So...Now What?

This is it.

This is the last post of NaBloPoMo and, while much of my growing audience are fellow bloggers, my other followers - hi, Mom! - aren't...most of them anyway. They're all probably really REALLY glad this is the last one. Namely so I'll stop blogging about blogging and get back to my regularly scheduled program of broadcasting Jane TV^TM.

Confession: NaBloPoMo and the act of blogging every single day is not hard for me (don't hate on me please). Ever since I was bitten by the NaBloPoMo bug in 2009, I've managed to keep the momentum going for over two years. The last I checked, I average 7.2 blog posts per week. Not as prolific as Om Malik but I'm up there.

If you read (or re-read) last night's post, To Daily Blog or Not To Daily Blog...That is the Question, you'll notice much of it is written in the second person. I was talking to YOU, Lovely Readers, specifically to the You-Who-Blog. I already daily blog and that's not likely to change. I was spotty this spring and summer when my life was just...my life was weird and felt as though it was falling apart and I was afraid to say anything much at all for fear of what might come out of my mouth that should not be uttered publicly. Generally speaking though, if you don't hear anything from me in 2-3 days, to quote the walrus from Ren & Stimpy, "Call the POL-EEEEEECE".



Honestly though, I never expected or necessarily wanted to get big or rich off blogging. I don't have a "brand" per se. I never gave it that much thought. Blogging is...blogging is like talking to my friends! It's a casual conversation  - yes, typically one-sided - but still a conversation. At least, that's how I see it for myself. I love doing it which is why it is likely to continue for (dare I say) years to come.

Confession: I have more to write than blog posts. Additionally, I actually have the time to write more than blog posts. I just...haven't yet.

Last year, after NaBloPoMo, I was looking for a new writing challenge. I found it in #reverb10. I'd link to #reverb10 but the website has morphed into something else so I'll just explain, as best I can. #Reverb10 was a writing challenge - daily prompts - through the month of December that reflected on the year just passed and an attempt to manifest what the participants wanted for the year to come.

There was a particular prompt - December 28: Achieve. What’s the thing you most want to achieve next year? How do you imagine you’ll feel when you get it? Free? Happy? Complete? Blissful? Write that feeling down. Then, brainstorm 10 things you can do, or 10 new thoughts you can think, in order to experience that feeling today.

My answer is here.

Guess what didn't happen? That's right. I didn't birth those "babies".

I started to. Of course I did. But then life and insecurities, depression and distraction took hold and I, well, I just didn't write like I wanted to write...until now.

This year's NaBloPoMo along with the encouragement and attention I've received gave me back my writing Mojo.

As I thought back to my "girls" who were kicking, screaming, crying, and punching to be let out last year, I realized that one, in particular, deserved more than a short story. She most certainly deserved to manifest in more than a blog post.

And that's Bomb Betsy's story.

I don't call her Bomb Betsy just because she's The Bomb (even though she is). Bomb Betsy is also known as Bomb Betsy because of what she went through, survived and thrived through, more than 5 years ago...a terrorist bombing in Dahab, Egypt.

I have her story to tell. It's a magnificent, terrifying, uplifting, beautiful story. But...

I have several other stories to tell as well. All of them worthy of something bigger than a blog post.

It helps that I ran across this post today on BlogHer about the power of copy editing (that was my take away anyway). It helps that I've been following Love, Your Copyeditor by Ray Gunn for awhile now. It helps to know that, even though my posts aren't edited, there are still many MANY people reading - more than I would have ever suspected - and enjoying how I write.

I CAN write. I DO write. And, what I don't think to correct is correctable by others...if I'm willing to put it out there for others to consider and correct.

So...that's my NaBloPoMo now what. I'm ready. To move beyond.

I think.

To Daily Blog or Not to Daily Blog...That is the Question

There are thousands of personal bloggers in the Blogosphere breathing a heavy sigh of relief tonight. Why? Because. 1¹ more post to go and NaBloPoMo 2011 is laid to rest.

Some - like alienbody - have already written their posts for tomorrow and have set it to auto-publish...you know, just in case the "zambie" apocalypse happens and they're too busy running for their lives (or eating whipped cream and pie) to login and click "Publish". I love how she's covering all her bases.

The point is she did it.

Many of you did it. Some of you for the very first time. Some of you for the 6th time - like Masked Mom.

And always there is that sigh of relief and a major sense of accomplishment. You've proven to yourself that - even with jobs, spouses, partners, kids, colds, major holidays, travel, lack of inspiration, attention to personal hygiene, sleep, and everything else you had to do this month - you can and did publish something every single day.

Some of you are distressed or feel guilty about the quality of your content - like Word Nerd Speaks. Some of you - like Livvy - felt as though you were failing (but did not) mid-month. Some, like Home Reared Chef, cheered us all on from the sidelines - even after she, herself, had to take a break from blogging for a number of personal reasons.

The point is you did it and well - even if you felt like your content was crap (it wasn't).

So...what now?

Many of you blog because you want to be read. Many of you blog because there is a dream of becoming one of the "Big Kids" of blogging. You know, the ones who blog for fun as well as for profit? Well...every single one of the Big Kids will tell you blogging isn't always fun or easy or fast.

It's hard work.

Today, I read a blog post from Om Malik - one of the Big Kids - about having blogged daily for 10 years. TEN YEARS, People!

He started blogging professionally (and personally...but his stats don't include his personal entries) 10 years ago. He's averaged THREE posts per day since he began...even with a family and a full time job. That's a lotta posting.

In the entry marking his 10th Anniversary of Blogging, he listed 10 lessons learned about blogging.

Here are the first four:

1. Blogging is communal: In 2008, I wrote that “blogging is not just an act of publishing but also a communal activity. It is more than leaving comments; it is about creating connections.” That is the single biggest lesson learned of these past 10 years. Every connection has lead to a new idea, new thought and a new opportunity.
2. Being authentic in your thoughts and voice is the only way to survive the test of time.
3. Being wrong is as important as being right. What’s more important — when wrong, admit that you are wrong and listen to those who are/were right.
4. Be regular. And show up to blog every day. After all you are as fresh as your last blog post.

Be regular. Because if you only post once a month? You're going to be hella smelly.

Interestingly, he goes on to state in lesson #6: "...blog if you have something to say and respect your reader’s time."

This seemed to me, given Word Nerd Speaks' post, a particular conundrum. How are we supposed to be regular if we don't always have something to say?

The answer is...we don't. But we try to come up with interesting and relevant content - every single day.

Be honest. During the month of November, did you not dream about content, wake up thinking about content, and, on the days you were totally blocked from writing, wrack your brain for content? Did not, each and every one of us who finished NaBloPoMo, come up with content every single day?

It was Livvy who said, "...On these days I wake already writing in my head...By the time I get back to the house I have taught myself (it's taken a year) to ignore the beds, the washing-up, the washing and simply make a coffee on the stove, turn on the computer and... start."

Start.

You've already started. Haven't you?

So...again, I ask you, now what?

What do you want from the NaBloPoMo experience? It's perfectly acceptable to say all you wanted was the knowledge that you'd successfully posted every day. But...what if there is more to it?

If you're looking for more and more readers, if you're looking to "build your brand", if you're looking to write beyond your blog and make enough money to sustain you and your family on, you're going to have to continue what you started.

Otherwise? You're just...smelly.

You've already started. Only you are keeping yourself from success.

Right?



1: OK 2 if you haven't knocked out today's post yet. In which case, why are you reading me? Go! Now! Go! Get ye to your own blog :).

A Tale of Two (Non) Husbands

Thanksgiving Day. 3 p.m.

I'd been running about much of the day, peeling potatoes, washing serving dishes, setting up the buffet table, moving furniture. The sounds of my productivity peppered with:

"Lex? Would you do me a favor?"
"Hey, Lex? Could you give me a hand?"
"Lex? Lex! Help please!"

The doorbell interrupted my progress - Acr0nym arriving early to help with what I politely told him would be "logistics".

He came in, dumped his stuff off, and went back to say hello to Lex. Lex got up from his desk, came out and shook hands with Acr0nym. "Good to see you, Man."

Then he looked at me, looked at Acr0nym and raised his hand in a high-five offering.

As Acr0nym took the high five, Lex said, "Tag, Man. You're it."

And then went back into his room and closed the door.

