAN inside of me that has gone dormant. She's been gone far too long. My sexuality/woman-ness has been overshadowed by the worker, the bill payer, the cat owner, the adult child of my parents, the practical side of myself. The boring, blobby side. NO MORE!

A few weeks ago, I bought my first pair of "sexy" shoes in at least 10 years. I gave up sexy shoes when I lived in Chicago because they weren't practical. Here on the farm, I wear the ugliest shoes known to man because they are practical. SCREW BEING PRACTICAL. I am going to wear these new kicky shoes, find my inner Woman, and bring her out in all her glory. I want to feel ALIVE again. And if that helps me get a mind-blowing, knee-quivering, moonlight kiss at some point, that would be AWESOME. But if not, at least I'll have a little swagger in my step.

There. Now I've written it all out. Those are the things I plan on doing this year to better my life and myself. What are YOU gonna do?

Little Girls and Their Dolls

Just after Little opened her beautiful Erin doll, my sister disappeared into the back room of my parents' house and brought me a present that had previously been hidden from view. The minute she placed it in my lap, I knew what it was. I could feel the edge of the box. I tore the paper. Yes, it was true. My sister bought me Erin, too.

Before I could think about how weird it was for a 34-year-old woman to be receiving a doll for Christmas and loving every minute of it, my crusty black heart melted into a pile of goo. It's true that for my entire childhood I wanted a doll that looked just like me. It took a long time, but I finally got one.

Little is an interesting kid. You can't always tell if she likes something right away. She opened Erin and was then on to other things. I understand. Christmas presents are exciting and you want to get everything opened before you play or even breathe. So I wasn't sure that Erin was a home run with her. She didn't quite have the reaction that say I had when I opened the box. But after everything had died down, Little put on Erin's new dress and shoes and petted her hair and snuggled her up next to Erin 2 (my version), and I saw the magic. Little girls really do adore their dollies.

But back to me.

Despite absolutely adoring Erin 2 and being very excited that my sister fulfilled a childhood dream for me, I am a little embarrassed to say out loud that I got a doll for Christmas. There. I said it. I don't want people to think I'm one of those creepy Reborn Doll lovers who will push Erin 2 in a baby cart through Farmsville to get groceries. I also don't want to be known as that crazy lady who has a doll that looks just like her displayed prominently in her home. I already have enough rumors about me floating around Farmsville -- I don't need help in that department.

But then again, I did buy Pink Kitteh for Little AND me when she was little-er. And we love our Pink Kittehs, yes we do:

Auntie Bon Bon and Little rock out at the Build-a-Bear store, 2008

(Then again, my poor Pink Kitteh is currently holding the curtains away from the vent next to my bedroom window on the floor. Reminder -- get a plastic vent directional thing and rescue Pink Kitteh soon.)

So I will own it that the idea of playing with the dolls WITH LITTLE is one of the most exciting things ever. On Christmas afternoon, we changed their clothes, had them sleep in Little's new doll bed, made up stories, and had a jolly good time. I put Erin 2's hair in a braid so we could tell them apart, and Little gave me one of her doll outfits for Erin 2 to wear because she comes in a nightie only. (Back story: Erin and her BFF doll are clothing designers, so they come without clothes so you can make them or she can make them or something like that.)

But let's get away from Little and my fear of being an outcast for a moment.

I think it's freakin' awesome that my sister was so thoughtful and generous this Christmas. I mean, come on, she totally didn't have to get me an Erin 2. My childhood ship sailed long ago. But she could hear it in my voice when I talked about the one I got for Little -- I was wooed. And even my parents could see it in my eyes as I wrapped up the original Erin for Little -- I kind of wanted to keep her and play with her. Even though I'm a grown-up. Yes, it's true. Deep down inside, I was still pining for a doll that looks just like me. And my sissy made that dream come true. Thank you, Sis Big.

To bring Erin 2 home, I gently wrapped her up in her little doll coffin and brought her to Farmhouse Villa. She is currently sitting on the table with the other things I need to put away. But because she was there and I kept walking past her all day yesterday, I realized that she needs some clothes. I mean, come on, she's cold. She has no shoes. She's in a nightie. What will Little think if I never clothe her??

So I was forced -- and I mean FORCED (someone was here holding a gun to my head) -- to go on the Carpatina Web site and buy her an outfit. OK, two outfits. If she's going to properly play with Little and Erin 1, she's going to need a day outfit and a night outfit because Erin 1 has a sleeping bag AND a brand new bed that fits two. The twins need to be able to sleep together.

I begged the person holding me hostage to be patient as I picked out the following outfits. First, the pretty daytime dress with shoes:

And then the slumber party outfit:

There! Fine! Now she will be clothed. The mysterious person with the gun left, and I went back to work.

I guess there is a little part of me that is still little, too. Don't tell anyone, OK?

And Then She Caved and Bought a Nook Tablet

 All images c/o Barnes & Noble

When my laptop died and went to Electronics Heaven, I realized I had a major problem. I have a clam-shell phone. No smart phone. This means a few things:

• My friends -- and strangers -- make fun of me endlessly for having "ancient technology."
• I have NO access to email, the Internet, or any work-related files on my phone. I can call and text message -- that's it.

So while I was hyperventilating about my Macbook, Pa and I had a discussion about how I might need to move into the modern world by purchasing some kind of tablet. Of course, I wanted (so badly I could taste it) the iPad2. Up until now, I've had no reason to even think about it because I had a laptop. But when I purchased the iMac, which will now stay in one location and never move again (and would be extremely hard to take on an airplane for a business trip), I realized that even though I've been claiming on this very blog that I would never buy an e-reader, it might be time to do just that.

Over the holidays, I was able to tinker around with Ma's new iPad2, and my sister's Nook Color and Kindle. (We had a few moments that were straight out of WALL-E where none of us were talking to each other yet we were three inches away from each other.) Then I spent roughly three hours researching the Kindle Fire, Nook Tablet, and iPad2 to see which one would suit me best.

Of course, the iPad2 would suit me best because I'm an Apple junkie. HOWEVER, after having an emergency computer purchase, I canNOT justify buying one. The very thought of it is making my chest tight, and it's already tight because of this damn iMac. Also, it turns out the Nook Tablet and Kindle Fire have everything I could possibly need. So it became a battle between the Nook Tablet and the Kindle Fire. And the Nook Tablet won.

I was most concerned with being able to check email, the Internet, and look at Word, Excel, and other various documents remotely. Both machines are able to do this, but beyond that, the Nook Tablet kept winning over and over -- even in the professional tech reviews.

Here's the interesting thing about me -- I will probably NOT use the Nook Tablet to read. I'm sure I will once in a while, but it will most likely end up as being the Least-Used e-Reader for Actual Reading. I'm considering it more of a giant smart phone... that you can't call from. I'm not going to pretend that I will NEVER read on it. Sure I will. There are a ton of free books out there in the public domain. And I know I'll eventually read books on it because THE ONLY BARNES & NOBLE IN COUNCIL BLUFFS IS CLOSING TOMORROW.

