the voices dying with a dying fall

Who gave me "Mermaid Ave"? It's awesome.

Songs of the hour: California Stars by Wilco, Red Elvises’ My Love is Killing Me

It’s been such a busy few weeks I’m not sure where to begin.Well, I’ve moved. Brian and I, in unfathomable wisdom, took it upon ourselves to move a 3 BR house by ourselves during a southern summer. I could write at length about a weird class of white spiders and how they spawn (and the baby ones die and just wait suspended in their webs for someone like me to come along and slip into a fugue staring at the sheer enormity of their numbers, everywhere, in every imaginable furniture crevice, corner, or handhold while their parents continue spinning and writhing on spindly legs) and other such events that storage units generate, but I’ll spare you. I managed to get through it somehow.

The house is in Cary, in an as awesome location as one could get in Car, given the nature of Cary. Joss than a mile from a park, Joss’ school, a movie theatre, and I-40, it’s nearly perfect—you know, except for the Cary part. It’s great neighborhood and though I feel like a huge hypocrite for making fun of Cary for my entire life and then subsequently moving there, not having to worry about Joss being set on fire by neighbor kids helps me sleep pretty well at night. I’ll post pics when I get my camera out my glove compartment in my car in my dad’s driveway—but until then we’ll have to settle for the street view from google. It has more trees/spiderbreedinggrounds than I would like, but again, managing.

The day after I moved out, my new Chinese step-sister told my dad that she was selling her interest in the restaurant she works at/part-owns, and was moving in with him for a few weeks before moving to NJ where her husband works/lives. And then she did. She moved in with my dad. I think the plan is that her mother, my father’s new wife, is leaving China in November and will be moving in with Anna (step-sister) in NJ. What this requires, though, for INS regulations, is that she has to live with my dad, which puts him moving to NJ too. If you flip back a dozen blog posts or so, you’ll see the frustration and anguish of my putting off graduate school because I didn’t want to leave my father all alone and him refusing to move, saying “I’m 68 years old and there’s still a lot I want to do, and it don’t involve moving.” Everything’s still up in the air, but I hate that he may be pressured into moving to Jersey of all places. Maybe also, I might be a little peeved if Anna gets him to move when I couldn’t—but that’s petty sister business, and I shouldn’t indulge in it. Okay, the surrealness of the situation just won out—what the fuck?! My dad is married and has an entirely new demanding family to deal with. I’m speechless, really. So, we’ll leave it at that, and I’ll keep you posted.

As a side note, my brother is dating someone. I really, really hope she comes from a small family. I can’t even begin to express the enormity of that hope.

A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a coworker about how much I hate the weekly dept. meetings and avoid them whenever I have a remotely plausible excuse, because going to them runs the risk of impromptu public speaking moments. She has similar anxiety issues, and talking about how ridiculous we are, I thought about the extended laundry list of little horrors my social anxiety spells have had on my life: an extra semester of college from dropping classes w/ oral reports on the syllabus; dodging phone calls of people I love dearly; leaving parties 30 minutes after arriving; sneaking out of Sara’s wedding reception (she’ll never let me live it down); untold amounts of money lost to various errors I’ve been too timid to confront customer service people about; procrastinating to mootness parent teacher meetings; and really, living in a cave in general as much as humanly possible. I’m tired of it. So a couple weeks ago I signed up for a social anxiety study. They’re experimenting with a medication already used for other disorders (like bipolar) to see how it works with anxiety. What I’ve learned, is that I really HATE being medicated, but I’m not sure if I hate it more than being a total hermit. I am so frackin’ tired in the mornings I’m not sure how I even get out of bed. By afternoon, I’m okay, but I’m drinking coffee again… which I had mostly given up because it makes me more anxious. What the hell. Anyway, I’m going to see the study through, but the side effects are really annoying—grogginess, difficulty concentrating, and a weird… I don’t know what to call it, suppression, maybe? I don’t get as excited about things I like. On the other hand, I’m not freaking out either. Talking to the docs running the study in that weird psychiatry environment, I feel as uncomfortable and queasy mentally as I would pre-meds, but my body/heart rate is completely relaxed at the same time. It’s a weird dissonance, I guess. I don’t like it, whatever it is, and I can’t wait until it’s over.

I hung out with Amanda this weekend, and she brings up memories that make me wonder how the hell I ever got this way. I wasn’t always this way, right? We looked back at our teenage selves and tracked the things we learned, both the hard way and from each other. She reminded me how lucky we were to have met the people we did, when we did, and I see clearly how lucky I am to still have you all. Eh, I’ll save the gushing gratitude for another time. But damn, the universe dealt me goodness when I was young, more than making up for the bad that slipped through the cracks. Love you guys.

Joss has been experimenting with sarcasm lately, and I have to say, it’s damn annoying. The flippant tone and non-answers make me crazy. It’s only fair, though, given how I crowned myself Queen of Sarcasm for a few years and inflicted it on everyone else—karmically I deserve it. I used to think I was clever, I guess. But I’ve given the nature of sarcasm a lot of thought and, at the ripe old age of 31, I see its latent implications in a different light. I guess I must have thought it created an air of wisdom and street-wiseness (streetwisdom?), like I knew better than to believe in anything because the universe is fixed, against us, and dark, and there’s no point believing in anything (if you know Carmen, you know exactly what I mean). But really, how sad is that? Sarcasm is so easy, you know? To just dismiss. To naysay. To find fault, flaws. Because believing is hard. Hope is hard. Faith is hard. I’m not much for the latter, but I respect the hell out of people who put faith in something. It’s tough—it takes a unique courage and strength to be truly faithful.  Sarcastic attitudes are just a shield against disappointment. I realize that sarcasm can cover a range of attitudes and dispositions, and that answering a roommate’s question from the kitchen “are you still here?” with “no, I just left” isn’t exactly a subtle statement of hopelessness and pessimism, but I trust you know what I mean.

Well damn, I’ve written a treatise on nothing. Third one this year, most likely. I’ll try not to wait so long next time, less time=shorter posts. I do have an ounce of compassion for you, dear reader.