Everything I Needed to Know About Thanksgiving I Learned From My Mom...and My Friends

When I was a little girl, Thanksgiving was a BIG DEAL.

My mother's wedding china and my grandmother's sterling silver would come out of hibernation, the table would be set with Mom's best table linens and napkin rings. There would be flowers and candles. The food, all of it, except the tomato aspic salad (because bleah *shudder*) glorious.

Thanksgiving was a family affair. I don't remember a Thanksgiving orphan mixing among the six of us. It was a special day and a holiday of which I have no memory of it being marred by thrown food or tantrums, no outbursts or meltdowns. This is a very rare thing.

Back then, three days of preparation were required and the delicious scents wafting out from the kitchen were enough to turn all of us into a ravenous, drooling, mass of salivary anticipation. Thanksgiving was the epitome of elegance and abundance. Beautifully executed by the laborious efforts of a woman who wanted every moment to be special...right down to the crystal water goblets and the wine.

Of course, by the end of it, Blind Betsy would collapse into an exhausted heap but not until after the last delicate plate was washed and every last piece of silver placed back in its velvet-lined box until next year.

Thanksgiving would change after I was about 8 or so. One by one, my siblings and, finally, my father would leave for greener pastures and Blind Betsy and I were left to our own turkey day devices. In the last 32 years, I believe my entire family has spent the holiday all together maybe 4 times. She and I tried out several different methods of celebration then - dining out or cooking for 2 or 3.

For many years, I tried to hold on to the lesson Blind Betsy inadvertently taught me - that Thanksgiving was all about family. I pushed for family Thanksgiving holidays each year, attempting to (unsuccessfully) coordinate and corral my siblings into the same place so that perhaps we could recapture the magic of those early days...so that I could feel as though I were a part of a normal family. Just for a little while. After too many attempts ending in my own hurt feelings, I stopped trying. I came to realize that, as much as I loved the whitewashed memory of family Thanksgiving, in reality, we are a family who are much better off loving each other from a far greater distance than, say, across a dining room table.

Eventually, Thanksgiving would become hit or miss. I might celebrate. I might not. I might see a family member or three. I might not. Meh. Whatever. Until...

2008.

Lex and I had just moved into the Grotto. For the first time, for both of us, we had our own home, our own newly adopted fur kid, and our own orphaned-by-choice group of friends.

And I, in my Infinite Wisdom, decided I was going to host my very first Thanksgiving meal for us and a couple of brave, polite, lovable friends. Never mind that I'd never cooked a turkey or planned a meal that large in scale ever.

I went whole hog crazy. By gawd I was going to do what my mother had done and I was going to do it just as well and it was going to be special and elegant and and and THANKSGIVING to beat all THANKSGIVINGS!

HOORAY! Hee hee.

It was a disaster.

Lacking a table, china, sterling silver flatware, and crystal goblets, I made do with what I had...tv trays and Every Day plates. Lacking enough pots and pans to cook everything that needed cooking, I utilized crock pots (for mashed potatoes...mistake). Lacking counter space, I had pies and relish trays and serving platters laid out on the couch and tables in the living room and foyer.

The turkey was dry, the potatoes hard and lumpy, the green beans and walnuts well...the walnuts were burned and the green beans ice cold. *sigh*

Lest we forget, we also had a brand new kitty who, desperately ill with post-surgical nausea and kennel cough, could only find comfort snuggled against my neck while I laid as still as possible on the couch and just let him drool and sneeze and cough all over me. Sick kitties (like children) are not conducive to productivity in the kitchen pretty much ever.

But! The stuffing was delicious and my pies were heavenly. The wine flowed copiously and there was an excess of laughter and good sportsmanship.

So much so that, in 2009, I decided I'd do it all again.

Except for one thing.

After the disaster in culinary creation that was Thanksgiving 2008, I called Blind Betsy lamenting about my failures. And the Infinitely Wise Momma said this, "Lamb¹? You don't have to do it all by yourself! People love to contribute in situations like these. Let them! It's perfectly acceptable not to work yourself to the bone for a mediocre meal when you can give your friends the chance to really shine!"

Who was this woman and what had she done with my mother? Blind Betsy, Thanksgiving whirling dervish, Queen of Fancy Pants Holiday Suppers, was suggesting I make Thanksgiving a...a...a...potluck?!

Turns out, yeah. That's precisely what she was suggesting. Turns out, Blind Betsy, once her own children were grown and gone, had begun spending her holidays with her own "orphaned" friends in Thanksgiving potluck heaven whereby every one of the guests was asked to contribute and shine.

So, for the last three years then, I've thrown open the doors of the Grotto and heartily welcomed holiday potluck love in and each one has been a glowing success. The last two years, we've been packed in like sardines in oil - I've discovered the Grotto can only possibly hold 12 somewhat (un)comfortably. The core guest list doesn't vary...Owen, Devo Was Right, Bomb Betsy, Logan, Sufi Mag-to-the-pie (PIE!), the belfry bats. The other guests seem to rotate each year depending on schedules and travel plans.

This year's feast was, far and away, the most sparkling of all shiny shines my friends could rustle up.

No seriously! I cannot tell you just how fabulous each and every contribution was (that includes the Alton Brown green bean casserole, Ms. C! You did one hell of an amazing job! Pinky swear).

But the food was outshone by the Guest Stars of the evening...friendship, cobbled together family, love, laughter, respect, and admiration.

It was perfect.

Here's the proof (photos most humbly offered by resident blog photographer, Acr0nym):

Bomb Betsy, Sufi Mag-to-the-pie (PIE!), Devo Was Right - my preciousssss

Owen, Ms. C, Sufi, and Devo Was Right playing with my heat-resistant-up-to-475º cock (it's a rooster hot pad)

Logan love bombs Sufi while Devo Was Right tries to focus in on his mashed taters

The shining table...it groans with delicious noms as Owen and modchen can attest

Ms. C and Bomb Betsy molesting Acr0nym's European style butter

Owen and Ms. C imbibing on wine and laughter

modchen and #himself engrossed in conversation

Logan keeping it classy once the Apples to Apples gauntlet was thrown down

Ms. C showing the Pie and fresh whipped cream the reverence it deserves

Bomb Betsy in full on food and friendship coma bliss

These are just a little taste of the photographs Acr0nym took of that perfect night. He took, in all, 152 photographs of the food, friends, and fun. I couldn't post them all here as much as I'd love to.

But you get the point. We had a fantastic time.

This is, in large part, thanks to my mom. Blind Betsy, in her infinite wisdom, taught me that yes, Thanksgiving is about family. Sometimes that family is chosen and sometimes that's the best kind. She also taught me that Thanksgiving isn't necessarily about fine china, crystal, and flowers. It's about love, camaraderie, and fun.

Not a single soul cared that we were eating off paper plates or drinking out of plastic cups. Not one person moaned or groaned that we weren't seated at a table with fancy accoutrement.

Each and every one of my guests were just heart glad that we were together, once again, to partake of the noms and to complement one other...as friends tend to do.

And, once again, I'm struck about how Thanksgiving - with or without blood relatives and fancy plates? IS a BIG DEAL. Because Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for what we have. What I have, as a 40-year-old single woman living in the city, is friends...and lots of them. Friends who love me and each other. Friends who love food. Friends who want to share their culinary talents with each other and with me.

Thank you.

Note: I need to take a moment to give a special thanks and shout out to a few people.

1) Evelyn, thank you for the loan of your boy, Acr0nym, this year. His mere presence, his set up assistance, and his talent as photographer were most appreciated. He had a difficult time asking to spend the holiday away from you and from his family in general. Thank you for your gracious permission to let him come to my house without much comment when his family - so close by - was missing him.

2) TC? Ditto.

3) To my own brother, Franny, and his family. I know you had high expectations for a family holiday this year - your first in this area - but thank you for your (I hope) understanding that, over the last 2 decades, I've established my own traditions and gathered about me my own loved ones who want to spend the holidays with me and I with them.

4) And finally, to Blind Betsy. Mommy? I love you. You've taught me a number of things...how to be gracious, accommodating, loving. You've taught me that, when family doesn't come first - especially when it's outside my own control - that I can make my own family out of extraordinary people...people who don't care about china or how well I can cook and who, instead, just care about me.

Thank you.

