Red is the New Black

It’s been a long time since I felt beautiful.

Years really.

And before you say or think anything...this isn’t a fish for compliments or affirmation or anything of the sort so, yannow, just let me finish.

When I say “felt beautiful”...that has very little to do with physical appearance - although physicality does play a small part. I think what I generally mean by feeling beautiful though is feeling good, positive, energetic, peaceful. 

I hadn’t felt beautiful or ugly or anything in between. I just...hadn’t given any thought to beauty or myself. At all. Completely disconnected. 

Invisible.

2013 was an epic year for major change - a series of (mostly) unrelated events - that would seem to change the trajectory of my life in ways I’d never anticipated. 

You know I bought a house.

You know I moved my dad to an independent/assisted living apartment.

I changed jobs.

What you don’t know is that Spux and I, well, we had a massive falling out. And someone who’d been such a huge presence in my life wasn’t there anymore and I started to withdraw from the places and scene where I might run into her to avoid conflict and discomfort.

You also don’t know that I quit Denhac. I didn’t have the time or energy or the enthusiasm to dedicate to the space anymore and I felt the members deserved a Board who could be there in ways I couldn’t. 

I suppose you might say I withdrew from that scene too.

So I was already feeling kind of lost at sea.

And then?

And then.

In November and December of that year, 2013, Acr0nym - my near constant companion, my non-sexual non-husband, my BFF - suffered a MAJOR mental health crisis. I mean, y’all, it got bad. And then it got worse. And then it got to New Year’s Eve and, well, I did the unthinkable. 

I had him committed.

It was dawn on New Year’s Day 2014 when I rolled back into my garage after having spent the entire night talking him down off the proverbial ledge and convincing him to go to the ER and subsequently sitting in the ER with him while waiting on pins and needles for the doctor to decide whether or not to place the 72-hour hold on him.

I fixed myself a cocktail at 7 a.m, watched the sunrise, and collapsed in ginormous racking sobs as the anxiety and terror and exhaustion of the prior weeks rolled right over the top of me in waves.

He was safe.

And I could shut down.

So that’s what I did. For many, many months.

Before I go any further, Acr0 was hospitalized for 13 days. During that time, his father died and so the staff worked to stabilize him enough to be able to release him so he could be with his family. It’s been a very long road since then but he is better now. So ever much better! For real!

2014 was a blur. There’s not much to say about it except to say, while my friendship with Acr0 was still intact, he had his hands full just trying to get by and so, for the first time in years, I was on my own. I think, after his father’s memorial service, I saw him a total of maybe six times throughout 2014 and even less in 2015. Also of note, my father, already declining in hearing, mobility, and function, was diagnosed with prostate cancer in February and underwent radiation daily for 6 weeks (the treatment worked - he’s cancer free). 

Mostly, 2014 and the first part of 2015, as far as I can recall, didn’t actually happen. (Although something good did happen! Spux and I made amends and are, for real, great friends again!)

Shut down, beat down, withdrawn, disconnected, I had a vague sense of the passage of time but viewed it with apathy - like time was passing but it wasn’t related to me - I was moving on automatic right through it. The more tired I felt, the more invisible I tried to become, and, with invisibility comes silence...on the blog, on social media, on any platform where I might have been heard and/or seen.

I will, however, assert here that I don’t believe I was depressed. I’ve experienced depression and this wasn’t it. Rather, I believe I was physically and mentally exhausted and getting sick...sicker by the minute and much sicker than I realized.

Until…

In the spring of this year, I suffered a series of health problems. 

I won’t go into it here...at least, not tonight...but it was an extremely loud and incredibly close wake up call to PAY ATTENTION! I wasn’t taking care of myself in any way. I thought withdrawing from people in my personal life would help me re-charge, re-energize and that would get me moving in the right direction - ANY direction - again. 

It didn’t.

The only purpose withdrawing did was to allow me an uninterrupted path to a complete physical break down. Woot.

That wake up call, as so often happens, was the exact call I needed to get moving in more ways than one. I started eating better. I started walking again. I bought a Fitbit. I started thinking more about myself and what was good for me and less about what others needed from me. I started to evaluate what was good, what was bad, what was necessary, and what was nonsense.

I started to care about and pay attention to me again.

I started to sleep again.

I started to really feel compassion again.

I started to forgive...everyone.

I started to emerge.

To see and be seen.

And THAT is how we come to now and feeling beautiful.

About a month ago, while I was on vacation, Acr0 took the day off to spend with me and he told me we could do whatever my heart desired.

I made a list. 

• Visit his mom. 
• Tour Tinkermill. 
• Have lunch with our friend, Monk. 
• Tour the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg. 

And so that’s what we did. It was a perfect day. The weather was gorgeous. There were no hiccups or tensions. Everything was entirely right with the world and incredibly easy in a way it hadn’t been in a couple of years.

At Tinkermill, where we ran into Monk earlier than we’d expected, the three of us walked out to the parking lot together and, as the sunlight hit me, Monk exclaimed, “You are beautiful!” completely out of the blue.