Quick notes. Amanda, stumbled on this and thought of the God/Faith discussion we had—thought you’d like it. And everyone, if you haven’t already, meet the cutest thing of the millennium and send Ms. Sara J. Allen happy restful vibes, because she and Mr. Allen are going to need them. :)

Love.

 

 

 

 

 

9 Weeks Late, but trying

Forever ago, Marco and then Amanda both made lists (here and here respectively) of movies they haven't seen and probably should have, and ones they have they probably shouldn't. I thought it was interesting, and as per my usual sluggishness have just now gotten around to it.
Haven't seen:
1. Deliverance
2. The Wall
3.Wayne's World/ Bill & Ted
4. Jaws
5. The exorcist
6. Grease/ West Side Story
7. Tootsie
8. Full Metal Jacket / Platoon
9. Rambo, any
10. An Inconvenient Truth
11. Special mentions, movies I've seen part of, but never finished for various reasons
    a. Dr. Strangelove (I feel like I might have, but I don't remember a thing about it)
    b. Brazil (started several times, never made it to the end)
    c. Farenheit 9/11
    d. The Crying Game
    e. Mary Poppins

Not having seen these, I have no idea whether or not it's a cultural travesty to go on day to day without these stories bundled up in the Experience that is my life. If you're in some way appalled, nag me and I will add it to The Queue.

10ish Movies I have, perhaps shamefully, seen:
1. The Fast and the Furious / XXX
2. Gothic
3. Alvin and the Chipmunks / 3 Ninjas
4. Dracula 2000
5. Dumb and Dumber
6. Mean Girls
7. Rollerball & Youngblood
8. Armageddon / Pearl Harbor
9. Snakes on a Plane (opening weekend, no less)
10. Striptease (Burt Reynolds in nothing but boxers, cowboy hat, cowboy boots full of vaseline. dear god, make it stop).

I have nothing to say in defense, really, except sometimes you just don't want to think anymore, you know?

I know I haven't blogged in forever. I did one post recently, but I tacked it to The Midpoint while Marco was away inventing drinks in the surf. Another list I'd love to see you guys do-- I think it's very telling.

Anyway. Real post coming soon.

It’s just a life story, so there’s no climax

[*this post was written sunday, but friendster was down for maintenance]

Songs of the hour: Assorted Okkervil and Devendra banhart.

Sorry for the silence. I got really sick last week, spending last weekend in a feverish delirium dreaming of trees growing in the south pole whose branches drooped against the ground so heavy they held the whole world aloft. The ear infection also brought dreams of little lava worms burrowing back and forth from ear canal to throat leaving bright orange tracers in the darkness of the imagined cranial internal. Wasn’t pleasant. It drove me to leave work early on Monday and go to a doctor, something I haven’t done since Joss was born. Few days on antibiotics, and good as new, save a few more scars on the ear canal scar-pile. Three cheers for healthcare, no?

Work is steady as she goes. I still love it. Working with a lot of 70+ elderly, I meet the most fascinating people (an accountant that worked on the federal budget with the Kennedy administration; a McCarthy era NSA agent who served as a Russian translator—he had some enlightening stories to tell. These guys are awesome). I don’t think I’m actually supposed to have lunch with the subjects, it’s not professional or something, but sometimes it just works out that way and I’m not sorry. I love these people.

 I also just finished the 3 day extravaganza of “Clinical Research Coordinator Orientation”, even more boring than it sounds, and talking to the other coordinators about what they do, I see how lucky I am. Half of the research at Duke is sponsored by pharmaceutical companies, and the paperwork involved in those contracts, the insurance company stuff, or God forbid devices instead of drugs… I’m so glad my salary is paid by the NIH instead of Pfizer I practically have a new lease on life. Did you know, that if you have knee issues and qualify for replacement surgery, you can sign up for a knee prosthetic study to save out of pocket costs, and then the doctors will take you in for surgery, put you under the knife, and then may or may not actually put in an implant? If you’re assigned to be a control, you get fake surgery. Fakury. To be fair, I get it. Measuring the placebo effect is necessary. You know going in you may not actually get a knee replacement. At the end of the study, unless the device was somehow harmful, you’ll have the option to actually get it implanted. But still, you know? That’s not really something I want to do. 

 Anyway. My spare time is spent house/apartment hunting. I want to be settled into a new school district by summer’s end, preferably in a neighborhood where the 8 year olds have some kind of adult supervision and not brass knuckles. Closer to Duke would be nice. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, unless $1600 a month is in my price range, which clearly, it isn’t. The most promising thing found so far is in 

Cary

, and I’m staring at the phone willing the owner to call (Call. Call. Call.) currently to no avail. It’s such a hassle. But every time Joss gets hit/knocked down/robbed of something else by the neighborhood terrors, my resolve hardens.

 

On a happy note, the little darling is actually going to get out of the 4^th grade. His new teacher, who I have a mad parent-crush on, has been wonderful for him. His grades have gone up in both math and reading, he’s more attentive, there’s less disrupting—it’s wonderful. He actually said something academically ambitious—he wanted to get an “A” on his Call of the Wild book report. AND he finished the book. Ok, so at least a third of it was read to him, but he did read a lot of it so I need to pay off that bribe to encourage more reading. He’s been doing a lot better lately. I can only imagine what a better environment will do to help him. (Call. Call. Call).

Call.

Okay, honestly, this house hunting business is so distracting I’ve abandoned this post about a dozen times to look through Craig’s list, the N&O, and a plethora of real estate companies. I’m not going to even pretend to be focused on blogging.

One day, I promise, I’m going to think something and then I’m going to tell you about it. Right now, life is all kinds of in the way. I’m also thinking constantly of other people’s weddings and other people’s soon-to-be-born babies and even though I’m not calling you interrogating you about said things, I’m thinking these questions loudly hoping you answer.  Answer.

 

 

 

 

bonded over broken bones

Song of the Hour: Bag of Bones by Owen

I've spent the last hour or so digging through old blog posts trying to find the most recent references to my friend Tom. The way Friendster archives makes it kind of difficult, but by changing the layout to include the last 50 posts (sorry if there's irritating load-time now) I was able to pinpoint it to "I Dreamed of You on my Farm" which was 9/7/06. The reference to when he was really sick was "Insecurious is my new favorite word" on 7/18/06. I mentioned him in the next post a week or so later, and he was better.