Dear Barnes & Noble,

We all knew that mall sucked. But for reals, you need to build a stand-alone store in Council Bluffs, Iowa to replace it. You have NO idea how the closing of that bookstore is affecting this community. We need books. 

Love,

Blondie

Anyway, if I was going to invest in the Nook Tablet, I was going to have to have one hell of a cover. I wanted one that closed all the way. Not the kind that is just like a book cover. I didn't want the change in my purse or crumbs or whatever to sneak into the case. Also, I read that many people prefer to hold the Nooks withOUT covers because they are comfortable and easy to manage.

So I looked around for a while and found the perfect cover for me -- the Earhart cover:

I find this very handy because it closes all the way AND it can hold the power cord:

Because the BARNES & NOBLE IN COUNCIL BLUFFS IS CLOSING TOMORROW (DO YOU HEAR ME B&N?? THAT IS INSANE!!), I figured they probably were out of stock of the cover I wanted. And because I know myself so well, I know better than to go INTO a closing bookstore when I've already hemorrhaged money for the last two weeks because I will buy EVERY SINGLE THING on clearance, so I ordered the Nook Tablet and my fancy case online. Now I just have to wait 1-3 business days.

*twitches*

But seriously, I'm happy that I will now have access to the "world" if anything should ever happen to my beloved iMac, Shirley. I'm also excited to look up endless public domain short stories, novels, and documents any time I please. And fine -- purchase new releases once in a while and read them on the tablet designed for reading.

BUT SERIOUSLY, BARNES & NOBLE, IF I HAVE TO HAUL MYSELF ALL THE WAY OUT TO WEST OMAHA FROM IOWA IN ORDER TO SPEND MY PRECIOUS TIME DROOLING AT ALL OF THE REAL BOOKS AND SPENDING TONS OF MONEY I SHOULDN'T SPEND, I MIGHT HAVE TO ORDER EVERYTHING REAL-BOOKWISE FROM AMAZON. PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME WHEN I JUST BOUGHT THIS NEW, LOVELY NOOK.

The End

The Christmas of Failed Electronics

NUMBER FIVE IS ALIVE!

I'm back. I am writing to you from my brand new iMac -- one that I didn't expect to need or pay for the week of Christmas 2011. But there you have it.

The night before Christmas Eve at roughly 8:55pm, the Apple Store called to tell me that my new computer was ready. The hard drive had been almost all the way transferred. A few applications bit the dust, and I'm sure some old love letters from like 4 computers ago were deleted, but whatevs.

On Christmas Eve morning, Pa, Beloved, and I drove all the way over to west Omaha (for myself, this was the third time in one week -- a new world record) to pick up Shirley. (I am serious. And don't call me Shirley. If you get that joke, we are officially besties.) She has a 21-inch screen, a wireless keyboard, and a magic mouse. We are still getting to know each other. I gave the dead Macbook Pro to Pa so he can tinker with it and see if he can bring it back to life. It would be AWESOME if he could, but I'm not counting on it. It's best to consider that engine dead. (Bonus points if you caught that reference, too.)

We brought Shirley home and left her sitting on the floor for a few days still in her box. I had to, you know, celebrate Christmas with my family and all. I hemmed and hawed that maybe just maybe things weren't working like they should. I needed to know that my WORK was still on my hard drive. Meanwhile, I couldn't find the charger for my camera, so I was unable to take a single photograph this whole holiday season. Basically, this was the Christmas of Failed Electronics. Blondie? Well, she was rather b*tchy.

But Little DID love her new doll and Ma DID love the iPad2 Pa bought for her (I love it, too.) Dorothy and Beloved knocked Little's socks off with all of her gifts, and we all ate a LOT of food. Overall, a good time was had by all.

This morning, I turned on the new iMac and realized that even though it worked just fine last night when Pa and I set it up, it no longer played iTunes or YouTube videos. Sigh. Grumble. And? AND?! The wireless Internet went out.

*deep breaths*

So I plugged in an actual CORD to get the Internet, installed Flash, called the Apple people, restarted the computer and BAM everything worked again. I truly do believe that the Universe is just f*cking with me now. How much can she handle before 2011 is over? How far can we push her? Will she crack?

I did. I finally leaked out my first tears of the holiday season this morning, and I almost yelled at my sweet Pa, who was only trying to help. I think what I really need is some down time alone. But wait. I have to work to make up for missing all of that work while the computer was gone. Lovely.

But then again, at least I have my hard drive. Which I will back up right away, yes I will.

I hope you all had wonderful holidays, and I promise to be less Grinchy tomorrow. For reals.

Computer Fail

Picture of awesome Colorado train c/o Pa Blonderson

I'm currently writing from my parents' house because MY MACBOOK PRO DIED. For reals. My sweet darling is gone. No less than two weeks ago, Pa said, "Your Mac isn't going to last forever, you know." I scoffed. But then he pointed out that I use my Mac like 12 hours a day hardcore because work from home. I use the "home computer" waaay more than normal people do. I also edit or write giant files and run huge programs on a regular basis. All electronics only last so long. For some reason, I thought the Macbook Pro would last longer.

I went out for errands after I wrote my last blog post. When I came back, it was dead. It wouldn't make the electronic song thing that Macs make when you turn them on. It made a weak, pathetic sound when I turned it off. The apple on the back refused to light up. And then the panic set in.

I called my sister and my father, and both of them said surely it was just a dead battery. Surely, the Mac was fine. Surely, I was just overreacting because MY WHOLE LIFE WAS ON THAT THING AND OF COURSE, JUST LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW ALL THOSE YEARS AGO, I DIDN'T BACK IT UP. Ahem.

So they told me to plug it in (I switched outlets because it was already plugged in) and go to sleep and let it charge all night long and surely, it would all be fine in the morning.

Nope.

At the Apple Store, the Very Attractive Genius at the Genius Bar did some tests and gave me the bad news--dead. I could send it in for tests (for a cost, of course) and then if something was broken inside (most likely even though I've never dropped it), blah blah blah blah worst case scenario it could cost $1200 to fix the original-generation Macbook Pro. You know what else you can buy for $1200? A brand new iMac. With a 21-inch screen and a wireless keyboard. Because you know what? I really don't go anywhere with my laptop anyway. And I constantly have multiple files open on my screen that I have to toggle back and forth between because my Macbook Pro only had a 17-inch screen. So even though I was DYING INSIDE AND ALMOST OUTSIDE BUT NOT REALLY BECAUSE THE GENIUS WAS SO HAWT, I gave in and told them to go ahead and give up on the laptop. Goodbye, my love. We had a good run together.

So the new computer is still at the Apple Store where the techs are going to try as hard as possible to retrieve my hard drive. PLEASE LET THE HARD DRIVE BE THERE OR I WILL MELT INTO THE FLOOR AND NOT HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS OR A HAPPY NEW YEAR AT ALL. I am yelling inside my head, can you tell?