1: Yes, my mother calls each of us lamb or lamby. And no, you are not allowed to go there. Not even a little bit. Not even to see what it feels like. Because that kick to your shin region will not feel good.

Grief, Revisited

I started to write about this year's Thanksgiving tonight. A Thanksgiving that was, once again, so full of love, laughter, phenomenal food, and inappropriate touching! I have the pictures to prove it. But my head and heart are being pulled in a number of directions and, when I went to go search for a previous post to link to, I found a few posts from last year that told me plainly where my fingers were going to travel with or without my consent.

I sat at Acr0nym's dining room table in pajama bottoms and a sweater, icy fingers thawing slowly as I wrapped them around the steaming mug of joe he'd poured and doctored precisely to my liking. Curlicues of cigarette smoke rose lazily around our heads.

"Have you heard from [redacted] lately?" I asked.

"Not recently. But even [redacted] is now poking him about work."

"Really? [Redacted] might join the team? I didn't know that! Does that mean he'd move back here?"

"Dunno."

"I hope so. I always liked [redacted]. Honestly, I had a HUGE crush on him back in the day. But I was shy and I was with Andy then and..."

I burst into hot, silent tears. I turned my face away, staring out the window toward the nothingness of suburban townhouses across the street, saltwater dripping from my chin onto my chest, trying to hide my outburst of angst from Acr0nym's eyes. He'd seen it before but I was embarrassed to catch him off his guard like this...to make him uncomfortable at the start of what was supposed to be a pleasant, relaxing afternoon.

"I'm sorry. I...it would have been his 37th birthday on Tuesday and I've been trying really hard not to think about it or acknowledge it in any way. It...he...that just caught me by surprise."

That was yesterday. Friday. I didn't cry for long and was able to recover from the shock of piercing grief for a few hours - long enough for us to enjoy our afternoon of errand running and decluttering before we would head out on the town for a night out with friends.

However, when I got home last night, I was rooting around in my desk drawer, looking for a long lost office supply, when I stumbled across a letter...from Andy.

Andy didn't write letters. He didn't write much of anything. While he was well-spoken and a voracious reader - someone who put even Devo Was Right and Owen and the Divine Dayna to shame - writing, with dyslexia, was an extraordinary chore for him.

I consider myself lucky to have two letters from him then - one from the very beginning of our nearly decade long dance with one another lost in a box of memories tucked away for safe keeping in storage and, the other, from his last stint in jail, stuck haphazardly, almost deliberately so, in the bottom of my desk drawer.

I unfolded and began to read, once again, the 4 sheets of one-sided, double-spaced lines written with black, felt tip ink in his unpracticed scrawl:

The days aren't bad. I'm working on a street crew so I get to get outside most days. Nights are worse. But it's not all that long before I'm done and can get home. When can you come visit? It was good to talk to you. I always loved talking to you. You know that though. You know I always loved you.

Tears pricked behind my eyes, threatening to spill out from under my control again.

And then? Then I got mad. Madder than maybe I've ever been with him. I wanted to yell and scream at him...maybe even kick his shins for being such a damn dunce!

And also for being dead. I can't seem to forgive him for that.

High on wine, my heart started breaking all over again, that heavy weight of nostalgia and pain and overwhelming love bearing down on me. I couldn't breathe with the weight of it and I needed to tell him how mad I was at him. But there wasn't any way to do that. Not where he could hear me. So, instead, I opened up Google + - Facebook too public for what I had to say - and I posted this:

Actually no, I don't know. You presume too much.

That's right. Last night, I decided to talk to my dead ex-fiance...on a social media site. Sounds crazy, right?

And yet...where would you say it where he or she might possibly hear you? Although it would have probably had more of a chance of getting to him via Facebook. Lots of dead people still use Facebook...or so it would seem.

Anyway, I deleted it early this morning. It was cryptic to everyone else and I, for one, hate cryptic posts. I rudely judge people for making them. Besides, in the pre-dawn hours, I knew it didn't make any difference.

He can't answer me anymore. Even if he wanted to, even if he still has any awareness of me or of his past life here, he can't tell me anything. Fucker.

Sorry, Mom.

The fact is I didn't know he loved me. Not for a very long time - YEARS! I held onto him, held onto my love for him, clinging desperately because I was desperate, at that time, for any kind of love from anyone. When he finally acknowledged that he did love me well...then I clung to the hope that he would somehow change into what I wanted...nay, needed...him to be. Gainfully employed, goal-oriented, happy, not racist.

He couldn't live up to my expectations - my pre-determined resentments. I suspect no one could. I saw his person and super-imposed his potential onto him without his knowledge or consent. When he didn't live up to my idea of his potential, I was disappointed, frustrated, ANGRY!

I'm still angry. I'm still heart-broken. I still love him.

I miss him.

I didn't publicly acknowledge the anniversary of his passing this year. It corresponded, quite conveniently, with the American Gods and Roadside Attractions road trip and seemed, somehow, out of place. I didn't talk about it in the blog or in person to anyone - not even Acr0nym as we drove across the mid-west. But it was always in the back of my mind, simmering like spicy marinara sauce.

Maybe the road trip was less about looking for America and more about looking for a way to escape me...and Him...until the grief had passed unceremoniously in the background.

Maybe I was self-conscious about the fact that I am still grieving for someone who's been gone for more than 2 years. Someone who, for all intents and purposes, I have no right to lay claim to anymore - even before he died.

And yet, I grieve. I grieve as though we'd been married. I grieve whenever his mom would say, "I wish you'd gotten married and had a little baby so I could have a piece of my Andy living and breathing beside me". I grieve whenever I sense there's some date impending that is significant to remember about him...the anniversary of the day we met (October 18th), the day he died (September 7th), the day he asked me to marry him (December 25th), the day he was born (November 22nd).

I grieve and, right now, I'm mad...

At myself.

It wasn't his fault he couldn't be what I wanted and needed him to be. It was my fault for having unrealistic expectations of him. It wasn't his fault that I wasted(?) an entire decade on a relationship that was doomed from the start. It wasn't his fault that I didn't pursue other prospects for potential love.

It was mine.

It was all my fault.

I should have let him go that day long long ago...the day he got on the bus to go back to California and back to his destiny...to die.

But I didn't.

And here I am, crying, for love lost, life lost, potential lost.

While he gets to be here...

I'm here where I wanna be.
7,000 miles from infinity.
No one knows where I am.
It's quiet here with me.
I'm filling in the spaces where the killings used to be.
There's no phone.
And no way home.
Been a long time come late.
Been a long time.
I'm here.
Where I wanna be.
7,000 miles from infinity.
No one knows where I am...
But me.
         - Meryn Cadell



And I'm sad...and I'm angry. I hate him. And yet, I love him. Inexplicably. Always? Forever? I don't know.


Inspired by these entries...one after the other...from last year:

When It Falls Into the Sea
All I Can Do
A Strongly Worded Letter...To No One FYI: if you're offended by particularly strong language, you should not click through on this link. I was pretty mad and I swore...a lot.

The Cause of My Alarm

A few days ago, I wrote of a particularly terrifying experience of being overcome with the realization I was about to faint while driving 60+ miles per hour on the freeway and the anxiety attack that followed.

This happened twice in the span of about 12 hours and to say I was shaken by the experience is to put it quite mildly.

I want everyone to know just how much I've appreciated all your comments of concern. I too was very concerned. Just writing it out brought all the feelings of panic back and it took something a little stronger than chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Please know these episodes were not taken lightly.

Hence the trip to the doctor's office - something I'll avoid unless it's absolutely necessary. In this case, I felt it was necessary. Unfortunately (or actually, fortunately) everything was normal. Tip top shape (relatively) as it were.

I've not had a full on episode since Monday morning's commute but each time I've gotten behind the wheel this week it's been with trepidation and has always ended with me breathing a shaky sigh of relief to have reached my destination safely. I'm still suffering from some feelings of imbalance and lightheadedness while I drive but nothing at all compared to what I experienced Sunday night and Monday morning. I'm also convinced some of what I'm feeling is now largely an anxiety-driven response.

I consider this good news. Additionally, the really great news is that I figured out what is causing the lightheaded feelings which are, in turn, causing the flutters of anxiety.

I'm getting car sick.

No! I'm dead serious.