I was searching because I was looking for subects at work whose letters had returned. If a subject disappears, we're supposed to look them up on the social security death index website to see if they, you know, died. One of the drawbacks of geriatric research, I guess. I'd been thinking about Tom a lot recently, but haven't seen him in forever, so I bit the bullet and looked him up on it. I found this, and the age is about right, but he's got a rather generic name, so I've been trying to confirm whether or not it's really him. I can't remember if that time I referred to in the
post is the last time I'd seen him or not, with my crappy damn memory. I think the home state issues the death certificate, and I know he was from either MD or D.C... the only thing that doesn't match is the zip code-- his apartment was in a different zip code. Am I grasping? Certainly. I don't know how to confirm, really. His phone
number reaches someone not him, he has a sister in Australia I couldn't begin to find, and it's not like we had friends in common. The obituary I found was a weak sentence long. I just don't know. If that's his record on the SS index, then he died 10 days after I had seen him last.

In my ongoing attempt to decorate my office, I dug through a few boxes looking for pictures. These are the OLD boxes-- the ones I've had in the closet since highschool-- with all the embarrassing letters (my my, we were prolific) with a handful of recent photo packs dumped on top. I found a poem Tom had given me-- all incohenernt about being crazy, anxious, drugged, alone. I think he had given it to me when I still worked at Waffle house on Hillsborough street. I'm glad I had saved it. There's not a whole lot to say really, except that it makes me really sad. Anything else is going to fall into old cliches about how life is short and savor moments together, blah blah blah, the things we all know but always forget until we lose something unexpectantly and then we remember again for a while, and forget again, hypnotized by the rythm of routine that comprises our daily lives. Cherish each other. There. I said it anyway.
I'll miss him.

Moving on, Joss and I had a fun day out yesterday. I dragged him to a couple of used book stores, where i was inspired to bribe him to read The Call of the Wild-- I'll let you know how that goes. We stopped for bubble tea at cup a joe, where Joss managed to hold a conversation about Angel with a stranger (Patrick) which I haven't seen him do in forever-- so that was nice (thanks). We went to Target and bought a new football, and went to the park to play.
When we got to the park, we parked by the basketball court, where about 30 teenagers were playing full and half-court games. Joss looked out the window, and said "I don't want to go here."
I glanced at the courts, and asked perhaps a little too sternly "why not?".
He looked down and mumbled "because they're going to make fun of me."
I turned off the car. "Why would they make fun of you?"
He said quietly, "Because I'm white."
"Sweetheart, they're not going to make fun of you."
"All the kids in neighborhood do-- they call me names. Because I'm white."
"Well, these kids aren't, and I came here to play, so we're going to play."
We walked past the courts to a grassy field, and though the language they used was atrocious, we watched them play for a few minutes and then wandered on. There were 2 kids, around 12 and 7, playing at one of the goals by themselves, and everything else was semi-organized competition. We threw the football back and forth for a while, but Joss kept eyeing the kids his age on the court, and I could tell he wanted to play with them. "You want to play with them?"
"Yeah, but I don't think they'll let me."
I said "come on" and walked around to where they were playing. I'm not going to pretend we weren't being stared at, because we were. When we got to the goal where the younger ones were, Joss whispered "Ask if I can play with them."
"No, sweeite, the last thing you need to do is have your mother ask them for you."
He looked at me defiatantly "I don't care!" Which is cute and somewhat ironic, but he walked onto the court anyway asked the older kid quietly if he could play with them. They started playing, and I sat to watch.

Joss can throw a football, but the kid can't make a basket to save his life. It was cool for a few minutes, but then older kids would walk by, take their ball, shoot it and pass it a few times completely ignoring them, then eventually pass the ball back and wander on. Joss and the other kids got frustrated, but waited it out. I kind of had the urge start an ethnography about he poilitics of public b-ball courts-- it was so fascinating. Anyway, by the time we left he had a made enough of a friend that they played football together. Ordinarily, I try to respect Joss' anxieties, but I'm glad I forced this one. Those neighborhood wretches are having such a bad influence on him. I remember when it didn't even occur to him to describe kids by color. I'd ask who he had been playing with and he'd give me a name, a house number, a shirt or a haircut-- but not a color. And I never asked. Now he's hyper aware that he's white, and therefore different, from the other kids in the area.  Hopefully some of the experiences he has as a minority in these specific situations will give him some insight when he's older about to treat people.

That's all for now.
Love you guys.

One last look at this matterheart

Song of the Hour : The Stranger, Leonard Cohen

Whatever it was I was about to write has been perhaps permanently erased from my memory, completely annihilated by the discovery that Leonard Cohen is going on tour.
Seeing that, I couldn't breathe for like 10 seconds. Then I scanned the venue list and my conniving sanity returned, because I of all people haven't a passport, and right now only European and Canadian dates are listed. Breathe. OK. It says August dates will be listed soon... surely, surely, he'll play somewhere in a 1000... ok 2000 mile radius? Surely he was thinking of me specifically when he designed his tour?

Ok, did a little research, and unless my info is outdated, if you drive into Canada, you don't need a passport. Passports are for when you fly. Plane tickets to Northern US+ show tickets + rental car + hotel + gas +foodandsuch = I don't give a damn I want to see Leonard Cohen. A lot of the shows are sold out and if they're not it's because they're not on sale yet, so I'm going to end up facing the dilemma of do I go ahead and take what I can get, or wait and hope he comes nearer. Those with experience, please advise. I'm going to leave this here for now, else I'll write about it for hours.

In other news, I've finished my first month at work. Everyone I interact with is almost creepily nice; my co-worker time is predominantly spent with Carolynn, the previous coordinator for the study who's moving on to another one, and the Psychiatrist for whom I'm working, Dr. Taylor. Carolynn is a saint, insanely patient with my never-ending questions, and happy with the speed with which I'm learning.  She's got a strong Native American heritage, and is very... Carrboro. She works 10 hr days 4 days a week so she take Wednesdays off to paint (very talented) and meet with her writing group. Dr. Taylor happily discusses Lost theories, also eagerly awaits the April premiere of BSG, and the only sharp word he's said to me has been to make sure I turned in my my one-day-on-the-pay-period timecard, even though it was late, after I offered to just let it go because of the paperwork hassle. Seriously, people. Did I luck out or what? Benefits package rocks, if I were to stay with Duke they'd cover Joss' college tuition (up to 15k a semester),  and there are a zillion little perks I couldn't begin to list. For the first time ever, I don't dread going to work in the morning.