It's been awkward being in Farmhouse Villa "off the grid." Since I don't have a smart phone, I wasn't even able to make my own appointment at the Genius Bar. I had to call my father and have him set it up for me. And now I'm typing on his really super annoying Linux-system laptop that is SUPER slow and kind of glitchy and is making some of these letters disappear even as I type. Hrumph.

Yes, it's always fun to get a new computer, but not under these circumstances. And certainly not if the hard drive is, indeed, gone. But I can't let myself go there right now or I might cry.

Oh, and guess what is sitting on one of the side tables over at Farmhouse Villa that I've had for months? A brand new, empty USB drive that I purchased specifically to back up all of my work.

NOTE: Don't be a Blondie this year. Back up your computer today!

Dreaming of Violins

Image c/o wikipedia

I have always wanted to learn how to play the violin. It's not something I talk about often because, let's be honest, it seems kind of wonk. Surely, one should learn how to play a string instrument in youth, yes? I played the clarinet and the oboe in middle and high school, but there were no options for string instruments at my school. That was a bit fancy for Farmsville.

When I lived in Chicago, I briefly considered taking violin lessons at a local music place. But every time I drove by, I saw classrooms filled with young children through the glass windows. I knew I would feel rather awkward surrounded by 6-year-old geniuses, so I gave up on the dream. But recently, it's been coming back to me.

At night, I have visualizations of kind of odd things. Right before I fall asleep, I often imagine myself as a ballerina. I took dance lessons for almost a decade, and at one time I was in pointe classes with my friend Potato. We were the only two from our "class" that made it into pointe, so I was rather proud. But then life got busy and dance classes were replaced by cheerleading and blah blah blah. Basically, I quit dancing. But I still think about it all the time. When I'm reading, I often point and flex my feet just to be doing it.

Lately, my Dream Time visualizations have changed over to playing the violin. Wouldn't it be lovely to magically know how to do it? I have a good ear for music, but I've completely forgotten how to read it. I could still play a clarinet or oboe by ear -- I still have at least one song memorized from my oboe days and I can work out all of the finger movements perfectly. Alas, my instruments were sold long ago. I don't even have a plastic recorder anymore.

But here is the thing about violins -- they are made for right-handed people. Whenever my Chicago Ex would try to teach me songs on one of his guitars, it was so awkward for me to strum right-handed. I lack coordination with that hand. I can use my right hand for scissors out of necessity. I can use a computer mouse on the right side out of necessity. But playing a violin? How would I accomplish that? And from what I've researched, left-handed violins are few and far between -- and they are difficult for instructors because everything is backwards, including the placement of all the strings. I ran into this same problem when I wanted someone to teach me to crochet in a circle. Right-handers get baffled by leftie instructions. And don't even get me STARTED about the desks I grew up with in school. We left-handers -- we always get the shaft.

So let's say that FINE I will learn how to play a violin right-handed. How do I go about doing this? Professional lessons are hella expensive (trust me, I looked them up). I'm not going to join an orchestra or anything. I just want to chase a dream. I found a used violin on craigslist and got all excited about it until my mother pointed out that I have no idea what I'm doing and I should probably at least go HOLD a violin at least one time to see how it feels. Point made. No violin for me.

But I'm still curious and interested. Do any of you play the violin? Is it as difficult as it looks? Do you know any lefties? What do they do? And if you don't know any of these answers, how about this -- does learning the violin at 34 years old sound odd to you?

On Touch, the Least Used of the Five Senses

One thing I enjoy about reading science fiction that includes robots is that there are moments when the author can ruminate about human behavior in a way that isn't preachy or overtly obvious. I'm toward the end of The Naked Sun by Isaac Asimov right now, and last night I came upon an interesting passage. The main character is visiting a different world -- one that is inhabited by humans, not aliens or anything. But on this world, people live very far apart from one another, so they're used to "viewing" each other via video-link-type technology. "Seeing" a person face-to-face is quite horrifying to these people because it simply never happens. There is no reason to "see" someone when you can "view" them. (Sound familiar? Yeah, me, too.)

Anyway, the children on this world are grown from eggs to adults in a special location. Though they eventually take to "viewing," at the beginning, they stubbornly insist on playing with each other. This moment in the book gives Asimov the opportunity to point out an interesting human characteristic. I'm too lazy to get up from my blanket nest (my home office is freezing) to go get the book and drop in the quote, but he says something about how humans will play with one another -- touch one another -- with no discrimination up until a certain age. After that, all bets are off. Fascinating.

It's true that babies and toddlers will grab for one another -- plant kisses, give smacks, and drool or snot all over each other without fear of any consequences. It's only as we age that touching someone on the forearm in passing can become somewhat of an invasion of privacy. When does our space bubble begin to form?

My bubble is different depending on who is near it. I can talk to some people when they are an inch away from my face and feel no alerts -- my cousins, parents, and closest friends. But if certain people (or complete strangers) enter my space bubble, I become anxious. If I can physically feel their body heat, the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. My bubble anxiety was exacerbated when I lived in Chicago and took too much public transportation. But it's still on high alert here in the Iowa countryside. When you're too close, you're too close.

I wonder when the exact moment happens that we realize touch should be a personal thing? I know many young children, and it seems they do go from wrestling with strangers to yelling "cooties" in two seconds flat. Considering the goal of all species is to procreate to ensure the continuation of the species, when did humans become so guarded? If we want to keep our species alive, you'd think we would be touching each other all of the time. Not sexually, per se, but in a communal, nurturing way. (I'm afraid I'm not making sense. Am I making sense? This concept is difficult to put into words. I guess that's why Asimov decided to show, not tell.)

I am a hugger and a toucher by nature. Ma always told me that I was the cuddliest baby at the hospital and all of the nurses fought over me because I was great at snuggling. I still love snuggling. I enjoy holding hands or having some part of my body -- even if it's just my foot -- touching another person. But only those I adore. Touches from strangers now weeb me out in ways they never have before. I attribute this to Chicago El and Metra trains and buses, but it might be something deeper inside of me. A special kind of armor. Stay back. My spirit doesn't welcome you. Or maybe I've just been single for so long that I've forgotten how to give and receive friendly affection. I really don't know. But it's interesting to think about.

A Blank Canvas

Because I still haven't charged the battery on my fancy camera, you get this nice cell phone pic.

What you see above is my very first adult painting. Sure, I made goofy paintings as a kid, but I never had any kind of formal training. When I lived in Oregon, I decided I wanted to try it out. I found a local community center that offered watercolor classes. For some reason, I thought watercolor would be easy. It turns out that watercolor painting is one of the most difficult mediums. Who knew? You can see my inexperience in the painting above -- the blotches where water gathered in pools and dried, crazy unevenness all around. It's a terrible painting, but I always keep it on my wall because it's a reminder that I at least tried.