I was taken aback.

I hadn’t thought of myself as beautiful in what felt like forever. No one had thought to acknowledge me as beautiful in nearly as long.

And so I chewed on that for awhile.

And then I went shopping...for clothes...which I normally dread.

And all of a sudden what appealed to me wasn’t black, black, and some more black.

What caught my eye were reds and purples and blues. Oh my, yes. Lots of red.

I spent way too much money on clothes in colors and patterns...things I’ve abhorred in the past.

And then I wore them.

And, on the first day I wore red, as I drove toward work, I thought, “I feel really beautiful. I should wear more red.”

And so...I am.

Red. It’s the new black.

And I’m beautiful.

The House Equivalent of Duck Face

On my 41st birthday, I announced here that I, for the very first time ever, was buying a house.

And then I subsequently, quietly disappeared from recording my infinite wisdoms.

And if you're a person given to powers of deduction, you might have drawn the conclusion that I wasn't writing because I was busy house hunting and frantically pinning decorating and DIY home improvement-type stuff to Pinterest. 

But you would be wrong.

In fact, until this week, I hadn't stepped foot into one available property for a look see. 

Mostly this is because our lease isn't up until June 30 and I was terrified I would find and fall in love with a house too soon and either have to let it slip through my fingers or get stuck with months of rent+mortgage payments. But now we've entered that sweet spot - that period of time during which I have time to browse the inventory, make an offer, counter-offer, and close without fear of double payments.

Except...inventory is pretty low in my price range. Inventory is pretty low in every price range. People are still underwater on their mortgages and unwilling to list for less than they owe unless they have to. And what little inventory is out there is getting snapped up almost as fast as it gets listed by investors who are back to quick flipping for profit. Fuckers.

So, on Thursday morning when I received the auto-email for new property listings meeting my criteria that my Realtor, Courtney (yes, she's blond and also full of win), set up for me and saw a house meeting all my must and love to haves except one - it was just a tad outside the physical locations I wanted but still manageable - and the price was an unbelievably reasonable price, I pounced. The pictures showed a lovely, two-story, 1970s-era vision of my kind of perfect.

Nice, right? Photo shamelessly taken from the property listing

Formal living room of "the perfect house" - photo shamelessly taken from the property listing

The family room of "the perfect house"

I immediately e-mailed Courtney and told her "I must see this house. TODAY." Fearing an investor would snatch it out from under me before I even had a chance to shower and shampoo.

And then I immediately e-mailed everyone I know. Well...OK...I e-mailed Acr0nym and Lex. Still...I was excited. THIS WAS MY HOUSE! I knew it! Even the address told me so (long story)! 

IT WAS PERFECT!

Never mind that I'd not looked at any other houses. Never mind that I have no idea what I'm doing. Never mind that, in the back of my head, I was thinking it is absurd to put an offer in on the first house I see. It's not that simple. Very few things in life are ever that simple.

Regardless, I got caught up in house hunting hysteria, crazed by the knowledge that it's a seller's market with sharks circling every property out there just waiting to drive up prices. I could barely concentrate on getting myself ready for work. I couldn't concentrate on my actual work once I got there. I coerced my boss into going with me at noon, knowing full well I needed a steady head to talk me down from offering up way more than I could afford just to secure this piece of homey heaven for me and the boys.

Heh.

The moment my boss and I pulled up in front of the house, I knew it was all wrong. While the rest of the houses on the street seemed peppy and smart, this house seemed tired in a way I couldn't really identify. There wasn't anything exactly wrong with the outside - other than the extremely worn out wooden platform acting as a front stoop to the door - it just...there wasn't any life to it.

I attributed that to the fact that it was empty and had been vacant for who knows how long. It was a foreclosure after all. It could have been vacant for months...years. We'll breathe life into it! That's how it works...right?

And then we - Courtney, my boss, and I - stepped inside.

The moment Courtney closed the door, she said, "OK. Before we really look, here's what we're up against."

My heart sank.

Nothing good ever starts with a sentence like that. And, for the next five minutes, I got schooled on the delightful dealings of HUD foreclosures, bidding processes, preliminary inspections, repair escrows for things like plumbing and septic system damage of which there were several repairs required. 

Ugh.

Why did it have to be plumbing?!*

And then, with that information gurgling around in my guts, we looked around.

I'll start with the good.

The house was perfectly laid out. I loved the light, the windows, the way the formal living room flowed into the dining room, the size of the kitchen, the bay window over the kitchen sink with shelves for an herb garden, the gorgeous fireplace and hearth in the family room. The basement was great for Lex - a bedroom, an office, a 3/4 bath, and a large room for working out and/or gaming. The upstairs, which could have used another bathroom aside from the master bath, was also laid out well for my purposes...a bedroom, an office, and a guest room.

But...