I spend half my time sitting in my office listening to pandora, pilfering through databases organizing reports, entering subject answers to questionnaires,  or contacting subjects to be in the study. The rest of the time I'm taking the subjects  through the various stages of the study-- to the MRI lab, the psychiatrist's office, and soon I'll consistently be running them through 2 1/2 hour memory and cognition tests. Since I'm dealing with elderly depressed people, these tests are kind of stressful to them. Each knows their memory isn't what it used to be, and asking them to repeat 100 word stories verbatim 10 minutes after I've read it to them, tends be upsetting them when they can't do it. I'll have to resist the urge to say "It's ok-- nobody ever remembers the entire story, these tasks are really hard, don't feel like you're failing, please, really this stuff is impossible...." because comments like that can set up a bias, an expectation of failure, that interferes with their results. I just hate to see people suffer, especially when they're already depressed and are going to internalize a stupid memory test into how they somehow aren't worthwhile.

I practiced on my dad last week, warily, fearing to find him slipping, since he's constantly losing things more than the average bear. But dammit, he was spitting out answers faster than I could write them down, kept track of the stories and geometric patterns better than I could, and it was wonderful. When asked to write a sentence, he even wrote, "I love you very much, Jenny" which I think may be the sweetest thing he never actually said to me. That was a nice day. :) (As a side note, I also practiced on Joss, and though his memory is child-like perfect, he really struggles with language production. I was more impressed that he sat still so long).

The only drawback is that I feel like I have zero time. Leaving around 7:45 gets me to work 8:45, and leaving around 5:45 doesn't get me home until about 7. I'm getting into the swing of things, but I'm asleep before 11 now and I feel incredibly old through the whole ordeal. The time change isn't helping. I'd always thought that getting out of school would return to me some kind of social life, but it isn't really happening. I am however getting more time with Joss, and we've been getting along a LOT better than the immediate post-graduation time frame. Perhaps that he's completely kicking my ass on a daily basis at this Tony Hawk 5 business has something to do with it. Makes him feel obligated to be nicer to me after he shit talks through 5 landslide trick-attack victories. Eh, whatever works. He also has a new teacher that is, by far, the coolest and best teacher he's had yet. I think there's hope yet, that he may indeed get out of the fourth grade.

Ever start writing and then just completely not feel like writing anymore? That's me right now. No clue why. So briefly:

1. I have every intention of insinuating myself into Amanda's wedding planning, because should I ever marry, I have every intention of going to Vegas. Vicarious wedding planning is good enough for me.

2. Again, watch the Wire. You know who you are.

3. I have an office. Like, my very own office. This is my first, and I find it wonderful and exciting. Also, I haven't the slightest idea how to decorate an office on a budget, and would very  much welcome ideas. It's small, like 9 x 12 or something, with off white walls, 3 shelves, and an L shaped desk. Help me, it's kind of sad in there.

4. Really really not feeling the writing. Weird.

Love.

Run on for a Long Time

Song of the Hour: Song of the hour: God's Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash

I tried to write a post a couple weeks ago, but I never finished it. At the time, I'd been thinking heavily about the de-contextualization of the individual through global media; the saturation of post-modernism in the superstructure; and general issues of governmentality… basically things I crammed into my head for my cultural studies final exam in December that were just then really starting to take hold on my paradigm. But I never finished it and my mind shifted to full time research stuff, and I fear it's lost in the annals of yesterthought. Maybe I'll get back to it later.

I applied to about 20 research assistant positions over the course of December and January. Eventually, with Sara's help on my resumes and cover letters, I started getting past the HR desk. Finally, a little over a week ago, a man called me from Duke about a job I hadn't even applied for, we set up an interview. I bought a pinstripe suit, tried not to say anything stupid, and 4 agonizing days later he called and offered me the position.

Next Friday I start working as a research co-coordinator in Duke Hospital's Geriatric Psychiatry center. Basically, I'll be scheduling participants, running them through memory and cognition tests, assessing depression with some kind of standardized measurements, and making sure they get to their MRI's and get their blood work done. The study itself looks at factors of depression (and if it's like his other studies, that includes looking at small lesions on the white matter in the pre-frontal cortex). In other words, super exciting stuff. Some of the department's studies overlap, so I'll be doing other stuff for different studies, but I'll mostly be working with this one. (Most importantly, YAYYYYYYYY!!!!! I got a job!!!!!)

During the interview, Dr. Taylor said something that didn't really hit me until I accepted the job. He said that in their studies, they always have more data than they know what to do with, and that I was welcome to use it. In other words, write my own paper. I was on the phone with Dr. Algoe (the researcher I volunteer for at UNC) and I mentioned this to her and she really put this amazing opportunity in perspective. For graduate school, this position is fantastic-- if I'm actually able to pull a paper together, a good one, then getting into a PhD program will be far easier.

Over the course of my illustrious unemployment, I've been spending about 20 hours a week working on UNC research stuff, most of it on campus. (BTW, we're doing a paid study using couples, so if any of you couples in the area feel like making an extra $80, let me know J).  It's an interesting study—this group at UNC studies the role of positive emotions (admiration, gratitude, elation, etc.) which is a refreshing and interesting break from the usual psychopathology. I'm going to keep volunteering there as long as it seems feasible, nights and weekends and stuff. Dr. Algoe is awesome, and the things I'm learning there are really useful. When did I become such a research monkey? I can't believe I'm actually running experiments on people—attaching electrodes and pulse monitors and videotaping conversations. Isn't that awesome?