Wednesday morning I awoke after a solid 8 hours sleep - my second good night's sleep in a row - and noticed a dull, aching feeling behind my eyes. Not really pain per se but just...fatigued as though I hadn't slept at all. Mentally and physically I felt pretty good. It was just my eyes.

And I thought to myself, "Self? This has been going on for awhile - weeks. You've been spending an awful lot of time at your computer of late - both at work and at home. You've been putting a kibosh on your weekend socializing to stay home and write...perhaps you've strained your eyes."

Ladies and Gentlemen? Epiphany.

Common side effects of eye strain include (bold indicates symptoms I've been experiencing - some for as long as 2-3 months):

• Spasms/twitches around the eyes
• Dizziness
• Lightheadedness
• Car sickness
• Nausea
• Blurred vision
• Double vision
• Tired or sore eyes
• Dry eyes
• Watery eyes
• Itchy eyes
• Burning eyes (even when closed)
• Heaviness of the eyelids/forehead
• Fatigue
• Reading problems
• Lack of concentration

Um...

Yeah.

So! Today I tested my theory by asking Acr0nym to drive me around while we ran errands (OK, he always drives when we're together so I didn't actually ask him). We'd been on the road for less than 5 minutes when I began to feel the effects of the motion and I was 100% convinced. Eye strain.

Luckily, unless there is a hidden underlying condition going on here - and I have considerable doubt that there is based on the clean bill of eye health given to me in late July, eye strain is easily cured and preventable. Here are the steps I'm taking or am prepared to take:

1) Sunglasses have become a permanent accessory. Anything that makes me squint is a strain on my eyes. This includes the very bright Colorado sun.

2) I've installed a halogen desk lamp (thank you, Acr0nym, for wanting to discard this lamp during your de-cluttering project and letting me give it a lovely new home) to improve the lighting in my work area which was admittedly poor.

3) I'm taking frequent breaks from the computer. 5-10 minutes on, 2-3 minutes off.

4) Making sure I stay well-hydrated.

5) Ensuring I get plenty of sleep each night.

6) Applying a cold compress to my eyes regularly.

7) Installing a desk lamp at work to eliminate the need for overhead florescent lighting (thanks again, Acr0nym, for your most welcome cast off).

After only just a couple of days putting a few of these into practice, I successfully navigated my way up to Acr0nym's house with no lightheadedness and only a couple of flutterings of the "what if".

I feel better.

Now, I can focus on getting my anxiety back under control. woot.

I Feel Just Like Sally Field

I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!

November has certainly been an interesting  - if not always pleasant - ride. I can't remember the last time I had such an event-filled, whirlwind month. Is it really Thanksgiving today?

NaBloPoMo has played an integral role in how my November has shaped up and played out. I had no idea when I climbed into the NaBloPoMo cart on November 1 just what a roller coaster it was going to be.

I, of course, signed up for the Official NaBloPoMo roll call on BlogHer because YAY! Prizes. Daily prizes. And a chance to potentially be spotlighted or whatever it's called.

I haven't won any prizes. I haven't been spotlighted. I don't really expect to because, well, I've never won anything...

Until now.

I was in just the right mental space to dig into NaBloPoMo this year. Not as far as my writing was concerned - although I was ripe for that too - but I desperately wanted to find new bloggers to add to my feed reader...namely to keep me engaged and off Facebook *laughing*.

As I started reading new blogs, I, for the first time ever, understood the value of a comment - MY comment - and just how much something little 'ol me might have to say would mean to another blogger. Although, I'm not convinced the content of my comments are the point. I think just knowing someone out there is reading is what's important.

However, commenting did something else. It called other bloggers' attention to me and my writing. And they more than repaid the comment love back to me. This. Is. Cool.

So...about what I won.

Last night, I received a comment on my blog from Masked Mom - someone whose blog I truly love - letting me know she'd given me the Liebster Award.

"Liebster" is a German word meaning dearest and the award is given to up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers.

Here's how it works:

1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.

2. Reveal your Top 5 blogs (with under 200 followers) and let them know by leaving comments on their blogs.

3. Post the Award on your blog.

4. Enjoy the love of some of the most supportive people on the Internet.

This is a big deal to me. It means that someone, particularly a person whose writing I love, thinks I'm pretty neat. And it's always awesome to find out someone else - a total stranger - thinks you're pretty neat.

What's awesome about this is that I'd just been thinking about asking people to share with me the Star small blogs they'd found during NaBloPoMo (and I'd encourage you to do that in comments) so that I could find them too. This award has led me down a rabbit hole of great blogs just by clicking through on the links Masked Mom presented. So the prize is two-fold! I love knowing someone else thinks enough of me and my writing to give me the award, yes, but it's also turning me on to even more people to read!


Yay!

OK. So, without further ado, I present to you, in no particular order, my very own list of newly discovered blogs to whom I give the Liebster Award. I'm just sorry I couldn't bestow it back to Masked Mom. This was WAY tougher than you can possibly imagine.

1) This n that that n this - This is one of the first blogs I found. I'm waiting to find out what her Super Power is any day now.

2) Is This the Middle? - She had me hooked from the very post of hers I read - Virginity Lost (and no, it's not that kind of virginity).

3) Livvy's Life - You guys! Her writing is perfectly elegant in a cashmere blanket sort of way. Never have I been able to picture the scenes as well as I do through her words. Simply beautiful.

4) The Process - Bon Steele. Social anxiety, blue hair, a love of stompy boots. There's not a thing not to love about her.

5) Simply Frances - Frances found me and showed me some blog love when she linked to me as a noteworthy find. What I found on her blog is a woman whose adventures around New York City, observations of her fellow train travelers, her food escapades, and her photo walks make me want to go to New York and hang out with her...RIGHT NOW.

Those are my picks. There are so many more I could have easily included. I may wait a few days and do this again because there are others who assuredly do deserve to be recognized.

(To my picks, you are under no obligation to pass on the Liebster Award. I just wanted you each to know just how neat I think you are!)

Happy Thanksgiving.

It's All in the Wrist

I make my own pie crusts.

I don't state this to lord it over anyone who buys pre-packaged pie crusts from the grocery or saves themselves several hours altogether and buys pies from the Village Inn or the frozen aisle selection of Marie Callendar's.

It's just...baking pies? It's what I do¹.

Other people craft, sew, knit, rear children, cook gourmet dishes, volunteer, obsess over makeup and fashion. Me? I don't do any of those things. Instead, I bake.

A lot.

There's something about baking - when you've discovered the few easy secrets you need to do it well - that's a zen thing. There is something particularly satisfying about baking up a sweet treat filled to the brim with love and giving it to someone who needs a reminder of what love means. There is a certain satisfaction about knowing I've created something completely from scratch that will fill even the most finicky of sweet eaters with glee.

So...I bake.

I don't post recipes here - with the exception of the triple chocolate boomchunka recipe and that's only because the website upon which I discovered it disappeared and I didn't ever want to lose it again. Baking isn't really what I'm about day to day. I also don't want to feel limited to only posting about baking when 97% of my energy is dedicated to other endeavors.

But, tonight, as I sit waiting for the last pie for tomorrow's feast to finish baking, I thought I'd share with you the world's most fail-proof pie crust recipe known to man.

How do I know it's the world's most fail-proof?

Because I've used it now for the last 5 years and have never once had a failed crust no matter how many times I had to re-roll it out nor how much extra flour got mixed in with said re-rolling. I have no recollection where I found the recipe. It could have been anywhere at this point so, if it's yours, please do let me know and I'll ensure you are credited with such an amazingly simple, easy, delectable recipe!

The Best Pie Crust EVER!
*  1 3/4 cup butter-flavored Crisco (I'm unashamed to admit I use Crisco in my baking)
*  4 cups all-purpose flour
*  3 tablespoons white sugar
*  2 teaspoons salt
*  1 egg
*  1/2 cup water

1) In a large bowl, cut the Crisco into the flour, sugar, and salt with a pastry cutter until crumbly.

2) Mix the egg and water in a small bowl and then gradually cut into the flour mixture until dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl.

3) Refrigerate until ready to use.

Makes 2 or 3 9" pie crusts depending on how thick you like your crusts (I like mine really thick...mostly because I'm relatively lazy).