Every single room - EVERY ONE - had glaringly obvious cosmetic needs. The previous owners had painted nearly every room in bold colors - not awful ones but bold...mahogany, purple, blue, red - but they were lazy painters and hadn't bothered to tape off AT ALL and then used a paint sprayer. So nearly every single ceiling had 3-4" of bold-colored paint bleeding into its 70's-style popcorn texturing. Nearly every wall had a punch through the drywall. Every wall had a number of nail holes and masonry plugs. There had obviously been a plumbing problem in the basement bathroom because there was a huge cut through the drywall that hadn't been replaced and exposed the pipes. The ceiling in the master bedroom was stained from an obvious leak in the ceiling. The carpet was disgusting throughout the upstairs and, in one place, had suffered extreme damage but, instead of replacing it, the previous owners had cut a stripe - about a foot wide and 8 feet deep - of a different carpet, color and texture - and nailed it down to cover the damage. The humongous backyard, a yard that, at one time, had been a gardener's delight, had been so neglected, it had become a snarl of weeds that had choked out every other living thing.

The backyard, more than anything else, surprised me the most. The front yard was beautifully groomed and landscaped. It was one of the things I liked best! But the backyard - hidden from the prying eyes of the neighbors by an 8-foot privacy fence - had been so horribly neglected it would require a backhoe in order to dig it all up and start over.

I was quiet on the way back to the office. Disappointed obviously but also lost in thought.

This house...this "perfect house"...at one time, had truly been perfect. It was a lovely, traditional, colonial-style house and, when it was brand new, must have been quite nice. The selling agent knew just how to capture duck face pictures of this house in its best light to convince everyone looking at it online that this was something truly special. A must see! A must have! 

But just like the duck face pictures we see of our friends, that we post of ourselves, online - those allegedly candid selfies in which we portray ourselves in the very best light, hiding the wrinkles, the double chins, the hard facts of life - the house, in real life, had a decidedly different story to tell. The house, like people, hides behind a facade. Behind the walls, it's another story. The pictures show us the shell of what it once was - what it should be. But the only true story it could tell was a story that included neglect, abuse, indifference, laziness, and bad decisions. 

And, just like a person who has been neglected and abused, this house was, at times, overwhelmed with its sadness.

I felt it.

It gave me new meaning to the phrase "domestic abuse" and, in some ways, I felt horrible when I made the decision to pass it by. That house needs love! And I have lots of love! I just don't have a whole lot of energy to put into patching up that kind of damage done.

So...I hope some energetic, caring person grasps onto that house and gives it the love it so desperately needs. I hope it gets the chance it deserves. 

But then I hope those same things for all of us.

* The day before, I'd had to leave work early, ONCE AGAIN, to meet the plumber because The Grotto had yet another random explosion out of the bathroom sink which spewed sludge all over the ceiling, walls, mirror, vanity, our TOOTHBRUSHES, and destroyed literally everything not encased in plastic that we'd stored in the medicine chest (how it got in there, we do not know). The joys of 100+ year old properties.

A Letter to a Sick Co-Worker

Dear Co-Worker,

I want you to know I like you. I really do! You're nice, hardworking, passionate about our company, and have some really good ideas. You're usually pleasant to be around and, even though you're never the go-to-gal for chocolates, people seem to like stopping in to visit with you on occasion chocolate or no.

Bob in accounting, Mary in sales, Debbie in reception, Les in operations, Carol in IT, and Ben in marketing...they* all think you're swell too!

So you know how you came to work yesterday and today looking as though you were an under-cooked turkey, hacking, sniffling, sneezing, and blowing your nose every 20 seconds? We could all tell you weren't feeling well and we encouraged you to go home. Because we care, yes. We want you to feel better! 

But also...

Bob's got severe asthma. When Bob gets a cold, which is rare thankfully, Bob goes to the emergency room and then is on oxygen for a month afterward because that cold automagically turns into pneumonia.

Mary's undergoing some pretty heavy duty chemotherapy treatment to get rid of that pesky cancer. If Mary gets sick, they'll have to stop treatment right in the middle of the cycle...and then the chemo won't likely work so well. 

Debbie's going on a trip of a lifetime next week - one she and her partner have saved and scrimped and planned for over the course of the last 3 years. If she gets sick, she can't fly and, even if she can fly, she'll be hunkered down in her hotel room for the first several days too exhausted and sick to sightsee. All that time, effort, and money going to waste.

Les's got a brand new little baby - a baby conceived after years of trying and tens of thousands of dollars spent on IVF treatments. A brand new little precious bundle of joy, born 10 weeks early and who has spent the first 6 weeks of her life in the NICU while her wee little lungs develop. He rushes from work right to the hospital to be with his wife and daughter, holding her for just a few minutes is easily the best part of his day. If Les gets a cold, he won't be able to see or touch his daughter for possibly weeks.

Carol, well...remember how Carol had that organ transplant awhile ago? That life-saving organ transplant she'd been waiting for for more than a decade? She's on some crazy immuno-suppressant drugs to keep her body from rejecting that organ. If she gets sick, she's on her way to the ICU. 