In other news, my father returned from China, indeed, as a married man. Bit of a cradle robber, marrying a lady some 15 years his junior, but hey, that's how my pops rolls. It's unclear as to when I'll get to meet my new step-mom, but hopefully within the year. He had a good time for the most part, though he was freezing most of the time. Apparently indoor heating is rare in non-tourist China. He wouldn't go ever the types of things he wound up eating, but he still won't go near a bowl of rice. The most amazing thing was hearing my dad use the word "poverty", I think his worldview was effected in a way he can't really articulate. Regardless, I'm really happy he got a chance to spend a month on the other side of the world—I want so much for him, you know? Anyway, I'll try to post pics when I get them uploaded.

Otherwise, I'm obsessively watching The Wire (as should you), and reading whichever books Amanda puts in my hand. I'd just as soon be reading her blog… but as you know she's still on hiatus (no pressure)J. The rest of you have been doing a much better job with your updates, I appreciate that. I just saw a pic of a preggers Sara on her brother's blog, and it made my day.

Eh, this is long and dull. Andy sent me his budding novel to read, my time is better spent there. The monkey's doing ok, I finally have a job, and I miss you people. What else is there to say?

Love.

 

 

 

"The Desperation Out There Is Paranormal"

Song of the Hour: Trouble by Elliott Smith; The Red Walls

I've been a mess this month. Trudging through finals, figuring out how to graduate, waking up and realizing I had like 3 days to do all my Christmas shopping, scrambling to get Joss' gifts together (half of which are already destroyed), going to Kinston to see my brother and his fam (a whole different nightmare), and then helping my dad get ready for a month in China-- it's been busy.

My dad left Friday night, driving to new york with his future (step)son-in-law, and went through a typical  holiday traveling nightmare.  waiting in the airport 6 hours, getting on the plane, some kind of fuel leak, wait another 3 hours in the terminal, get on another plane, the bathrooms don't work or something, get off again, wait for a 3rd plane, get on, leave-- having spent roughly 15 hours on the airport grounds. I think he's at the Great Wall right now, eating holiday fudge made by my godmother. It's soooo surreal I don't quite know what to do with myself. I mean, my dad's in China. Getting married. Does that blow anyone else's mind? It'll take a year for her to move to the states... maybe I'll figure this out by then. Perhaps "My Chinese Step-Mom" will make a good novel.

Christmas dinner at my sister-in-law's grandmother's house was even more traumatizing this year. Oh, in case I didn't mention it, Terry left my brother. By "left" I mean moved in with her mother, who lives across the street. That way my brother can look out the window every few hours at night and see that she doesn't get home until 4 in the morning. I don't think much has been officially filed yet, but it's a matter of time. The boys (12 and 5) are staying with my brother, though they have a time-share going. Christmas morning involved the kids waking up at 8, and my brother insisting that no one open presents until Terry got there. And she showed up at 10. So picture 3 rowdy young boys on Christmas morning having to sit on their hands for 2 hours. It was ugly. Jimmy tried to pass the time by reading the damn nativity story, which of course made it worse. By noon, when we left to go to Terry's grandmother's house, it was tense to say the least.
Terry has like 5 aunts. One of them is the bane of my existence. Loud, outspoken, nosy and domineering. Terry's family gets serious kicks out of what they consider to be subtle sexual innuendo. They literally "rib" each other. They're breathing southern stereotypes, as much as I hate to say it. I've always minded my P's and Q's with these people, because they're not going to go away, you know? But with about 18 people in a 20x20 room, asking my dad about his trip to China and impending marriage, I hear the banal Aunt ask my dad, "You gonna get yourself some sponge baths, Mr. Jimmy? (giggle giggle) This Chinese lady gonna give you some sponge baths?" I snapped. She was maybe 5 feet from me, and I stared at her until she looked at me and I asked, "What the hell is wrong with you?" As much as I HATE making people uncomfortable, I did get a tiny amount of satisfaction watching her squirm and realize that I didn't find her comments appropriate. I ignored her for about an hour, but guilt got to me and I was nice to her the rest of the afternoon. I can only hope there will come a holiday when I don't have to talk to Those People. One year where I don't have to listen to why there needs to be a wall around south Texas, or how a Clinton is an anti-christ. 17 years I've seen these people every goddamn christmas.
Well, at least we didn't have to sing happy birthday to baby jesus this year. No, I'm not kidding.

Brian got me season 1 of MacGyver  for Christmas, and I've been having a lot of fun watching it with Joss. I think he's getting into the science stuff a little bit, which of course makes me happy. He's full of interesting observations-- "Mom, Macgyver kisses a lot of different girls, but he doesn't marry  any of them!" No, sweety, no he doesn't.  I really loved the show when I was little, and it's cool to watch Joss try to figure out exactly what that man is going to do with a bucket, a towel, a swiss army knife, and match to get those gypsies out of prison. It's a kid-friendly show, which is refreshing. There's still violence, but it's manageable.

I've got to see a lot of friends this holiday, though it hasn't been the same without DD. Andy's back from London, I had lunch with Amanda, I got to have lunch with Sara and her fam, and to catch up with Suzy. It's been great. I do wonder what's happened to Chrissy, David K., and Owen-- but I just assume that if they're around they'll let me know.

Andy and I had lunch at my old Waffle house stomping ground. We're half-way into some dissection of the life of Jesus or something, when I happen to get a good look at the cook, and have a freakin' heart attack. Joss' grandmother still works there. My mind shut down for a few minutes. She either didn't see me, didn't recognize me, or didn't acknowledge me-- I don't know. Joss has her eyes-- it's a little scary, really. By the time I worked up the nerve to talk to her, she had left. The doorway to the only half of Joss' medical history I'll ever have, and I can't work up the nerve to talk to her. I don't know if any of you remember her, but she's pretty intimidating. Didn't she threatened to kill me a couple times? I think the last time I spoke her, I had let her babysit an infant Joss. I can't remember what happened after that... I had seen her and she wouldn't talk to me. Damn, this is years ago and my memory is shit. I'm a neurotic mess. I need get over it and just ask her a few questions-- that's not hard, right? The worst that can happen is that she won't talk to me again. I have no idea why I'm so anxious. I just am. Maybe I'll try again this weekend...

As a Joss side note, he has confessed that he is in love with Ms. Miley Cyrus, aka Hanna Montana.

How cute is that?  He says that the age difference (she's 15) won't be a problem. He's very confident. As entertaining as his marrying into the Cyrus family would be, I hope this phase passes soon.