I typically prepare my dough 24 hours in advance of use. I've discovered it is much MUCH easier to roll out if the dough has had plenty of time to chill. Also, if you're like me and it takes you 2 or 3 tries to get it right? Put the dough back in the refrigerator for a few minutes while you take a moment to compose yourself after the first disastrous run. Have a glass of wine. It'll help (both the wine and the refrigeration) when you tackle it again.

I promise. Rolling out the pie crust is the worst part. I also promise this recipe is worth the effort. No, really. I promise.

Tomorrow will be the 4th Annual Grotto Thanksgiving whereby a dozen (or more...I likely won't have a final head count until supper's on the table...that's how my friends roll) people will descend the stairs and fill my house with a lot of laughter, a lot of wine, and a lot of fun.

I also know that tomorrow, no matter what happens to the rest of the food, there will be fantastic pie and lots of it (pumpkin, pecan without corn syrup, and blueberry) with fresh whipped cream...because that canned or frozen stuff is a "no" in my book too.


1: I nearly went into business making pies for a living. That fell through due to no fault of my pies.

National Day of Listening

Have you ever heard of StoryCorps?

If you listen to Morning Edition on your local NPR station a lot then your answer is most likely yes.

If not, StoryCorps is an oral history project - one of the largest of its kind - inviting people to visit one of their permanent booths or one of their traveling Silverstream trailers to record stories and interviews with loved ones. Stories that are then preserved on CD for participants as well as archived in the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress.

The point?

"We do this to remind one another of our shared humanity, strengthen and build the connections between people, teach the value of listening, and weave into the fabric of our culture the understanding that every life matters."

Kinda like blogging...except the interviews sometimes get heard on the radio.

I had the distinct pleasure of recording an interview with Blind Betsy when one of the Silverstream trailers passed through Laramie, WY in 2008¹. It was a lot of fun! And I learned things about my mom - particularly as it pertains to her blindness as well as her father and mother - I'd never known.

Perhaps you're thinking something like this sounds boring or unimportant. Consider this...I never knew my grandparents - maternal or paternal. Granted, I met my mother's father one time when I was 12. He was grumpy and in pain most of the time and, as such, wasn't much in the mood to get to know a squirrely pre-teen girl. So I can't really count that encounter as "knowing" him.

Not long before I was born though, a few months before my paternal grandmother, Granny, died, my parents recorded a homemade StoryCorps-type interview with both Granny and her sister, my Great-Aunt Lue, who I would know and love with all my little girl heart. The interviewers were my parents, of course, in addition to my three older siblings.

That recording, even though I hadn't gotten to participate, is a cherished possession of mine. Better than snapshots, I could hear Granny's voice talking about what it was like to grow up on a dairy farm, to teach in a one-room school house, what it was like to raise children during the Great Depression. It made me feel closer to her. I couldn't know her in life but I could get to know her through other means than just 2-D photographs and stories relayed by other people.

In 2008, StoryCorps created a new national "holiday", the National Day of Listening, that falls the Friday after Thanksgiving each year. It is a holiday created to encourage family and friends to talk to one another, to listen to each other, to record homemade interviews and stories of their life experiences via any means they might have - computers, tape recorders, iPads, video.

I think this is pretty freaking cool.

This year, StoryCorps is encouraging folks to thank a favorite teacher. Not only are they encouraging home recordings but they are asking people to interact with the project via Facebook, Twitter, and their own Wall of Listening - to tell the project staff about why a favorite teacher is so special to the contributor.

Why?

"By listening closely to one another, we can help illuminate the true character of this nation reminding us all just how precious each day can be and how great it is to be alive."

Doesn't that sound way more important than shopping?


1: Hmmm...I really ought to duplicate that CD for all my siblings sometime soon.

Fearing Fear Itself

I didn't get much sleep Saturday night.

The last guest didn't leave the Beaujolais Nouveau Day soiree until nearly 6 a.m. and I was bleary-eyed and dehydrated but upright just after 11 as Acr0nym was expecting me for the Great De-Cluttering of 2011 early Sunday afternoon.

I wasn't feeling awful when I headed north. Fuzzy-headed and hungry but otherwise I was OK.

Acr0nym, consumed by his own fuzzy-headedness, wasn't particularly interested in de-cluttering by the time I got there so we spent a very lazy Sunday afternoon sitting around his dining room table talking, drinking water, eating incredible BBQ chicken that had been slow-cooked in the crock pot over night and served over toasted buns.

It was my idea to brew the coffee. *sigh*

It wasn't late when I began the trek back down south toward The Grotto - maybe around 6. I was tired, I could tell I was particularly tired, but I was buzzing from caffeine and felt as though I were plenty awake enough to navigate the usual lighter Sunday evening traffic on I-25. I was looking forward to getting home.

I'd been on the highway perhaps 5 minutes when a frightening realization hit...the tingling numbness in my extremities, the odd buzzy ringing in my ears.

Holy CRAP! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

I haven't fainted in 4+ years, y'all. But last night, driving 60 mph, on an interstate through the city, I was getting ready to.

I couldn't take my eyes off the road in front of me. Any movement of my head caused my head to spin and the world to start wavering in and out in fuzzy blackness around the edges.

Terrified, I began to hyperventilate. A full on panic attack such as I've rarely experienced took over me and it was all I could do to hit the button on my window (luckily, a button with the feature that, if held down for a second or two, will roll all the way down on its own), throw the A/C on full blast and try to concentrate on sucking in deep breaths of oxygen while trying to merge over to the far most right lane and the emergency shoulder without performing my standard over-the-shoulder safety check.

As I panicked, Rational Jane, ever present, started mentally clicking through options. Get off at the next exit which just happened to be the exit for Denhac - a place I've frequented fairly regularly - where I could park, collect myself, and/or call Acr0nym to come rescue me? Try to make it to my exit and then stop? Try to make it all the way home?

I made it to my exit.

Once I got off the highway, I felt a bit better. Shaky, yes, but no longer afraid I was going to faint while driving at a high rate of speed.

I made it home.

Side note: Even in my discombobulated state, I still managed to parallel park in a particularly tight space in front of my house on the first attempt. I rock.

I sat in my car trying to soothe my frazzled nerves. I called Acr0nym. I told him what happened. We decided it was just a Perfect Storm of sleep deprivation, dehydration, caffeine, and heightened social anxiety from the previous night. By the time we ended our conversation just a few minutes later, I was pulled together enough to drag myself into the house.

I put on my pajamas, fixed a cup of hot herbal tea, wrote my blog post for the day, and then curled up in bed early to read. I was exhausted. I felt certain I would sleep and well. I was mistaken.

Sweet sleep eluded me for most of the night. I tossed, I turned, I dozed in and out but, every time I reached the point of no return, my racing thoughts about what had happened would come screaming in and I was wide awake again. Either that or it was the coffee keeping me awake. Hard to tell. I fell soundly asleep somewhere around 3:30.

This morning, when I awoke at 5, I was miserably tired. So very very tired and also anxious. I mean, I'm anxious nearly every Monday morning as the week starts but this morning was heightened by my lack of restful sleep and my fear of the "what if". What if it happened again on my way to work?

I got up, I showered, dressed, drank coffee, tried to relax while perusing my feed reader. I wasn't great but I was OK. I thought I'd be OK.

Behind the wheel, buckled up. The surface street traffic was lighter than usual and I had no difficulty. I began to relax into my morning commute like I normally would. I hit the highway 10 minutes in - as usual - and was pleased to see traffic moving at a brisk clip.

And then it hit again.

I'd been on the highway, again, maybe 5 minutes when I felt the creeping numbness and heard the buzzy ringing. Immediately, it was...

Window down.
Heat off.
A/C turned to full blast icy air.

GULP GULP GULP

BREATHE, GAWD DAMMIT! JUST BREATHE!

I managed to make it to work. I pulled into a parking space, threw the car in "Park", and burst into hot, prickly tears. What the hell is happening to me?

I was afraid.

Beyond afraid.

Petrified.

I went in the building, checked myself in, checked my mail box (no mail), took the elevator instead of climbing the stairs. Deposited my lunch sack and purse at my desk, logged into my computer, retrieved the file cabinet keys from the locked closet.

Breathe, gawd dammit. Just breathe.

My boss was at her desk.

I went in and sat down. Inquired about her weekend as I normally would. The residual creep and buzz were still present.