We, of course, can't forget Ben. He's HIV positive. Enough said.

And then there's me and the rest of your 90+ co-workers who just really don't like being sick. We don't want to be sick. Being sick sucks...as you well know.

Yet, there you are, sitting at your desk, hacking, sneezing, sniffling and blowing your nose just before you use the copy machine, the printer, the shredder, the file cabinets, the door handles, the microwave, the refrigerator, the restroom, the faucet handles. There you are, in my office, multiple times a day, handing me a stack of invoices to review...invoices you've been coughing all over for the last 3 hours. I know because I listened to you attempt to hack up that lung every couple of minutes and cringed outwardly knowing you'd eventually be standing just where you are saying, "Here you go!" as if you've handed me some incredible gift you're so very proud of.

You aren't winning any medals or awards or even friends by working while you're sick, you know. Management isn't watching you and thinking, "Wow! What a dedicated, wonderful employee!" Management isn't actually paying any attention. If they were, they'd likely tell you to go the fuck home because they don't want to get sick either and the work you do, while extremely important, can wait a day or two until you feel better. It can even be re-assigned to someone else who would gladly take it on as long as they didn't have to say, "Gesundeit!" to you one more time without really meaning it.

Just so you know, while you're crawling through your day thinking you are such a trooper, the rest of us are fantasizing about featuring you as the dunkee at the carnival dunking booth where those of us with a good arm (and my arm can be lethal when necessary) could douse you in a pool of Lysol. And when we aren't thinking about that, we're wishing Human Resources would install a Silkwood Shower we could all partake in at the end of our work day.

Right now, we don't really like you. Right now, we all think you're an asshole.

So just stop it and go home.

Sincerely,

The Staff

* Fictional characters

The Things You Cannot Change

Love the person not the potential. - The Divatologist

Yes, agreed.

Accept the person as they are and not who they could become.

Totally. Makes sense.

But after you learn who a person is and how they are, it's also perfectly acceptable and reasonable to acknowledge you deserve better.

Then walk away.

The Power of Meh

Each afternoon, as I'm driving home from work, since it's the best time - aside from shower time and just before go to sleep time - to think, is when I reflect most on my day and decide what nice thing from the day I'm going to add to my Nice Things jar.

Now I know I'm still new to this whole nice things thing but, in my albeit limited experience, it's ridiculously easy to come up with at least one nice thing per day to happily jot down. Often, a day has so many nice things I want to remember, I end up writing enough to fill up the entire 1/4 sheet of paper. Whether I'm occasionally too easily amused or impressed by little things is not up for debate.

However, on Wednesday just past, I hit a snag.

It wasn't a bad day. Not at all! Sincerely, the worst thing that occurred was when I was driving to work that morning and a car cut in front of me on the highway and then slowed down to 35 mph. I couldn't figure out for the life of me what her hang up might be since I consider myself to be the ninniest ninny driver in the universe and she had me beat all hollow...until she finally got out of my lane and I was able to speed up to pass her. And then I realized the reason why she was going dangerously slow on the highway was because she was busy applying her mascara using the rearview mirror. Bleah.

Still...it wasn't a bad day. It passed pleasantly enough. But there was not one single thing out of the ordinary - nary a compliment, a nice story told to me, a funny youtube video shared via Facebook - that stood out and shouted "PICK ME! I'M A NICE THING!!!" 

Even my last ditch hopes of getting a parking space on my block were dashed the moment I rounded the corner in front of my house and saw there wasn't a space to be had for 2 blocks. *sigh*

Eventually, I was reduced to writing down the fact that I'd taken a 30 minute power nap after work as my nice thing for the day which isn't an unusual occurrence but it is awfully nice.

Anyway! The point of this is that, Wednesday night, after I'd written down my nice nap thing, I began to contemplate what a "meh" day really means. I mean, I'd like to think meh days, just like truly awful days, are relatively rare. And, in the last 11 days, that hypothesis does appear to be holding true. I haven't had a bad day yet and only one meh day. 

But maybe there's a point to having meh days every once in awhile. Ones in which nothing but banality exists. And then it hit me...

Life isn't just about nice things or awful things. We don't hop from one pleasantry after another or one disaster after another with nothing in between. If we did, we'd become desensitized to what is and is not pleasant or terrible...constantly raising the bar standard for what's good and subsequently lowering the bar for what's bad. 

"Meh" IS the bar.

Meh is what keeps us grounded in reality. It's the place we sometimes find ourselves when we're resting from the highs and lows of passion and/or pain. It's the balance bar upon which we walk as we move forward through our lives, ever reaching for the next nice thing or stumbling face first onto the next icky gooey blob of a monstrous thing.

It is a place to hang out, looking up over it to see what we can see, hoping to catch a glimpse of what's good so we don't look below it as often and notice what's bad. 

It can even be a bar we hook our legs around and hang upside down from to give ourselves a fresh perspective of the world around us. Everything looks and feels different when it's upside down, yeah?

Regardless...