The assignment for this particular painting was to do the box and paint an off-center floral arrangement coming out of the box. If there is one thing I'm really bad at, it's realism in drawn art. So I did the only thing I could come up with after numerous failed attempts at copying real-life flowers -- I made a flower girl. When it came time to display our paintings for the class, this flower girl sat up on the chalkboard along with roughly 15 gorgeous, incredibly realistic still-life flowers. It was... awkward. But my teacher did give me some praise for at least completing the assignment instead of giving up. It was embarrassing, but I made it through.

I took the class because I was bored and lonely. I kept painting because I found it to be a wonderful release. Since that first class, I've honed my watercolor skills. I no longer leave huge puddles to dry. I've figured out intricate ways to battle mistakes. I've created and given away dozens of paintings as gifts, and I've been extremely proud of each one of them. But as I sit here, I can honestly tell you I haven't made a painting in at least two years. As with many things, I got busy and it fell to the wayside. Boo on that.

A few years ago, I decided I wanted to learn how to paint with acrylics instead of watercolor. I searched online for videos I could watch and investigated some books. I never did figure out exactly what I would need because there are SO many products out there. I gave in and bought a little boxed set of paints and canvases to give it a whirl. But I never did figure out what I was doing, so the box is now in the art room along with the canvases -- just sitting there.

Yesterday, after thinking about ways to WAKE UP, I realized it was time to take the acrylic painting class. I can easily talk myself out of classes like this:

• It's winter. There will be storms and ice, and you won't be able to drive there.
• It's expensive. There is the cost of classes and then the inevitable cost of materials. Art supplies cost a pretty penny.
• What if the teacher is wackadoo? (The original watercolor painting teacher was TOTALLY wackadoo.)
• What if you end up in class with a bunch of "serious" snobby artists and no one accepts the fact that you can't paint "realistically"? (That happened at the watercolor class, too.)
• Surely you can teach yourself this stuff, right? Come on, you can read.

But you know what? There are some things that I just can't read to learn. I can own that. Painting is one of them. And there's something to be said for being in a room full of people who are also painting to gather some inspiration from. And let's be honest -- I am sick of my own company.

So I started researching the classes I've thought about taking in the past. You might not believe this, but Omaha has a TON of art studios and creative centers. For reals. There were a LOT of options for me to choose from. One class looked good, but the specific center it was through works mostly with children. The class was listed as 8-adult, so I had visions of ending up with a bunch of children and like one really tired, bossy mom or something. I looked up more classes elsewhere and realized they were ridiculously far away and would start at like 4:30pm on Mondays. Um, no. I have that whole job thing. And nothing extracurricular should ever happen on a Monday -- that's a personal rule.

Despite my raging fear of art snobs, I finally landed on the Joslyn Art Museum Web site. And you know what? I found the perfect class. Perfect amount of time, perfect cost, perfect description. I sat here and hovered over the "register" button forEVER. Should I? Shouldn't I? I went through the bulleted list above a few times. And then I kicked myself in my own a$$. Sign up for the damn class. You want to. And you will have fun and learn and get out of Farmsville. DO IT!

So yes, I signed up for a 6-week acrylic painting class that will (most likely) be filled with adults. After years of hemming and hawing about this, I'm doing it. I want to learn to paint with this new medium. And you know what? I'm really excited. It's been a loooooong time since I've had something to look forward to. It feels really good. I just hope they don't expect realism. That's not how I roll.

Waking Myself Up

There always comes a point in time when you realize you've been neglecting something. You're going along through life and suddenly you trip over a stack of books in the dining room and look up and go: "Wow, my house is a MESS." I'm not having that specific problem right now. My house is cluttered, but it's not the wreck that it has been in the past. Instead, I've recently tripped over my own stack of emotions and realized I've been neglecting my own spirit. The "house" is a mess, and by "house" I mean "me."

I carry all of my emotions in my lower back. Whenever I throw out my back, it's rarely just a physical thing. I know this, but like any good human, I choose to ignore it. No, I'm fine. Really. Whatevs. What's that shiny thing over there?

But after wonking out my back recently, it's time to do some self-evaluating. Usually, the back pain would be gone by now. I've taken Advil, iced myself, and sat/slept properly. My back should be going back to normal right about now, but it's not. Damn.

Blondie: OK, body, what are you trying to tell me?

Body: I'm hurt.

Blondie: Yes, I realize that. So why are you hurt?

Body: Because I'm hurt.

This year, I was so busy with work that I had very little downtime. While I was busy focusing on assignments, the joy was slowly being sucked out of my life. Months went by without important phone calls, dinner dates, or emails to my support system. I saw my parents often, but we didn't have any fun dates to go do things like we have in years past. And if you haven't noticed, I've been using old photographs on the blog for months because a.) I have a new camera that constantly needs me to charge its battery and I always forget to do it and b.) I haven't had anything interesting enough to photograph in my direct line of vision. I've become quite boring. Lifeless.

When you have a kid who is sad or bored, you try to make the kid feel good. Take the kid to a movie. Make a special meal. Plan a fun activity. The sucky thing about being single is that YOU are responsible for entertaining yourself or cheering yourself up all the time. No one is going to realize you're sitting on the couch in your pajamas at 6pm for the fourth day in a row. They can't see you in your little house feeling bored and wondering how long it will take until bedtime -- oh my, how those hours can stretch.

Yes, it's all on you to create your own plans, find new things to do, and get yourself up and about. And sometimes, you just get so tired of it. F*ck it, I'll just sit here. I don't want to spend any money anyway. And then all of the sudden, it's December, and you're reflecting on the last year of your life -- remembering New Year's Eve 2009 and saying: Where did 2010 go? What was I doing? Oh yeah, nothing. I just lost a year of my life to work, poverty, and boredom.

If the world really is going to end on December 21, 2012, I'd better figure out how to make my last year alive more interesting. I don't want to go out knowing that I wasted time staring at the walls. In my past, I've taken classes, started new hobbies, and have been pretty good at pulling myself up out of these bouts of depression. Here we go... again.

It's my goal to clean up my house. Out with the old and in with the new. I can't expect life to be interesting if I am uninteresting to myself. We attract what we put out into the universe. It's time to attract something amazing. I suppose that means it's time to make myself amazing. Let's hope I can.

All-American Muslim Is a Winner; Lowe's Is an A$$hat

Shadia, Suehalia, and Samira c/o TLC

This year, I was really excited to see that a show called All-American Muslim was coming to TLC. So far, the show has been really interesting and educating. Even though I know Muslims in real life, I haven't known the intricacies that come with being a part of the community as a whole -- relationships between parents and their children, differing feelings about the hijab (head scarf for women), and how to convert.

I've been to two Muslim naming ceremonies for babies and have been around my fair share of extremely hungry (and somewhat cranky) people during Ramadan, but I didn't realize that a Muslim father will give the call to prayer after a newborn arrives, such as Nader did when Nawal gave birth (which was beautiful). I also have realized that Suehalia (center above) is my secret soul-sister. Her recent discussion with a friend about being torn between two worlds struck a cord with me. I, too, struggle with finding a man who will "get it." (Suehalia, give me a call. XXOO, Your New Bestie) Basically, I love the show, and I hope that more people watch it and become educated about Muslim life.