I stopped her, mid-sentence because I was afraid I'd faint right there, in her office, and she wouldn't know why it was happening (HA! Like I did either) or what to do.

"I'm experiencing something terrifying."

I explained what had happened...last night...this morning. She said, "It's OK. I know how to dial 911."  We talked over what it might be. Blood pressure? Low blood sugar? Dehydration? Carbon monoxide poisoning?

I didn't know.

I still don't know.

I went to the doctor's office. Blood pressure - normal/low (as usual) and within normal limits. Pulse - normal/low (as usual...a runner's resting heart rate). Blood drawn.

I went to the Home Depot - at Acr0nym's insistence - to purchase a portable, battery-operated, carbon monoxide detector to place in my car. Reading is normal.

Both trips - doctor and home improvement store - I felt a bit of the lightheadedness creeping creeping threatening to take hold. Traveling on all surface streets.

By then, I knew, I was afraid of fear. I was terrified it would happen again as I was driving and was subsequently tensed up, holding my breath, waiting for the inevitable...

Fearing fear.

When it was time to go home, I was in such a dither, I didn't know if I should try highway or stick to surface streets as it didn't seem to make a difference anymore. I chose highway considering that it would take 3 times as long via surface streets and, since it wasn't making any difference, figured I'd be just as dangerous on side roads as I was on the highway...just, on the highway, it would take less time.

Clearly, because you are reading this, you know I made it home in one piece.

There was a bit of the numb and buzz but it seemed manageable. Perhaps it was because I had to do the interstate first and the last 2/3 of the drive was surface.

I don't know.

What I know is that I have had only had one cup of coffee - at 5:30 a.m. - today, I've not allowed myself to nap, I've had 2 cups of hot herbal tea in addition to a couple of glasses of wine. I ate chicken noodle soup for supper and have been concentrating on just breathing in and out most of the evening. I'm in my pajamas and it's 8:01 p.m. As soon as I hit "Publish Post" on this entry, I'll be crawling into bed with my book and an OTC sleep aid.

I'll try not to think about all the "what if's". I'll try not to think about possible car repair, possible lurking health issues, possible impending agoraphobia.

I'll try to relax.

And I'll try again tomorrow.

I'm afraid...

Of fear itself.

Beaujolais Nouveau Day Came and It Was Good

As you may recall, a week or so ago, I had the sudden realization and subsequent panic surrounding the fast-approaching Beaujolais Nouveau Day.

For the love of the wine.

After writing that post, I finally decided Beaujolais Nouveau Day and, more importantly, the spirit behind my annual celebration, was something I needed to do even if I didn't feel as though I had the energy to do it. Which I really didn't.

O and the Gothfather capturing the spirit of the night.

It turns out, that post was something of a subconscious plea for assistance in putting together a night of debauchery when I couldn't muster the strength to go it alone. My friends rose to the occasion beautifully and gave me helpful suggestions along with offers to both host and cook if necessary. As O put it, he was willing to "take one for the team".

Maggledy and O...part of my "team".

So, with a keen awareness of just how little I had to give to the planning and execution of the evening, I chose to invite a very small group of people and asked them to help me by taking the burden of preparing most of the food off my plate (heh).

Cheese, gerbera daisies, wine, and chocolate served with a side of friendship. My favorite things.

That, quite possibly, was the best idea EVER!

O brought his spectacular gumbo.
Maggledy brought the richest, cheesiest, most delicious artichoke dip I've ever had.
Ms. C brought delectable delicacies from Buffalo Doughboy Bakery.
Acr0nym brought homemade soft pretzels, homemade European-style butter, and homemade limoncello he'd set back in July.
The Gothfather brought his mad cleanup skills and his shirtsleeves rolled up.

Ms. C unable to decide which sinful delight to partake of first - limoncello, chocolate, or wine.

For my part, I baked a brie en croute with Primo Raspberry Habanero Preserves (I used MouCo ColoRouge cheese instead of brie) and set out a pre-packaged vegetable tray and a plate of dark chocolate from Northern Chocolate Co.

Acr0nym's pretzels. Oh my! Tasty. Especially with the butter.

We each contributed a bottle of the Guest of Honor - Beaujolais Nouveau - from a variety of vintners.

Our gathering was intimate and merry - chattering and laughter ringing throughout The Grotto, capturing the attention of the Belfry Bats who would wander down and welcomed warmly. Modchen lent her costuming creativity to the festivities by dressing as a bacchante.

Our beautiful bucchante

We drank way too much wine and gorged ourselves on the richness and riches of both food and friends.

The last guest - #himself - departed at nearly 6 a.m.

And, even though today I'm exhausted, dehydrated, and feeling every single one of my 40 years, I am also happily satisfied and glad I did it...

With a little (lot) of help from my friends.

Le beaujolais nouveau est arrivé! And it was good.

EDITED TO ADD: A special thanks to Acr0nym for his fabulous photographs. He's now my official blog photographer.

Freeing Fodder Food for Thought

Just this morning, I was introduced to Neil Strauss - author, journalist, ghost writer. FYI: His blog requires a login. It's free but you do have to sign up to access his content.

I found him because a particular Redhead Writing Ranting linked to one of his blog articles on Twitter.

The post she linked to, Getting in the Dirt, is about writing your memoirs and how vitally important it is to share secrets with your readers. He says, "you must not be afraid to share things that may make you look bad, cause others to judge you, or even harm relationships you have".

Because Lovely Readers will KNOW you're holding out.

When he said, "...the bricks that create each of us are not all made of gold. Some are shit. And we’re all a combination of both." I was struck dumb.

Because it's true.

I was so excited about this statement, I made Peej (who was over cleaning) come into my room so I could read it to her and, Peej being Peej, she had some incredible further insight. She said, "Well...that makes sense. When people want to read about a hero, they read Superman comics. They don't want Superman to be real. They want him to be perfect. If someone wants to read about someone who is like them - human and fallible - they will read Batman. Batman may be a good guy but he's human, he makes mistakes, his drive comes from an inherently human place. Readers connect with Batman because he is one of us." Or something like that anyway.

This got me thinking about why I read the blogs of so many people - everyday Janes and Joes - who aren't dispensing advice, or rattling off recipes, or recommending products but, rather, who are just talking about their lives, their thoughts, their work, their play, their struggles, their joys, their beliefs.

I read because those writers are real. And that's compelling. It makes me feel...less alone.

Melanie over at Is This the Middle posted this morning about how grateful she is for her fellow bloggers. She called us "a proud to be quirky lot". I loved that. It's true. You have to be pretty quirky to actually want to do what we do on a daily basis. And it's our very quirks that make us readable, relatable.

All of a sudden, Neil Strauss's words made sense to me, connected dots for me that hadn't been visible before. No one wants me to be perfect...except me. Everyone else wants me to be exactly as I am, as they are.

Flawed.

I feel as though I've been set free.

Letting My Inner Adult Out

For those of you just joining us, you ought to know 3 things about Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom:

1) I have never been married.
2) I have no children...at least, I don't think. I'm fairly certain I would know.
3) For the last 10 months, I have, in earnest, been attempting to pay off my mind-bogglingly large debt (nearly $20,000 between student loans and credit cards).

The first two facts largely contribute to the sensation that, most of the time, I don't feel much older than 18...occasionally 12...sometimes 5. In my opinion, I have the best of both worlds. My time, outside of a 9-5 (OK, 7-3) job, is decidedly my own and I squander it however I see fit. It also means that, because I'm the grown up, I can have banana splits or, more importantly, wine for supper and there is no one who can tell me "NO!".

The third fact, well, that one sucks. It's the one fact that continually pulls me out of youthful folly and into sedate adulthood in a snap. It's meant that, for the last 10 months, I have had to budget, plan, save, and think about where every single cent gets spent. Bummer.

Although...now that I think about it, the first two facts contribute to the bummer that is #3. Why? Well, if I had a husband, there'd be someone else to help shoulder the burden of that debt (Ha!). If I had kids (*shudder* sorry, Parents, ew. Just ew. Because ew) I could blame the debt on them. (Ha! Ha!)

As it is, I know I am 100% responsible for the accumulation of said debt and the responsibility of paying it off is all mine. For the record? I've had a kickass time incurring that debt.