Meh is the bar on which we perch. It's like...like...like...Vinny's power spot - the place he retreats to when he isn't sure what position he's playing, offense or defense. It's the place where we can chill for awhile, re-charge our batteries, retreat so we can get a good view of the lay of the land, weigh consequences and benefits before we act. It's a place where there is a strange comfort in the ordinary. A place to appreciate the extraordinary.

I can see a lot from that bar...if I look hard enough.

There is power there.

A lot of power.

The power of "meh".

PS And now, because I can, if you haven't yet stumbled upon your nice thing for today, perhaps you'll appreciate one of these two things...

First, I present to you Buttermilk. This little girl goat has so much zest for life, she is bouncing with it! Check out her exuberance for just, you know, life! That goat's not even hanging out anywhere near the bar...unless it's a bar that serves kids. (ba-dum-bum)

And if that doesn't do it for you, meet Simon and Daisy. 

Notice how Simon is RIGHT THERE making sure nothing bad happens to Daisy on her inaugural trip down.

Those were two of my several nice things over the last two days.

So much for meh.

Valuation of Investments

The Great Purge of 2013 continues.

We're 6 days into the new year and, since Tuesday when I awoke thirsty and vowed to drink more water and then, in a burst of energetic rebirth, subsequently cleaned out the Corner of Doom, I've continued to purge my life of unnecessary clutter...both internally and externally.

My disposition has improved dramatically for it. Even my boss commented on the positive change in attitude.

I've kept up with my water intake - my bladder floating most of the time, I've continued to focus on nice things by adding a colorful slip of paper containing at least one nice thing from each day to my specially designated Nice Things jar every night before I go to bed, and, yesterday evening, I crossed off three more items from the Areas to De-clutter list...my bureau drawers, my allegedly organized knitting stash, and my cedar chest (which isn't made of cedar but my parents' old cedar chest is what I think of when I look at it¹ so that's what I call it. In reality, it's just a plywood box in which to store stuff I don't really need but thought I wanted to keep).

The de-cluttering areas to tackle this weekend were specifically chosen for their likelihood to contain random knitting artifacts from when I could knit - yarn, needles, notions. I haven't been able to knit, due to a chronic case of carpal tunnel, for more than two years. But I've held onto all the accouterments I'd built up just in case I was able to indulge in that occupational therapy for stress relief again. At least, until now. Now when I am tired of having all these things lying about literally collecting dust. Now when I finally came to the conclusion knitting will never be for me again. Now when it seems especially important to purge.

So I dug and sorted, sifted, tossed, and grieved for unfinished projects. Then I organized what I'd found, somewhat, into containers, baskets, and bags to give to my sister-in-law and nephew as they've both just begun to knit themselves. I'm happy to pass on a vast collection of assorted needles in all types and sizes to 2 people I love who will love having and using them. I'm glad they'll appreciate the natural fibers I'd stashed and the fact that all but one set of needles are bamboo.

Additionally, in the process of gathering up knitting supplies, I also found the old photographs I'd been promising to show a co-worker of my time spent at Rocky Ridge Music Center back in 1986 - the summer I was 14. The summer I was beautiful and still felt like an ugly duckling even for all the upgrades I'd had...braces off, contacts for the first time, loss of baby+ fat, etc.

In just a few short months, I'd gone from this:

To this:

I wish I'd seen this girl in the mirror when she was staring back at me then. It would have saved me so much trouble and heartache in the long run. So unbelievably exquisite.

That was a hard summer, 1986. It's hard to be 14 going on 15. It's hard to be away from home for 2 months. It's even harder to discover the one thing you thought you were good at is the one thing in which so many others there far surpassed me in both raw talent and motivation.

I could regale you with all sorts of stories I remember from that summer...slow dancing for the first time, discovering the Violent Femmes, making out with Tom Howard when we were supposed to be practicing our duet, the "talent" show during which I dressed up like Wayne Newton and lip synced "Danke Schoen"...

But I won't. That isn't the topic of discussion tonight, now is it? Just know, I had a lot of fun looking through the pictures. The pictures belie the teen angst I experienced...which is kinda nice now that I think of it. What I remember most are the good times. Still...the hard stuff is almost as easily recalled and I definitely wouldn't want to go back. Maybe I'll tell you some of the stories later. Then again, maybe I won't.

Regardless, the purge continues.

It feels really good to dig out from all the crap in my life. I'm consistently much happier not carting around or looking at excess baggage and I've re-discovered I'm not afraid to throw away much of anything I don't need or want taking up space frankly. I've done it before. It just takes motivation, energy, and stamina to do it - the things I seem to have recovered during my week off from work and the world. And now, everything is subject to my discerning eye...keep or toss or donate? 