But then Lowe's had to go and p*ss on my parade.

Grace Hwang Lynch details the problem over at BlogHer with this article: Lowe's Pulls Ads from "All-American Muslim," Faces Media Storm. Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.

*waits*

Lowe's SHOULD face a media storm. (Hey, Lowe's, you're an A$$HAT!) I'm not sure why they feel the need to "defer" to ONE small-minded, ridiculous, racist "media-concerns" group, but they did. And then they say "sorry"? Whatevs. Lowe's can kiss my home-improvement a$$ good-bye because I will NEVER shop there again. And, I encourage all of you other wise readers to head to your nearest Menard's. They're cheaper anyway.

Even though I find some of TLC's programming a bit questionable, I commend them for putting Muslim families front and center right now. The ignorance regarding the Muslim community is ridiculous -- and at epic proportions. There is a HUGE difference between a 9/11 terrorist and a regular Muslim. Why don't people see that? Why don't people know that deep in their hearts with everything they have? What is wrong with the idiots in this country that they've let ONE small group of political extremists speak for an entire culture? Where is the compassion, the respect of other religions, and the knowledge that one doesn't represent all?

When I saw Suehalia getting gawked at as she walked through the airport (on her way to educate people about the Muslim community in Washington, DC), I felt literally sick. I wanted to jump through the television and join her. I wanted to wrap a beautiful hijab around my head and stand with her in solidarity. Do your thing. I'll stand with you. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. Of course, she totally didn't need my help because she's strong and tough and proud of herself -- which she should be.

All I could really do as I watched the scene unfold was shake my head in shame. I want to be proud of my country. Will we never learn? THIS is exactly why I study Holocaust history so closely. In a different time, maybe we would be the ones with concentration camp ovens belching smoke over the purple mountain majesties. You think it could never happen, but I bet it could.

I feel kind of queasy right now. I'm extremely riled up.

So yeah...

Dear Lowe's,

Thank you for proving to me how ignorant you are. I will be sure to spread my own little message loud and clear: Don't shop at Lowe's. Ever. And thank you for embarrassing the good people of this nation by publicly denouncing a religion/culture in such an obvious, racist way. I hope that one day your eyes will be opened to the beauty/normalcy of the Muslim community. Until then, bite me.

Sincerely,

Blondie Blonderson (Iowan, Caucasian, non-Muslim)

On True Connections

I found out recently that the only big-box Barnes & Noble near me is closing -- because it's in a mall and the mall is closing. I can't even begin to tell you how sad this makes me. I couldn't care less about the rest of the mall (except for the people who are losing their jobs), but losing a chain bookstore that I can wander around for hours makes my heart hurt. Now, I'm going to have to drive forEVER to get to a different Barnes & Noble or one of the indies. My heart has always been with the indies, but my mind is solidly focused on the big-boxes. There are so many OPTIONS.

This weekend, I decided to go to the bookstore to take advantage of their closing sale. Most items were 50% off, plus I could use my folks' discount card to get an extra 10% off. Score. I spent hours there -- looking through stacks of books for hidden gems. One item I found was The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran, which I stood reading for about 10 minutes before giving in and lugging it around for another hour. At nearly 1,000 pages of Gibran's work, the total price of $4.98 was quite the steal.

I used to have a lot of large collections of writing like this -- mixtures of poetry, prose, stories, and letters. I replaced many of them after my house fire, but I gave up on some of them because they are so heavy and bulky. When I finally got the book home, I flipped through the pages searching for some wisdom. I read so much nonfiction now that I forgot how nice it can be to land on some philosophical writings that someone wrote "just because." They can be quite brilliant.

I miss my younger self. I miss being inspired by so many wonderful words. I miss talking about interesting topics with open, eager minds. Learning, exploring, thinking. As I've grown, the way I interact with those around me has changed so much. What happened to those long talks about politics, religion, and philosophy that were NOT heated and ignorant? Ones that simply questioned? When did I stop listening to people, and when did they stop listening to me?

I know I can't go back in time. I've often desired my past, and people around me are always telling me to let it go and live in the present. But sometimes, the present is so very depressing. It's been my experience that hearts and minds grow more closed with time -- personalities and belief systems become solid and unchanging. And we all become so busy that we barely have time to even answer an email or call someone with words of support during a rough time. In my past, it seemed that I was so much more connected. I was surrounded by great thinkers and friends. I miss them.

I know that I'm only imagining the wisdom of my youth. In college, I was a small egg -- confused about life and everything I was learning. I am much more wise now. Perhaps that is why so many of these conversations have stopped? I've learned that most of the time, it's not worth it. It only leads to arguments. There are safe topics and unsafe topics -- most people choose safe. But I still long to dig deep into people's minds. Throw away all the surface conversation and really get to know someone. I haven't gotten to know someone like that in a very long time. I wonder if I ever will again?

Longing for Simplicity

Winter in Iowa inevitably brings power outages. The other day, the entire town of Farmsville went down. Since I live in the country, I was unscathed, but the lights did flicker for a bit, so I wasn't sure I would make it. Because I live on one side of town and my parents live on the other, we all kept our power. My drive from here to there showed me that no one else did. And, I must admit, I was kind of jealous.

I have vivid memories of power outages from when I was younger. As a child, those nights were the most fun. The TV was gone, I had to use a candle to light up my bedroom, and everything became more magical. My parents and sister looked different in candlelight. Softer. More intimate. Everything was so quiet, unless one of us found batteries and put on some music. It was always so lovely.

One particularly horrible storm knocked out the power at our house for five days when I was a freshman in high school. My friend Uniqua and I sat on the floor of Dorothy's room while she read us Edgar Allan Poe stories. It was a true treat. Dorothy was not nice to me at that point in my life. Our little story time was a rare and needed moment. I remember it well.

When I got into college, power outages were even more magical. I would go to the boys' house and we would sit in the candlelight drinking, talking, sharing our philosophies of life. Oh, how wise we all were. Hee hee. The boys I hung out with didn't watch TV regularly. I don't recall it ever being on except those rare days when there was an important football game on or someone was watching a video for class. So the candlelight nights weren't oddly quiet like they were at my parents' home, but they still created a new atmosphere. When the lights are out, people are forced to sit closer to each other -- look right at faces and pay attention. You can learn a lot about people when the power is gone.

If I thought enough of my friends would participate, I would host a Lights Out Party. No cell phones would be allowed. Everyone would have to get by with candlelight. I would probably even hide all of the flashlights. I would have food, games, and conversation starters. But something tells me this wired world of mine would scoff at such an evening. Even my own mother feels lost when she forgets her cell phone at home now. It's SO hard to disconnect, isn't it? Go off the grid? Even for just one day. It's unnerving, I admit it. I can barely remember what life was like before email, the Internet, and my cell phone. Surely, I made more eye contact back then, right?