Ok, I'm done. I forgot anything else I was going to tell you.
I'll leave you with some pics, and write again should I remember the rest.

   
usually Joss/Andy rough-housing

My nephews, the matching set.

If I've told you anything about Trent, this one says it all...

My favorite part of this post-grad picture is how Joss' mouth is crammed full of cookies.

Happy New Year!!

There and Back Again

Song of the hour: Closing down my house by Will Johnson

My work is done.
I don't know how I did it exactly, but it's done. All the papers. All the reading. All the scrambling. The last week is a bit of a blur, but I have about 40 pages of written essays to show for it, and few more wrinkles about the eyes. It's now Check For Grades Obsessively Time, which is going ok so far with an A posted for 20th century American Lit. Slightly surprising since I got a B on the midterm. I can only assume that my paper on black masculinity in Beloved was pleasing to my prof. and weighted heavily.

Brian reminded me last night of the moment 4 1/2 years ago in cup a joe when I was looking through the want ads, bitching about how I was never going to get a decent job, when I said "Fuck it, I'm going back to college"  and despite my extreme aversion to paperwork I found myself in English 101 exactly 2 weeks later. 
Four and a half years.
Is that a long time? It certainly feels like a long time. An eternity, really.  In that time I've been to two weddings; made 5 friends I'll be keeping and lost 2 others; raised my GPA from 2.25 to 3.7something; Joss has gone from kindergarten to 4th grade; I've read 28 textbooks 40 novels 17 plays and have written more papers than I could possibly count; I have given exactly 4 oral reports and escaped 6 others; have driven over 20,000 miles commuting; cut open 2 fetal pigs and an octopus; became an atheist, a nihilist, and settled for some abstract existentialism; and I have to say, I have learned a whole hell of a lot.

I want to write more, but I really need to go buy that cap and gown and stuff.
I'll write again when it's official. :)

love.

Pomp us Circumstance

If anyone is interested, my graduation ceremony will be held at The Dean Smith Center at 2:00 on Sunday, December 16th.
Since it's a mid-year graduation, there's plenty of space and there's no need for tickets. It's an hour long speech and then some standing or something, so really, I don't even want to sit through it-- but I'm going to. It certainly isn't anything I'd inflict on my friends, unless they have a deep down love of The Dull or have masochistic tendencies.
My main focus is to show Joss how much fun it is to graduate from college:
"See? Mommy's wearing a funny hat!"

But Andy guilted me into mentioning it, so there. It is mentioned.

I have 7 more nightmarish days in front of me. Tuesday, I have both of my English exams-- at 8 am and at noon. 8 am people. For a 3 hour Shakespeare essay. Followed by 3 hours of Pynchon & Beloved and post-modernism, which I still can't define.

eh. I have 30 more pages to write.
much love...

(please deposit your explanations of Post-Modernism in the comments. Thank you.) 

weary, flat, stale & unprofitable

Songs of the hour: Bullet by Hayden; Portastatic; Summer Hymns.

Other Things I Should Be Doing Right Now:
1. Finishing the last 50 pages of Beloved.
2. Finishing the last 4 acts of Othello.
3. Reading recent publications for my independent psych research project (I've decided on the of the role of gratitude and guilt in religion) for my paper-- which is also the only component of my grade.
4. Writing a paper on either "love/gender roles as defined by Much Ado About Nothing and Othello" or "divine intervention in Othello".
5. Writing a paper on either "Modernism portrayed through Prufrock" or structure in Frost's "Design". (masculinity in Beloved)
6. Catching up on half a semester's worth of reading for Cultural Studies, which includes such exciting topics as "Intensities of Feeling Towards a Spatial Politics of Affect".
7. Starting my cultural studies semester project; in which I'm focusing on Patriotism in Advertising.
8. Studying for finals, which start next week.

That list was more for me than you.
Also, I need to figure out this cap and gown business, because, well, I graduate in less than 3 weeks. 3 weeks. 3 weeks and I finally get to stroll out of the ivory tower and stretch my legs a bit. Wander through the garden of reality and real work, and then amble back in when I've picked a bright enough bouquet and stay there for 5 more years. I'm getting a corner office next time... or whatever passes for a corner in a tower.

It's hard for me to picture a school-less life. No constant GPA calculations running in the back of my head. No 85 lb bookbag with me everywhere I go-- finally laying down the hardback Complete Works of Shakespeare whose shape is impressed into my back. No more nightmares about the zillion pdf's slipping unstapled and mingling out of order in my purse (so so sad). No more all-nighters tracing bird or bee imagery through the works of whoever or comparing criticisms of criticisms of criticisms of Marx to Adam Smith. No more a lot of things.
Instead, I get to cook Joss dinner every night. I get to complain about irritating co-workers. I (hopefully please) get a paycheck. I get time to Call You Back. I get to read what I want to read. And, near the top of my list of importance, I get to sleep. Oh, sacred Sleep, I will build you a shrine of feathery down and dreamcatchers, write you hymnal lullabies and love sonnets of how my heart has grown fonder in your absence.

Granted, there will be much moaning and bitching in regards to job applications and grad school applications and where am I going to get a recommendation and the nightmare of "that's my GRE score?!!" but at least I will be well-rested.
I acknowledge the risk of becoming listless and depressed in that post-college habit of losing the structure and constant near-panic of deadlines, but if I do I'll muddle through somehow. If all goes well I'll have a nice challenging research assistant position to keep me on my psychological toes and I'll keep learning in a way that'll keep my gnawing mind satisfied.

But I have to get there first. I have 15 more days under the cognitive tyranny of UNC to swim through. If I get straight A's this semester, which is highly unlikely, I'll walk out with the 3.75 GPA to which I've sacrificed all that sacred sleep. If not, I'll muster together what I can and try to arrange it neatly on a porcelain plate instead for the consumption of various grad school admissions boards. Maybe a twig of mint or parsley will make the difference.