It begs the question...what is truly valuable? Obviously, I don't have many items categorized in the "holds significant material value" column - not where my renter's insurance is concerned. I don't have diamonds or a Picasso or a 1st edition Leaves of Grass lying about in my basement apartment. No. Mostly what I keep close are memories. The Nambé vase I purchased the first time I went to Santa Fe with Blind Betsy. My frog collection, each item gifted to me by someone special or to commemorate something special. My Defcon badges. The gloriously hideous, neon-beaded kitten bag Naked Jen bought me when she visited this fall. Those things will go with me wherever I go no matter where I go. What about the rest?

What about the rest?

What about this? What about that? Those are the questions I ask myself as I hold each item in turn and evaluate the meaning it holds in my life.

Keep. Toss. Donate.

It feels good to rid myself of that which has been dragging me down. It feels good to come back to the center. It feels good to take care of me. So, for now, I continue to move through each corner, each nook, and each cranny - of my room and my head - evaluating where I invest myself, my space, my time.

I ask myself, again and again...Keep? Toss? Donate? 

Asset? Liability? Gain or loss on investment?

Keep. Toss. Donate.

Valuation.

1: I'm not sure where that old cedar chest is now. I think, perhaps, my father still has it.

Maybe I'll Touch a Spider Later

When I awoke this morning, I opened my eyes reluctantly and waited, unceremoniously, for the all-too-familiar "meh" feeling to wash over me as it has most days for the last year or so.

It didn't come.

So I opened my eyes a little wider and waited for a rush of anxiety.

Nope. Nothing.

So I opened my eyes still wider, sat up, reached for my slippers, and then stumbled out to the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee was ready to pour thanks to Lex who was already up and dressed "to go out for the day" he announced. As I fixed my cuppa just the way I like it (a little non-dairy this and a lotta chocolate-y instant cappuccino that), I thought to myself, "Self! You're thirsty. Have a glass of water too. You really should drink more water that isn't caffeinated this year."

So I fixed myself a nice, tall tumbler of ice water as well and then headed back to my room and my computer to check up on what had happened in the world while I slept. As it turns out, not much had happened for most people beyond breakfast.

And that's when I realized...I felt hopeful.

Like...actually hopeful and, frankly, pretty happy to be alive which had absolutely nothing to do with the promise of brunch.

Wait...what?

So I took a mental inventory. Did something happen last night - something significant - to change my outlook? No. Last night was pretty well uneventful save giving a newly turned 15-year-old a pretty spectacular (if I do say so myself) gift. I didn't win the lottery or fall in love or get kissed at midnight. There was no appearance by a magical fairy godmother or a handsome sugar daddy or an ambitious literary agent or eager publishing house. There was no change in latitude. I didn't even have any particularly memorable dreams.

I just...woke up to a fresh perspective, a psychological shift in my attitude combined with a double shot of organic energy for good measure. Overnight.

So I went with it.

I spent a leisurely morning drinking coffee and water, and then I did something long overdue.

See this?

Ignore the dust

This is an empty corner of my room.

What's so special about an empty corner, you say? Well, until this afternoon, this particular corner was piled knee high with stuff I didn't know what to do with at the time it entered my room so I'd been dumping more and more stuff into this one spot until it had become a Corner of Doom threatening to sprawl out into a Room of Doom.

But NO MORE! There cannot be an Eye of Sauron at the top of a tower that no longer exists! Heh.

I got down on the floor with an extra-large, Hefty trashbag between my knees and, over the course of about 3 hours, unpacked, examined, sorted, and threw away everything in that corner until the very last thing - my old laptop that was replaced this summer with a new-to-me machine - was the only thing without some kind of a home. And, in one phone call to a congenial brother, the laptop had the promise of a delightful home with a 7-year-old nephew inside of 15 minutes.

At some point, mostly when I began the process of re-homing items I'd discovered, I started making mental notes about other dusty, dark corners that needed a good rooting. Eventually, the list grew larger than 3 and so I began a list of both areas to de-clutter and items I needed to buy to make de-cluttering even more successful. Minimalist that I am, the only thing currently on the "to buy" list are frames for the artwork prints I've managed to collect but have never framed or hung. 

If only the list of areas to de-clutter was that short. Oi.

Imagine my surprise to discover that, not only had I been tamping down my emotions and thoughts into gooey, crumb-encrusted, overflowing mental compartments over the last year, I'd also been stuffing various physical nooks, crannies, drawers, closets, boxes, and bags with all sorts of crap.

Dangerous territory, y'all. Trust me. The last time I woke up from these kinds of escapades, I found myself in the midst of a practice run at a mid-life crisis and had all but abandoned everything in my life to run away from it...from me.

Double oi.

Oi squared.

Oi! Oi! Oi!

Heh.

And then I was reminded of two things:

A) I remembered Allie's last post on Hyperbole and a Half - Adventures in Depression, and how it ended.

B) But also I remembered a link on Pinterest Acr0nym sent to me a couple of weeks ago.

Start the year with an empty jar and fill it with notes about good things that happen. Then, on New Years Eve, empty it and see what awesome stuff happened that year. Good way to keep things in perspective.