What I wouldn't give for a night where my sister reads me stories or a book by candlelight. I would snuggle up under a blanket and look out at the stars while visualizing whatever tale is spinning off the pages. And all the rest of it -- whatever it is -- would simply disappear.

When It's Just a Little Pain

The interesting thing about having a bad back is that it can wonk out on you at any moment. You can sneeze and be on the floor. I usually can predict when something is going to throw out my back -- except that one time when I was on the phone and placed a can of Diet Dew on the end table and ended up in the hospital. That was weird. But ever since I completely WRECKED my lower back at the bookstore circa 2000, I've known that long stretches of good back health are also a waiting game. My back always comes for me, just when I least expect it.

So it snowed, yes? And there is ice EVERYWHERE. Despite huge amounts of rock salt, the ice on my driveway where I park my car and the front stairs are covered with a few inches of the stuff. Iowa ice is no match salt, apparently. But have I fallen on the ice? NO! I've been extra careful about how I walk up and down the stairs. I've been moving as slow as a tortoise on my way to the Corolla. And getting my garbage can down the entire driveway on trash day was a magical feat of carefulness.

But then I went to the grocery store. The roads are better in town than they are in the country, so I was pleased to see the sidewalks were also cleared. I got my food goodies and chatted with the bagger dude as we walked out to my car. I was just explaining to him that I can never find my ice scraper on the first snow because it always ends up frozen into the trunk -- that is the trunk is always frozen shut that first time and I never expect it -- when in a moment of sheer irony, I popped in the key and yanked UP on the trunk itself, and even though the majority of the trunk looked clear, the right end was frozen solid. My body went up, my back went down.

I knew it the minute I used excessive force while standing in a somewhat unaligned, awkward way -- I had just busted my back. Again. It didn't hurt. I didn't cry. But I knew. Deep down inside, I knew. I came home, unloaded the giant amount of groceries while precariously navigating the frozen stairs, and hit the couch. Fuuuudge. It still didn't hurt, but it was a lie. Just wait, I told myself. It's only a matter of time now.

Two days later = today. It took longer than I thought, but this morning I woke up with horrifying pain in my lower back. Oh sure, take longer than usual and make me think I might have escaped unscathed! So now I'll begin my regimen of ice, anti-inflammatories, and lying flat on the floor for 20 minutes at a time doing stretches to get my bad back to RELEASE the muscles and stop being such a beyotch.

But every time this happens, I'm reminded that at least I do NOT feel like I did that first year after my back injury. That year, I could barely move. I thought it would never end. I cried every day and could hardly lean over to brush my teeth or tie my shoes. Every single thing (even breathing) was a painful ordeal. I'm not there now. This is just a tweak. It will be OK in a few days.

Just as with all pains -- emotional or physical -- I'm glad I've been through some whoppers in my life. Because of those moments, I now recognize that this too shall pass. I've been through far worse before.

The Bedroom Insulating Project Begins

I share this ridiculously OLD photograph of my bedroom window because it's the best way to show you exactly what the window and its covering look like. (In the corner, you can see the navy blue/creme vertically-striped wallpaper that used to be on my bedroom walls -- dizzying.) Anyway, this window is OLD. My first spring, it gushed water because the roof was all f*cked up right above it. Later that year, I broke into this window when I locked myself out of the house. I ruined the screen when I did that, so now I can never open the window in the spring to let in fresh air. The window barely opens anyway because the weights and pulleys are from the Dark Ages and will hardly move. And now, the window is FREEZING cold and is ruining my sleeping nest due to a certain curious kitteh named Gretchen. Basically, this window sucks.

The window panel you see above used to be the door for my bedroom in Chicago. Yes, I said door. The apartment I shared with Chicago Ex didn't have doors to the bedroom or the home office, so I improvised by purchasing this panel and a tension rod. It kept the air-conditioning IN in the summer and light OUT when he stayed up later than I did. It also kept visitors from staring at my bed. Very useful. When I moved to Farmhouse Villa, I decided it would make the perfect bedroom window panel because it DOES let in light but not too much light. I have sleeping issues, so if light wakes me up at some point, I'll never go back to sleep.

But that first winter here, I realized that my house isn't insulated and the windows are most-likely as old as the house (which is over 100 years old). The storm windows DON'T help, and the storm window for this particular window is JAMMED OPEN. So I bought an expensive, insulated window covering for my bedroom. But the damn thing is white. The one winter I used it, I woke up with the sun every morning and couldn't go back to sleep. Precious hours of REM fell to the wayside and I got very "off." Even though it held some of the cold air, it was too much of a sacrifice to lose my darkened bedroom. I decided to not use it this year.

Here are the other annoyingly cold things about my bedroom:

• I have a walk-in closet in my bedroom that doesn't have a vent. So no heat or air. There is another old-as-hell window in the closet that leaks in freezing air in the winter. Since my bedroom has hardwood flooring, the air leaks in under the closet door.
• I have a walk-up staircase to the attic in my bedroom. Since the attic is not insulated (well, we threw some insulation down on the floor a few winters ago to try and lower my propane bill), Arctic winds flow down the stairs and out under the closet door. 

You would think it would be easy to solve the door problems, yes? I should just put those handy door-crack pillowy things on the floor near the doors, right? Wrong. Because of Gretchen. Gretchen, who thinks everything is her plaything. Gretchen tries to get into both of those doors on a regular basis. So does Webster. Any closed door in Farmhouse Villa = Temptation. (We won't even discuss their obsession with the basement door. That's a whole different post.) Gretchen would shove away any wind blocker from the bottom of a door in approximately .00000342 seconds.

The bottom of the attic staircase has a little space between it and the door. There used to be someone else's old mat stuffed in there, but I had Pa remove it when we trapping mice. (I caught 3 total in the attic. They seem to all be dead now. *knocks on wood*) I figured out that the mice were using part of the mat to make some winter bedding, so I tossed it. The other night, I bunched up an old towel and tried to shove it in the space. I had to fight off Gretchen and Webster as if I had dumped a giant bowl of tuna in front of them. Let's go in the attic! Whee! Let's run up there and never come down! WHOOT! I had locked them out of the bedroom before opening the attic door, but since all of the doors in Farmhouse Villa are SO OLD, my bedroom door popped open and there they were. Hrumph. So the door problems? I'm working on them.

So back to the window. There is a heating vent right under that damn window. Before Gretchen came into my life, the kittehs only looked out of the window if the curtain was pushed back. But she's more interested in outdoor life than Webster is or King was, so she likes to push the curtain aside when it's in her way. I carefully align the bottom of the curtain each day so that it won't get shoved over the vent and send my precious propane literally out the window. BUT Gretchen keeps moving it.

Last summer, I found the closest item to the window, which was Pink Kitteh (a stuffed animal that I made for myself while making an exact copy for Little at Build-a-Bear). Poor Pink Kitteh is now a curtain holder. Her body holds the curtain against the wall by the vent. But is she any match for Gretchen? Hells no. Every single freakin' day I have to go adjust Pink Kitteh multiple times when I walk into my bedroom and notice the temperature in there has dropped 10 degrees. And don't even SUGGEST putting plastic on the window. Gretchen would tear it down and eat it in 30 seconds. Damn that Gretchen. She's so feisty.