Anyway, I should tackle something on that list now. I won't be a pleasant person for the next couple weeks; I apologize in advance. Try to bear with me. It'll be over soon....

love.

to start my day

So I've spent like the last hour on the same web page--
Final Meal Requests of death row inmates. I have this weird urge to study correlations between types of crimes and types of meals... it's mostly Cheeseburgers, Fried Chicken, Steak, and french fries-- lots of ice cream. Murder, rape, robbery...
You can click on the profile to see a photo and their crimes, if you happen to find their last meal particularly interesting.

isn't it just fucking weird? That I can do this on Wednesday morning? I can look at the profiles and last meals of executed criminals?
I'm having a moment-- a wtf are we doing here surreality nothing makes sense what a piece of work is man how can everyone be so fucked up and not even know it catch 22 type of moment.

a lot of the guys were 17 when they committed the crime.
some didn't finish middle school.

Chef soup with crackers, chili with beans, steamed rice, seasoned pinto beans, corn, seasoned mustard greens, hot spiced beets, and iced tea killed a cop raped a 3 year old girl looks a lot like patrick warburton, died 23 years ago.

Twelve beef ribs, three enchiladas, chicken fried steak with cream gravy, crisp bacon sandwich, ketchup, a loaf of bread, cobbler, three Cokes, three root beer, French fries, and onion rings former cop/security guard kidnapped and (allegedly) killed a 12 year old boy for ransom money to bail himself out of financial trouble after luring his friends the boys parents away to an Amway meeting, executed 3 years ago.

1 bag of assorted Jolly Ranchers at 17 killed two men over a drug deal, executed 6 years ago.

Cool Whip and cherries shot a 5 year old girl and wounded the parents, executed 4 years ago.

Eucharist/Sacrament shot two girls in their twenties; was employed with Central Texas Crime Prevention at time of the murders.

Six pieces of french toast with syrup, jelly, butter, six barbecued spare ribs, six pieces of well burned bacon, four scrambled eggs, five well cooked sausage patties, french fries with ketchup, three slices of cheese, two pieces of yellow cake with chocolate fudge icing, and four cartons of milk attacked and robbed a married couple, shot the husband (24), raped the wife and then shot her in the head but she survived to testify having lost an eye and suffering brain damage..

T-bone steak (med. to well done), french fries and ketchup, whole kernel corn, sweet peas, lettuce and tomato salad with egg and french dressing, iced tea, sweetener, saltines, Boston cream pie, and rolls poisoned his own son's halloween candy.

you get the idea.

I'm both hungry and nauseated.

I have too much to ramble about this insanity, and a paper to write.
Is it just me? Isn't this incredibly fucked up?

ugh.

The shuffle continues...

Well, Cangrejero threw down another gauntlet... so here it is. Thanks for giving me a reason to take a break! Come on guys, you know this works. Get hoppin'!

Shuffle game rules:

1. Put your music player on shuffle.
2. Press forward for each question.
3. Use the song title as the answer to each question.
4. Cheating optional

1.) Describe your first date.

Shuffle Says: "Girl About Town" by Helen Love

er, um, wow. Ok. Actually, I went to the ice house with Chad, who brought his best friend along, and ignored me the whole time, and was flat out mean to me the second his mom dropped us off. But even then at the tender age of 12, I was already a fallen rock star sleeping under bars. Rock on.

2.) What is your personal religion?
Shuffle Says: "Now That I Know" by Devendra Banhart

You're a genius, shuffle, a genius.

3.) What do you think of your current hometown?
Shuffle Says: "Paint's Peeling" by Rilo kiley

Yes, it is feeling a little dilapidated... perhaps time to shift along a little bit.

4.) What do you feel guilty about?
Shuffle Says: "We Both Go Down Together" by The Decemberists

Lots of ways to take that one, take it as you will. Also, "Everything" would have been an approriate answer.

 

5.) What embarrasses you?
Shuffle Says: "Bad Things to Such Good People" by Pedro the Lion

Yes, I feel embarrassed for the universe, because that too is my fault.
I'm also a black sheep in the fam, being an athiest single mom and all, so this definitely works. could not fly straight to save my life...

6.) What kind of restaurant would you open?
Shuffle Says: "I Can't Move" by Everlast

Absolutely. I would build the slowest drive-through in the history of man, complete with guard rails to keep you from escaping. Teach the lazy bastards to walk inside. Wait, I'm one of those lazy bastards.

 

7.) How do you feel about fall?
Shuffle Says: "Work Hard/Play Hard" by Palace

Highly appropriate for my last semseter. I love autumn-- pretty leaves, strong breezes... wait, it's 85 degrees outside. Nevermind.

8.) What's your greatest fear?
Shuffle Says: "The Bones of an Idol" by The New Pornograhers

nice.

9.) What's your biggest weakness?
Shuffle Says: "As You Are Right" by Geoff Farina

Yes, it's whatever you say it is. Feel free to vote for vices in the comments. Also, cowardice.

10.) What was the last lie you told?
Shuffle Says: "Our Lady of Solitude" by Leonard Cohen

I have zero ideas about this one.Actually, I believe the last lie I told was "No, I'm not mad." Or maybe it was telling Joss he could have a pony. I can't remember.

11.) What's the biggest thing you learned in school?
Shuffle Says: "Hail to Whatever You Found in the Sunlight that Surrounds You" by Rilo Kiley

I would take this to mean a delicate blend of physics and transcendentalism. I would have said something about hoaxy religions or the power of metaphor, but whatever, what do I know.

 

12.) What did you dream your life would be like as a child?
Shuffle Says: "No Joy in Mudville" by Death Cab for Cutie

lol. Well, I think my dreams evolved from housewife, to fashion designer, to theoretical physicist, to photojournalist for national geographic, to novelist. But never did any of these plans involve staying in NC. So yeah, this works.

13.) What was your first serious girlfriend/boyfriend like?
Shuffle Says: "Hope" by Dirty Three

You know, I always think fondly of my first boyfriend. He was a friend of my brothers, and he was the first person to ever treat me like I was smart. He inspired me to think about more complicated issues and he always treated me well. But looking back, he was 19 and I was 13, and really, that's a little bit creepy. But given that this song is instrumental, secretly, shuffle is just keeping it's mouth shut.

14.) What were you doing 10 years ago?
Shuffle Says: "Poppies" by Marcy Playground

Wow. more like 11 years ago, but damn, that hits the mark.10 years ago I was in a sleep deprived haze with a newborn. where has the time gone?