The second was a biggie to me. Because, as I was attempting to pull my thoughts together to write a year-end wrap up post of the good that happened in 2012, I couldn't think of anything except just a couple of big chunks of glitter. Like...Geek Show, Defcon, a visit from Dayna and Naked Jen, and a couple of well-hidden gems. But I couldn't think of any of the little things that, when added up together, could overcome the shadows of my scarface, panic attacks, full-fledged agoraphobia, and the onset of night sweats and cold flashes.

Scarface...just about a year ago - it looks way better now

I decided I was going to create a "nice things" jar for 2013 so that, at the end of 2013, I could look back at each sliver of a reminder of all the nice things that had occurred to keep me putting one foot in front of the other every single day.

I dug out the brightly colored paper I bought years ago when I was a devoted pen pal. I grabbed the kitchen shears (don't worry, I already washed them with soap). Then I lit the Rosy Rings honey tobacco-scented candle I'd unearthed in my Corner of Doom purge earlier in the day and set about cutting up squares of pinks, purples, yellows, blues, oranges, and golds to write at least one nice thing upon for the next 365 days.

Afterward, I went on a hunt for a jar - any jar - that would contain all the joy and kindness and glittery bits I plan to collect when I found the vase that had once contained these:

Flowers from Caro in Canada 12 days - 12! - after they arrived unexpectedly

A remnant of a nice thing that happened in 2012.

And here is the result:

Candlelight, art needing frames, and a jar with a nice thing already in it. Sorry the picture is so bad.

Notice it's in the corner that used to be full of gloom and doom.

Now it's full of gratitude...and hope...and nice things.

So that's my resolution for 2013. Remember the good things. The nice-smelling things, the light, the talent, the love, the warmth, the sweet, the kind, the generous, the funny, the silly, the smart! smart! smart! I even dusted off my unused Pinterest account to help me keep track.

Additionally, it's time to also dust off and de-clutter all the areas I'm sure I'll continue to identify - in my home and in my head - to make them nice. 

I promise to make it so.

It's my resolution for 2013.

That and, you know, drink more water.

What I Learned on My Winter Vacation

Well...

So here we are. It's the evening of the 9th day - the last day, the last evening, - of my much anticipated, much needed vacation from both work and regular life. And, even though I'll have Tuesday off to celebrate the new year (or recover from kicking 2012 to the curb more like), tomorrow morning I still have to do something I haven't done much of - if at all - in the last 9 days...

Wake up to my alarm, put on pants and a bra and makeup and shoes, and venture out into a cruel world that expects me to arrive awake and alert and sociable earlier than, say, 10. 

The humanity! *shakes fists*

I'd love to tell you how productive I was on my vacation and how wisely I used my time. However, I wasn't productive. Mostly I squandered my time on naps and video games and books. I did blog more this week than I blogged during the entire month of November. So there is that to point to and think to myself, "See?! I totally did something useful on my days off!" But considering the bar was set so very low, it somehow doesn't feel like much of an accomplishment. 

Still...

I did manage to learn a very important lesson.

After Christmas Day, I didn't leave The Grotto much unless I absolutely had to and that wasn't often. Instead, I squirreled myself away in my pajamas, hung out in my room, and occasionally went on foraging excursions to the kitchen. By the time I woke up this morning, I was so depressed and lost and collapsing under the pressure of so much inertia, I didn't want to get up at all.

Luckily, I had to. I had to get back to the grocery store and then I had more denhac frivolity to broadcast with Madstringer who graciously offered to pick me up and take me home. Frankly, if he hadn't offered the ride, I might have ditched out on him. The anxiety creeping in was THAT BAD.

So I took that long overdue shower and I put on pants and a bra and shoes. I went to the store and then I went to denhac and, once I was home, I realized...

I felt better. More energetic.

Being out in the world keeps me moving. It keeps me stimulated and thinking and laughing. It keeps me riled up and also asking WTF, Japan? Seriously?! It keeps me engaged. It keeps me alive.

So, even though I really really really needed some down time to re-charge my entirely depleted batteries, I learned too much down time, for me, is a terrible idea. I'm glad to be back.

"I" Before "E" Except After "C"

Vacation is waning, waxing into twilight.

I'm 2/3 of the way through this glorious week filled with nothing much and it dawns on me tonight it's time to get back to my regularly scheduled program which does not include leisurely morning coffee in front of the computer or long, luxurious, afternoon naps or bathrobe-wrapped evenings writing or listening to music from the past.

The first 6 days haven't been just that, to be sure. I've been out and about doing and seeing and feeding and feeling and giving and receiving and all that crap. There have been planned outings and unexpected urgencies and people who continue to need me even when there's not much me left to give. That's nothing new.

The difference is that there is much more me to offer when I have a break between demands to re-charge.

And that's what this week has been. A long-overdue opportunity to re-charge even as fresh requests for my time are issued.

Lex made a comment just a bit ago. He said, "Your stress level is way down. I can tell. You've really seemed to enjoy this vacation...needed this vacation. I didn't know until now just how stressed you've been."

That surprised me. He would have been the only one to know really.