Wow. This is a long blog post. Clearly, I have a lot to say about how cold my bedroom is. Also, I have the day off work for the first time in ages, so I feel FREE and BLABBERY. Awesomeness.

Anyway, today I'm going to tackle the bedroom problem. I'm going shopping to get supplies:

• A tension rod that will allow me to put the insulated curtain BEHIND the dark curtain. Double curtains will mean that I will be insulated but not woken up by light. Because I have such ancient, deep window frames, the tension rod should fit in with no problem. Then I can re-nail the regular curtain holder up because it's always one Gretchen-tug away from falling off.
• Vent covers for the bedroom and the living room. I'm not sure why it's taken me so long to realize you can buy a plastic thing that will gently guide your heat away from the window, but there you have it. It remains to be seen how easy it will be to install these things considering the dinosaur quality of my vents, but whatevs. I'll figure it out. (When in doubt, call Pa.)
• Speaking of Pa, I just called him to ask him if he has any ball bearings. His response: "Everyone has ball bearings." Really? Do you have ball bearings lying around your house? I researched weights for curtains and I found these flat ones that you can sew into the bottoms. But since I have my father's brain, I immediately thought of ball bearings (though I do not, in fact, have a stash of them in my home). So at some point, I'm going to steal borrow a bunch of ball bearings from Pa and sew them into the bottom of my bedroom curtains. SCORE.
• I'm going to look for seals for the bottoms of my attic and closet doors. These will also come in handy because Gretchen likes to shove her toy mousies under both doors and then gets obsessed when she can't pull them back out. So she rattles the doors all the time when she shoves her paws way under there while lying on her back mewing in frustration.

I'm so EXCITED to not be freezing in my bedroom anymore. I can't say the same for the rest of the house, but it's a start. Do you have any handy insulating tips for me? All ideas area welcome.

A New Twist on Holiday Cards

I never send out Christmas cards. Never have, never will. It's far too late in my adult life to suddenly start gathering people's home addresses. Plus, have you seen the cost of stamps these days? Good LORD. So I attempted to make you a card above. I even spelled it all backwards so you could read it. (Who knew I had this hidden talent?)

But to be serious for a moment, I've decided to pull my head out of my own a$$ this holiday season and do something nice for someone else. Well, three people to be exact. (Wait. More than one person might live in each home. So that's more than three people. OK, let's just say three households. Whatevs.)

There are three households in Farmsville that are my favorites. The people who live there don't know this. They have no idea that I enjoy their homes so much. Not in a creepy, stalker way. Just in the "Oh, isn't that lovely?" kind of way.

House 1
I live on the same road as a man who puts up a sh*tload of light-up yard animals each Christmas season. Deer, moose, etc. Some turn back and forth, some don't. All of them are an amazing sight. It's rumored he adds two each year. I would say he probably adds 10 each year. Also? I really don't want to know what his electricity bill is. Ooof. Anyway, his yard cracks me up. I love driving past it and seeing the lights during these long, dark nights.

House 2
A few years ago, a woman in town started a gorgeous garden after she moved into her house. She redid the siding and the house looked amazing, and then all of the sudden the flowers started appearing. During the spring and summer, I often see her hard at work when I drive by. I've been tempted to stop and talk plants with her, but I never do. Even now, in the nastiness of the first snow, her yard area is so beautiful.

House 3
House 3 grew on me with time. When I first saw their GIANT gargoyles after they moved in, I wasn't so sure. The gargoyles are the kind that you would usually see on TOP of a large building, not on two posts right in front of a house. So the gargoyles are a bit overwhelming. They have pointed wings that are something like 4 or 5 feet tall. They sit on either side of the sidewalk up to the house. You can't possibly miss them. I've always loved gargoyles, but these bothered me at first. They were just so BIG. They were kind of eyesore-ish. But then the owners started DECORATING THEM and I was totally won over. Every holiday, the gargoyles get new headbands. For Easter, it was bunny ears; May Day it was flowers; 4th of July it was flags. Right now they are wearing red bow headbands. I think. I know they are red, but they were pushed back with snow the last time I saw them, so they might be some other kind of Christmas ornament. Either way, I LOVE THEM. I'm always excited to see their new accessories.

So the owners of these three houses? This year, they will be receiving thank you/Happy Holidays cards from yours truly. I will write and tell each one how their home or yard makes me smile.

I imagine it might be a tad odd to get a card from a complete stranger, but I also feel that this is a good way to pay it forward in my community. And it will make me feel more festive to do something nice for the people who bring me smiles year-round. They deserve it.

Ear Whooshing Denial Comes to an End

It's been a long time since I've written about my ear whoosh. It's still there. It's been 5 long years. It's hard for me to write about it because it's so painful. Not literally painful -- there is no pain associated with my ear whoosh. It's the mental pain that gets to me. I'm reminded with each heart beat that it will never go away, that I'll be whooshing forever -- or until my ticker stops ticking. Some days, I barely notice it. Others, it's SO LOUD that I want to scream. Iowa can become very quiet in the winter, so lately, I've noticed it more and more. WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH.

I feel like a schmuck because in the last year, many people have written to me to ask about the whooshing, and I haven't written them back. At first it was because I had too many overlapping projects and I could barely keep up with work email, let alone personal email. But then I started to get overwhelmed. When I get overwhelmed by things, I let them stack up. Bills, phone messages, whatever it is -- it collects all by itself, and I ignore it. It's an odd coping mechanism that actually just causes more problems in the end. But it's the way I am. It's a part of my hermiting soul.

The other day, I realized I was a total a$$hat to not write back to all of these whooshers. Isn't this what I wanted? To have a community of wonderful whooshers who understood me? Yes, that's true. But it's also so hard to know that other people are suffering the way I am. Yes, I said suffering. This whoosh is a curse that eats away at me on a daily basis. I can't stand it. It pains me to know that so many other people have it, too, and it's entirely possible that we all have it for different reasons. There is no one-stop shop for pulsatile tinnitus. It's a symptom of many, many things.

The other thing that has been bringing me down is when people write to tell me about the doctors they are going to see. In an odd twist of fate, a few of them have been to/are going to see Dr. Whooshsaver. I am blind with jealousy. So hopeful for them, yet eaten alive with envy. I am like a small child whimpering in the corner because someone stole my toy.

I had to give up Dr. Whooshsaver after I received my bill for our testing. It was $12,326.27. For testing. Not the procedure that could fix me. That would have been far, far more. Given, the insurance company adjusted the bill a bit, but I've been making monthly payments on it since May 2010, and it's still there. Every month. An evil reminder that I will never be whooshfree. It's a slap in the face each time it appears in the mail.