Oh! Oh yes. There is one more thing you ought to know about me in relation to this story.

I am thoroughly terrified of auto maintenance and repair. Need proof? Here's just one post (out of many) I wrote about how I DIDN'T curl up into a fetal position and die...in the middle of the Firestone sales floor.

So...this story really begins last weekend...Sunday. I knew I was WAY overdue for an oil change. I knew this because Honda (I drive one of those) is smart and put a little warning light into my dashboard that starts to blink "maintenance required" for a few seconds at 3,000 miles when I start the car. It begins to blink longer at about 5,000 miles. At 7,500 miles - if it's not been reset - the light turns on and won't go off. Sunday morning, as I headed up to Acr0nym's for the continuation of the Great De-cluttering of 2011, that stupid maintenance required light was a steady orange.

Well. Hells Bells.

So...I did what any girl afraid of auto maintenance and repair would do...I pleaded with Acr0nym to check my oil. When he balked, I asked his roommate, Jive Turkey, to do it for me. Acr0nym, being the decent fellow he is, eventually would check my oil.

However, when he lifted up the hood, he was, at first, amazed, and then appalled that my car battery was covered in an extraordinary amount of corrosion. In fact, he stated, "I can't believe this battery is still starting your car. Also? Add oil. And then? Would you please go get your oil changed?"

Yikes.

So I, wrenched from the throes of childhood and into Grown Up-dom kicking and screaming, begrudgingly called my favorite Firestone to make an appointment for an oil change and battery maintenance first thing Monday morning. And then? Then I took a vacation day Thursday (yesterday) to take care of "Grown Up Stuff" including auto maintenance and repair.

I loathe burning a vacation day in order to be an Adult.

So...this is how my day started yesterday (at just past 0 dark:30):

Still dark enough to capture the bright-red neon.

See that white speck in the sky? That's the moon who had yet to retire.

It was WAY too early to be that grown up.

But I got it done.

Then? Then I got my grocery shopping done for the Fourth Annual Grotto Thanksgiving...on a weekday - a full week before the holiday. I've had too many experiences fighting the holiday grocery shopping crowd the weekend before and the weekdays of the same week as the holiday. I figured, since I was being a Grown Up, I might as well spend my day off wisely.

And then? Then I came home and paid off the balance of a long outstanding credit card.

This morning, after reviewing my budget and factoring in the savings on the auto maintenance I'd managed due to the less than anticipated cost + a $15 off coupon, I paid off the balance of the last of my 15-year-old student loans. Instead of spending that extra money on fun stuff.

THAT was the moment it hit me.

I've been out of college for 15 years. 15 years I don't exactly remember flying past me.

Sure, I remember significant good times and particular bad times but, in general, I can't believe 15 years have passed so frighteningly quickly. When I started paying on those loans, I thought it was an excruciatingly long time until they were paid off.

And yet. Yet, here I am, Paid. In. Full. I don't know where the time went.

I can only think, tonight, the time went to learning how to - mostly - become an Adult and what strikes me is that adulthood isn't much different than childhood. The only differences between Jane at 13 and Jane at 40 is that my allowance, at times, goes for things I'd rather not spend money on and that time flies at a far quicker pace.

Additionally, I realize, as I grow older, it is not our inner child who needs let out to have free rein but our inner adult that needs let out occasionally to take care of business.

Whoa.

On the Surface

I've known Spux for a couple of years - acquaintances mostly up until a few months ago.

I met him for the first time at the Denver Masticators - a group of foodies who, once a month, gather at a different restaurant to sample the wares of some of the best independently owned and operated restaurants around town. It was Peej's pic - Star of India, of course. It was January, 2010. And, at the time, Spux was, at least outwardly, a woman...a married woman.

This is not the story of how Spux decided to transition from female to male. And I will apologize in advance for mixing up my pronouns because, even though I do try, when I think about Spux then, I can't help but think of him as a girl.

I have to admit...I was a little intimidated when we met. Not intimidated as in afraid but intimidated because Spux was one of the "cool kids" (stop laughing, Spux...I really thought that). He definitely has his own style, that's for sure. Tattoos from head (literally) to toe, adorable dimples pierced, talent and creativity fairly oozing from everything he touches. Punk rock and awesome!

On the surface, you wouldn't know that roughly half the music I own is punk - Bad Religion, Social D, Descendents, Adolescents, NoFX, Dead Milkmen, the Queers, et al. If you didn't know my history, you'd never suspect any of the crazy stuff I've done.

I suppose that's what happens when your 20's slip away into 30 and beyond.

Anyway, so while I wanted to be his friend, I couldn't imagine he'd want to have anything to do with me. However, because he and Acr0nym were friends, and because Acr0nym and I fell in together and grew close fairly rapidly, we were exposed to each other more and more often and actually had, you know, conversations and stuff.

This is also not the story of how, after having known each other for a year and half, we became close friends. That story is long, complicated, a little painful, and likely won't see the light of day on the blog. That one you'll have to buy the book to read *laughing*.

All you really need to know is that, about 6 months ago, Spux and I did fall in together and now spend almost every Wednesday having a coffee klatch at his house after I get off work. You know, just a couple of hours each week to touch base, hang out, get silly and wired on afternoon caffeine.

I never know what to expect when I get there. I never know what art project, costume, or scheme he'll have cooking. I never know what delicious food stuffs he's made to send home with me - gumbo, pesto, pickled radish preserves, green tomato and habanero jam.

But, not in a million years would I have expected what I got a few weeks ago when I arrived to find Spux in...let me just show you.

Behold, the kittens shirt.

Spux makin' the joe

Mesmerizing, isn't it?

There is something about this shirt - besides the fact that it's MAGICAL - that just...fits. If you don't know Spux you're probably more mesmerized by the tattooed tough guy sporting all that furry kitten love. If you do know him, you'll understand that this shirt sums up Spux better than any other shirt ever could and are likely just surprised that you didn't think to suspect this shirt existed in his wardrobe.

Because when you start scratching the surface of the person underneath the ink? You're delighted to discover a shy, kind, laid back, hysterically funny, smart guy who really REALLY likes cats.

My point is - you know, aside from just really wanting an excuse to show you that picture of Spux in the magical, mysterious, mesmerizing spectacle that is that shirt - that, even though we continue to judge books by their covers, we don't know anything about the story until we're willing to crack the book open to the first page and then continue to read.

People are awesomely deep. All...onion-y with layers upon layers of interesting and, occasionally, tear-inducing pungency. I love the stories people have to tell - even if I think I might not like the book based on the cover.

Have you ever become friends with someone who, at first glance, you felt A) you wouldn't like or B) they wouldn't like you? Were you surprised to find your differences were fewer than your commonalities? I'd like to know.

A Blogging Wish

Popular.

I sincerely despise that word.

Perhaps that's because I've never been anywhere close to popular. At least, not until I was in my 30's when popularity had finally become laughable rather than hurtful whenever various snubs and slights were doled out by mean "kids" who ignored me or, worse, tormented me. Then, all of a sudden, I was popular. Irony strikes when I'd finally stop caring.

My intention with Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom was to begin deliberately writing for other people - namely friends and family if I could convince them to read. I didn't have any expectation that my blog would be a beautiful, popular, money-making blog. In truth, I didn't know such blogs existed. I still don't expect that (I am an ad-free blog). What I care about - then and now - is writing - flexing my wordy muscles and honing my chops. I wanted, finally, to be read and, if it came to it, to receive constructive criticism. Prior to that, I'd written because I felt good when I wrote... but I kept it hidden, squirreled away in boxes or, at most, available to a dozen pairs of peeping eyes afraid of what people might say. Bullying and judgments from an early age will create that fear in a girl.

I suppose one could say blogging was my way of publishing without the pain and suffering of rejection by publishers or nasty criticism from my peers *laughing*.

Two-ish years ago, I had NO idea there was a network of women who blog - women I could consider my peers. A consequence of being friendless as a child and of experiencing consistent rejection whenever I'd attempt to make friends, I'd developed odd blinders to my peer group. I could seem present when I had to but, never knowing when a leg might be stuck out to trip me, in reality, I'd wrapped myself so firmly in a blanket of defense, it never occurred to me to expect anyone else was out there doing it...doing it way better...and making a living off of it.