A couple of months ago, I had a complete emotional meltdown on him. I was mired down with stress and angst and had NO MORE JUICE. It was an epic meltdown in which I demanded of him that I just get some gawd damn alone time already! He was making me nuts! I didn't realize I'd been letting resentment build and build and build - not being transparent, trying to manage my expectations - until he invited someone else in to share our space too frequently.

I snapped.

It was ugly.

We've mostly gotten past it.

But it wasn't until last night when he reluctantly announced, fairly late, that his visiting from out-of-town friend and friend's new girlfriend were on their way over and all I said was, "Great!" that he finally realized just how much I needed this down time.

He finally got it. He finally understood that I ride the line - sometimes a delicate one - between introvert and extrovert.

I am, at my core, an introvert. I need lots and lots of down time in order to function in a world full of people who need lots of my attention and time. But I'm also an extrovert in some ways. I thrive in the attention of other people. I need and want and love to give people my time, my energy, my attention when I've got it. It's a constant battle between these two sides of me.

It's why, for me, "home" is reserved for ME time. I rarely invite people into The Grotto and, when I do, it's because I have both energy to spare and can control when they leave. Otherwise, it's me going out and expending that extroverted energy away from "home". It's why Lex and I have, mostly, gotten on so well...because he is a consummate introvert and doesn't want anyone to interact with him pretty much ever...

Until he does. And then he wants them to only interact with him in his space, on his time. You know, like an introvert.

Which is fine...except when it's not. And why I imploded.

He and I both would do well to remember this one grammatical rule.

While it should never be all about me, we would do well to remember it's "I" before "E"...except after "C". 

Introvert before Extrovert except after Charge.

Another Woman's Treasure...

Several years ago, after my mother procured for me my favorite book from childhood - The Rebel Witch by Jack Lovejoy - that had been out of print for many years, I began collecting 1st edition children's books. My collection is modest but it has some wonderful titles in it and I love each one as a friend regardless of how well known or how well written it is.

Particularly wonderful finds are books that are also inscribed. Any book that is inscribed has special meaning to me - I have been known to buy a book simply for its inscription - but an inscribed child's book has special significance somehow. There is love in an inscription. And, too often, I find these carefully inscribed tomes at garage sales, fundraiser book sales, or secondhand shops where it feels as though the sentiment behind the inscription has been discarded, tossed aside. I collect these inscriptions in an odd, awkward attempt to scoop up the love poured into them and to honor it somehow...to, I don't know, pay attention to someone else's feelings when the recipient laid those feelings aside. It's almost...voyeuristic I suppose. But I don't care.  It means something to me and I guess that's what's really important.

Anyway! A couple of months ago, I shared with Evelyn, the mother of Acr0nym and TC, this information during a casual conversation. At least about collecting 1st edition children's books. I don't remember telling her about the inscription thing. Maybe I did. I don't recall.

So today, Christmas day, I arrived empty handed - sporting only a lowly pie - to Evelyn's home to share the holiday with her and her husband, Acr0nym, TC and Mrs. TC and their twin girls, as well as a family friend (who was most delightful and made THE BEST JELLO CONCOCTION EVER!). I'd told Evelyn when she invited me that the gift was the invitation to spend the holiday with them and no other gift was warranted or expected. She didn't listen. Well, that's not fair, she listened but she didn't heed. 

As it turns out, I'm glad she didn't.

Under the tree, there was a package just for me with a note on it: "J, I will explain these to you later. - E".

Upon removing the wrapping paper, I found several 1st edition children's books. But there were three, all by the same author, Lillian Budd, that grabbed my undivided attention. Because, not only were they inscribed, they were inscribed by the author herself. And not only were they inscribed by the author herself but the notes clearly indicated there was a personal connection between the author and the recipients. Two were to Evelyn's first child who died in early childhood and the third to Evelyn's mother. Turns out, Lillian and Mabel, Evelyn's mother, met and became friends when they were two of the first women to seize the opportunity to enlist in the US military during WWI.

I burst into tears.

I'm serious. I totally did. It wasn't the "ugly cry". But it was damn close.

My reaction was a mite uncomfortable and unexpected for everyone else to be sure.

I'm overly sentimental and emotional. I get that and I totally admit it. But, to me, a collector of both children's books and love through other people's notes, this was like receiving a king's ransom. Not only were they books that fit, by their own merit, quite neatly into my criteria for cherished items, they were also richly endowed - by a few strokes of a pen - with history, friendship, love, and, ultimately, loss. The added bonus was also getting to hear, and become the keeper, of the history behind them.

Today I received the neatest gift I think I have ever received with, perhaps, the exception of The Rebel Witch from my mother years ago. I don't know how to explain it any better about why 3, not particularly well-written books (according to the giver), were so revered by me. 

They just were. 

And now I'll have not only the story behind the books and inscriptions to tell to everyone who will listen but the story of how I acquired them. 

I feel like I'm a part of history.

So thank you, Evelyn. You sure do know how to give a gift.