Like all people who suffer from a disease, I have been through the 5 stages of grief multiple times about this whoosh. It comes and it goes. Some days I ignore it completely and don't let it affect me that much. Other days, I cry. I long to be unconscious so I won't have to listen to it. I go to bed early in the hopes that I will fall asleep, only to end up lying there listening to it for hours. Those days are the worst days. I've had a lot of those lately.

But I want to turn over a new leaf. Just because I can't be cured doesn't mean I can't be happy for those who are or will be. It's time to stop having my own personal pity party about my whoosh and start being an advocate for my people again.

Dear Whooshers,

If you have written to me sometime in the last year and I haven't responded, please know that it's not you -- it's me. I've been super down about my whoosh. Beaten up by it. Held hostage by it. You of all people understand this. I promise to do better. After the holidays, I hope to go back through my email and find the messages and respond. Thank you so much for reaching out to me. It really does make me feel good to know I'm not alone. I've just been stuck in a bad place with my own whoosh, so I've been off. Don't give up hope. There is still a little part of me that hopes I will be cured one day. I hope that you will be, too. I'll keep fighting if you will.

Yours in the Whoosh,
Blondie

To read all my posts about the whoosh, click here.

Freelancer Meltdown Brings Perspective

Here's a little secret about freelancing -- every company uses a different software program. People might tell you that a certain product is the new, big thing that EVERYONE will be using soon, but it's all a lie. Every single company I work for uses a different platform. Some use the easiest thing in the world: Word. Others use programs that live online and are built by people half a world away (making queries about said program rather difficult considering the time change). And then there are a whole host of programs that already live on my computer in one way or another but I only use them once in a while. So each time I start a new project, I know it's only a matter of time before the technology catches up with me.

When I left the Giant Publishing House in 2007, I was told by many that I should think about getting InCopy. Since many publishers now want editors to be designers as well (ATTENTION: WE LACK THOSE SKILLS. WE ARE WORDSMITHS.), I was encouraged to "take a class" or something by some of my well-meaning freelancer friends. But I also had an intuition back then that I should probably take things as they come. Things change LIGHTNING FAST in technology. Did the Kindle exist when I left the company? No. iPad? Hells no. So I decided to wait it out. It's worked so far.

I've read InDesign and InCopy files before. Read them. OK, I also made a few bookmaps in InDesign at one time. But truly using the programs? No. So then I start on my most recent project this last week. In InCopy. Which I don't know how to use. It's certainly not rocket science, but it's a very HUGE and COMPLEX program. We also had some hiccups because I bought the brand spanking new version and the client had an older version and suddenly things weren't saving correctly. And then I didn't understand the difference between Galley, Story, and Layout, so I got stuck in Story mode and didn't understand all of the symbols and got freaked out about ruining the tabs and margins and things so I deleted the file I was working on four or five times.

AND THEN I CRIED ABOUT IT. BECAUSE REALLY? MY PART IS SUPPOSED TO BE EDITING THE CONTENT TO MAKE SURE IT MAKES SENSE AND THAT LITTLE LOZENGE WITH THE HEADING ON IT JUST MOVED AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FIX IT AND I'M SUPER TIRED AND HAVE BEEN WORKING REALLY HARD AND WANT TO DO MY BEST FOR THIS NEW CLIENT BECAUSE I LOVE THEM. SERIOUSLY, I DO.

Something like that.

And then, like a precious gift from the Universe, I figured out Layout mode. For those of you who are unfamiliar with InCopy, Layout mode shows you what the page would look like all perfectly like it would in a real book. The other modes show you characters, margins, and a billion symbols that make NO SENSE. What I was working on morphed from the equivalent of Chinese characters to standard English. Oh yes, I can actually read and comprehend that! THANK GAWD!

So now? Now, I feel much better about this project. I was SO excited when I got the contract, and I want to keep that excitement. And bless Pa's heart, he printed out all 300 pages of the InCopy user guide and brought them to me. So I can pretend to understand them.

Last night when I miserably crawled into bed after a long day of frustration, I reminded myself that each new project ALWAYS has a learning curve. I summoned my old mentor, the Senior Vice President of the Giant Publishing House, into my mind. She taught me long ago that EVERY project is sticky at the beginning. It's a process. It's OK to fail and try again. Given, as a freelancer you really can't fail with a new client or you'll lose them. But during a long projects, it's fine to work together and discuss the kinks. It doesn't mean you're bad at your job, it just means you're learning. And before you know it, working in the file/program/software will seem like the easiest thing in the world. The key is to remember that when you start.

On Not Wasting Time Dating A$$hats

When Chicago Cousin was in town for Thanksgiving, we went out for a few drinks at the local watering hole together. I confessed that I had blogged about losing her as my woobie -- my last remaining single/childless cousin. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight. Then she pointed out something very interesting: "I was a year older than you are now when I met [fiance]." (I guess we'll need to come up with a name for him now that he's entered the blog. Stay tuned.)

I thought about Chicago Cousin's statement. Oh yeah, she's two years older than me! It's easy to forget that. As I age, I forget more and more about age. Half the time, I have no idea how old I am. Chicago Cousin has been dating [fiance] for about two years. We talked about how at our age, if you aren't going to get married (and you want to be -- that part is crucial here), dating longer than two years is a bad idea. If you aren't serious and you're in your mid-30s, cut 'em loose. So it's quite natural that Chicago Cousin and [fiance] got engaged now. Any longer, and we might all be giving him the raised eyebrow.

Let's back up for a moment. I dated my very own Chicago ex on and off forEVER without getting engaged. But I was in my 20s. If I met a nice man now and neither of us cared about marriage, it wouldn't bother me to simply date him for the rest of my life. So no, there's nothing wrong with not ever getting married.

But wanting to be married and procreate? Get on it, right? As the old saying goes: Sh*t or get off the pot. I think when you hit your mid-30s it's inappropriate -- even downright mean -- to continue dating someone who wants to get married if you have no interest. Why waste someone's time?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately because people keep telling me to date "for fun." No. I don't wanna. You know why? Because I've been there and done that. Even though I've only had a few "loves" in my life, I've dated plenty of men. More men that I would like to admit to. (Ah, college. Oh, Portland!) I've been casual about smooching, dating, and sex before. I don't want to be anymore. I want something serious, meaningful, and a relationship that has the potential to lead to marriage. I'm done floundering around flirting with cute boys just to be doing it. Snore-boring. Frustrating. Painful. Over. It.

This is not to say that you can tell if someone has marriage potential by going on a few casual dates. But I'd say you can get to know someone pretty quickly in 3-6 months. If they're a douche now, they'll be a douche later. I used to think you had to date someone for years before you could figure them out. I've changed my mind about this. You figure it out pretty quickly once you've matured. (Did I just say I'm mature? *cough*)

Anyway, the point of all this is to remember what Chicago Cousin said. She was older than me when she met [fiance]. Not by much, but still. That gives me hope that I still have time to find my guy. Though not too much time. So I will do my best not to waste it on men who don't deserve it. Hopefully, I will find a good man like [fiance] soon. I have my eye on one right now. I think.