When I tripped and fell over Crazy Aunt Purl while looking for knitting patterns and then She Just Walks Around with It when searching for relationship advice *ahem*, I was so excited to find women - women who, from the sounds of it, were just like me - out in the interwebs blogging...just like me!

WOO HOO! I had something akin to a peer group! And they didn't even have to know I was hanging out with them! I freely admit, I lurked and only got up the nerve to comment once or twice on each of their blogs.

My joy was short-lived.

It was because of Kristy (She Walks) that I discovered BlogHer. She worked for BlogHer for a time and, most importantly, spent much of her time organizing the annual conference. In her archives, I was dismayed to find a post about the BlogHer 2008 conference - the conference during which there was, apparently, some crazy drama between Dooce and The Bloggess. Up until then, I'd never heard of either one. Up until then, I thought Purl and Kristy were the pinnacle of blogging success.

Don't worry. I'll wait until you finish laughing and wipe the tears from your eyes. Yes, I really was just that naive.

When I read Kristy's post and then followed her links to what Dooce's husband had to say about the drama that was BlogHer 2008 and then actually went to the blogs of both Dooce and The Bloggess, I got really mad! So mad I wrote about it here. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't mad at either of them and I certainly didn't pick one over the other to like well enough to follow because of the incident (that would happen naturally as I read each one and then, ultimately, began following The Bloggess because I identify with her anxiety. I laugh at her. She has James Garfield, y'all. Who can compete with that?).

Honestly? I was angry at all the hateful things women were saying about both of them! I was thoroughly disgusted over the fact that googling "Dooce sucks" returned thousands of search returns. Why does she suck? WHY?! Because she's successful? Good on her! She's a successful, gracious woman doing what she loves in a dog-eat-dog man's world.

When I understood that, just like junior high, blogging could be a popularity contest, a gnashing of embittered and jealous teeth, a circle of the "it" girls and the ever-widening concentric circles of snarling women who wanted to be a part of the inner circle but were merely surrounding those who had MADE IT, I wanted no part of it. None. I retreated. Even though I'd joined BlogHer - because I loved the concept of a large network of women blogging, I didn't participate at all and only added a half dozen blogs listed in the directory to my reader after I joined. None of the bloggers I selected seemed to be backbiters or drama llamas. Fortunately, they weren't.

You see, Jane, in her infinite wisdom, is decidedly a Drama Free Zone. Jane has learned that, with a day-to-day existence of a high level of general free-floating anxiety, she's better off doing whatever is necessary to stay away from drama, as high drama she's exposed to has a direct correlation with the amount of anxiety she feels (see how I switch to 3rd person when I get uncomfortable?).

Enter NaBloPoMo.

This is my third year participating in NaBloPoMo. I (generally) love it! Granted, the first year was really rough as I'd never challenged myself to write every single day and coming up with blog fodder rendered itself difficult. After the first year though, I found it rather difficult NOT to post every day.

That first year, I didn't know (surprise) that there was an established, organized community of other bloggers who were participating. I heard about NaBloPoMo and just...started blogging daily because I could...to see if I could. Last year, when I stumbled upon the website for NaBloPoMo (when it was on Ning - uh, I think that's what the platform was called) I was excited to join and participate - mostly because I was overjoyed to find other bloggers who were just like me...not the top 1% "making it" but the other 99% (heh, see what I did there?) who were writing because it felt good and participating because it was a challenge.

I added a few bloggers - both men and women - to my RSS feed because of it.

This year, when NaBloPoMo switched platforms to BlogHer, I was reticent. I mean, it didn't really impact me as a NaBloPoMo blogger because I'm a woman and I felt as though I fit somewhat in with the established community (I mean, as much as a single, childless, non-niche blogger can feel anywhere). However, I was anxious given what I had already witnessed - albeit third hand - regarding some women bloggers in general.

Additionally, I was worried about all the men out there, blogging their own hearts out during NaBloPoMo and whether or not they could possibly find a comfortable spot in a community designed for and populated by women...a place whose very name - BlogHer - excludes them.

Please note: I am not, under any stretch of the imagination condemning, dissing, dogging, or otherwise smack-talking about BlogHer. The spirit and camaraderie of the site is a lovely thing and I truly appreciate why it exists. Neither am I condemning, dissing, dogging, or otherwise smack-talking the organizer of the official NaBloPoMo for moving from a clunky platform to a more user-friendly platform with a much higher profile and traffic.

But, I must confess, tonight? I'm disheartened and a little angry.

I'm disheartened because I have discovered only one man (there may be others and, if there are, would you all please PLEASE share their links with me) blogging on BlogHer specifically for NaBloPoMo this year and it's a man - Michael's Fishbowl - who I've been following since last year's NaBloPoMo (who may, in fact, be participating only because I encouraged him to by telling him men were totally welcome).

Not exactly a huge field of testosterone to be mined for my feed reader. And there is something to be said for a lovely balance of both testosterone and estrogen in daily life.

Mostly though, I'm disheartened and angry because, in the first 15 days of NaBloPoMo, I've born witness to a number of silly, childish, clique-y, junior high school BS that makes this woman, Jane, want to throw up her hands and not be associated with my own gender.

I can't even point it out...it makes me too mad to go back and re-visit some of what I've read.

But it's not just the NaBloPoMo or BlogHer bloggers doing it.

Today, as I read through my feed, I was spoon-fed a post from Jen McCreight - the Blag Hag. If you don't know Jen, she was the one who unwittingly went viral when she posted a little blog entry on her personal blog about an experimental event she created in response to an Iranian cleric - Hojatoleslam Kazem Seddiqi - who had blamed women who dress immodestly for causing earthquakes...an event she called Boobquake. Jen is a PhD candidate, an atheist, a skeptic, and a feminist. Since Boobquake, she's become an internationally known blogger and a sought after speaker who is asked to present at several conferences and workshops. She's all of 24.

This post - A Bully, Plain and Simple - was Jen's response to another blogger - A WOMAN - who had been shredding her publicly and privately calling her a "loser" and a "bitch"...because why again?

*sigh*

Why?

No really, I ask you, why? Why are women so hateful, so...spiteful to one another when one of us is successful?

This isn't about constructive criticism. This is women being...ARGH!!!!...(I want to swear...drop f-bombs and c-bombs and every other kind of bomb) MEAN?!

Why do we continue to be so mean to one another? Why do we continue to strip one another down? Honestly, does it make anyone feel truly better to be snarky and self-righteous? Does it make any of us feel truly closer to the top?

Do you think Dooce or The Bloggess pay attention to the sniping, back-stabbing, and unabashed jealousy of other bloggers who, in a desperate attempt to be accepted, stab and stab and stab their peers, and then say to themselves, "Hey! That woman, the one being downright ugly, is one of us" and then magically elevate that person into the 1%?

No. They don't. I think, in this case, the 1% would be appalled to know what other women do in the name of trying to be popular. I think the 1%, in the case of blogging, are likely surprised, grateful, and unduly pressured to find themselves where they are and, when asked to speak at conferences, likely convey that gratitude to their legions of readers - most of whom are bloggers like themselves who haven't yet made it. Who probably never will. I suspect that they are, in fact, humbled to be where they are...even though they've worked hard to be where they are.

I am angry tonight. I am disgusted tonight. I am sad tonight.

I've uncovered a plethora of bloggers - wait...WRITERS - in the last several days who are now filling me with a lip-smacking satisfaction as I feast upon their words and photographs. And yet, there are a few people who are, ridiculously, still stuck in junior high school mode and who, because of their own insecurities and petty jealousies, seem bound and determined - in their pursuit of becoming the 1% - to cast a negative light on the rest of us in order to futilely attempt to elevate their sub-par selves to elite status.

I ask myself why.

Do we really live in a world outside of junior high school drama and back-stabbing? At what point do we stop passing self-serving judgment and start supporting one another?

NaBloPoMo isn't about how we look...what clothes we wear, how our hair is cut, or what we say, or even how we've said it.

It's about the fact that we've come to say it at all...woman, man, nerd, or potentially popular.

Support each other as we would WISH to have others support us...in our infinite wisdoms.

Is it that hard to look outside ourselves and give kudos and support, generously?

Please. Just...stop being mean and start putting yourselves into the shoes of the one you may heartlessly judge because they aren't in your shoes.

Please. Be polite...and stop being mean.