15.) What will you be doing in 10 years?
Shuffle Says: "No More Colleges" by Nathan Asher and the Infantry

Knock on wood. No, really. Do it.

16.) What does a cry for help from you sound like?
Shuffle Says: "Hell No, I Ain't Happy" by Drive-by Truckers

Well, I try to be a simple kind of girl.

17.) What do you buy at Wal-Mart?
Shuffle Says: "Side by Side" by Grant Lee Buffalo

What is that, a lunchable? A jumper for Siamese twins? PBJ? Then again, the songs about haves and have-nots, so, it works in an abstract way.

18.) Describe your personal political philosophy
Shuffle Says: "Left Me for Dead" by Rob Dougan

perhaps "lefty or die"?

19.) Do You like to travel?
Shuffle Says: "Bird Stealing Bread" by Iron & Wine

"I've not seen you lately
on the street by the beach
or places we used to go"

yeah, I love to travel.

20.) How do you feel about your coworkers?
Shuffle Says: "Unwell" by Matchbox 20

I'm not sure which is funnier, that they think I'm crazy, or that I think they're crazy? Either way, it's awesome because the closest thing I have to a job is working in a psych lab.

Post away, kiddies. I want to see your lists!

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift

Songs of the Hour: Trees Lounge by Hayden; Nick Drake, White Sulfur

First of all, I'm sorry I've been so incommunicado.
I've gotten a few messages/emails in the last week or two to which I haven't gotten a chance to respond, or haven't been in the right mindset to respond properly. I did find myself watching two documentaries-- Guys and Dolls, about 4 men and their relationships to their Real Dolls; and the Half-Ton Man, which is self explanatory.
I generally don't watch a lot of films during the semester, having a zillion other things to do, unless it's something I'm doing with Joss. But I stumbled on these online, and my morbid curiosity compelled me (like the power of christ, but different). Ethnographies of sorts for the most part, they emphasize certain human behaviors and psychological processes one might not ordinarily have opportunity to examine so closely... But on a human level, it's really sad. Which leaves me all ruminatory and  thoughtful and socially withdrawn until I can adapt to/internalize the perspectives and paradigms to which I've been exposed.
I think I'm over it now... but I recommend them both, and the links above go to the full film if you have the time/interest. They're about 45 minutes each.

School is steady as she goes. It's midterm time, and I completely blanked out on my Shakespeare test, but hopefully rambled enough to get a passing number of points (which of course means at least a B). Secretly, I'm loving the class. I wrote a paper on "Wombs as Tombs" imagery in Romeo and Juliet, focusing on the foreshadowing language for how they die... I really do love this Literature business.  I envy you guys with the stomach for academia, well, with the balls to teach, at least. I'd be far happier if I had your courage. I'd be content to extol on the beauty of lit to apathetic young minds for a living if I could only stand to address more than 3 people at any given time. So carry on, my loves, and let me live vicariously through you.

When Joss started back to school 2 weeks ago, I made a dry erase chart of the things he needs to do each night in an effort to help him organize his apparently overwhelming amount of tasks. His teacher and school counselor recommended it, and I thought why the hell not?  The first week, my little monkey transformed into a complete angel. He knew there was some money/boons on the line, and he made the unfortunate mistake of demonstrating what he was capable of when he set his mind to it.  He said it was really hard, but his teacher sent home a note saying he  was focusing in class, and for the first time ever, consistently finishing his classwork. This last week was a disaster. Well, he started coming around on Thursday, and did ok on Friday, but the beginning of the week was the usual not bringing home the books he needed to do his homework, and getting negative behavior reports. The "let's start over monday with a clean slate" approach usually works best for him, keeping him from getting too discouraged, so I'm hoping to get back on a productive track next week. Meanwhile, I'm playing phone tag with UNC's psych clinic trying to get his evaluation appointment set up now that I've gone through all the preliminary interviews. I think it's going to be about $750; well worth it if it helps figure out exactly what his issues are.

We saw Transformers last night. I could go on forever about its mixed criticisms and endorsements of the military-industrial complex; the 90 minute Hummer commercial; the glorification of the military, etc. etc. But it also made fun of the faceless president, and showed a few somewhat sincere consequences of violence... all around I don't know how to feel about it. It was edgy for a kid's movie, and a little flat for a grown-up movie, but Joss loved it. Afterwards he asked some really insightful questions, so at least it was thought provoking for him. I dunno how I feel yet. I'll get back to you.

Every day or two, I realize that I'm graduating in 2 months. It leaves me with the mixed feelings of relief, panic, and melancholy. I really, really need to get down to Career Services and figure out how to get the kind of research job I want... but little things, like not knowing where the building is, really slows me down. You know, stupid stuff. I'm also reevaluating the grad school program options. Which leads me to university websites, which makes me crazy. Like stark raving frustrated. But I'm not going to get started on that again because I have another midterm I need to be studying for, and script to memorize. Oh, by script I mean an experimenters script, since I'll be helping to run experiments for my research director for the next few months. Interpersonal communications have never been so exciting... I can't tell you more until the experiment is over, but I'm really enjoying the research assistant stuff. I think, theoretically, when you do the sort of stuff we're doing, us lowly RA's end up somewhere on the list of researchers when the papers get published. Which, if true, looks lovely on grad school apps. Hmm. I should look into that too.

Faulkner calls. Sorry for the most boring post ever, but at least it's something. I'm alive and somewhat kicking. Also, foaming at the mouth. No, I mean it. You know that can of stuff that you use to clean computer equipment? It's like an air power-spray? Well, it's also used for huffing, so some companies put a "Bittering Agent" in it to prevent abuse. Having cleaned my laptop with it, and having not read the label carefully, every time I touch a key it gets on my fingers, which inevitable touch my mouth and this chemical spreads into your sinuses and it DOES NOT GO AWAY and I can always taste it or smell it and no amount of keyboard wiping cleans it off. So, fyi, be warned. Read labels.

drooling bitterly,

love.

To Have Bitten Off the Matter with a Smile...

Good evening, peopleses.

It's been a busy week or two here at casa de locos. School work, mostly; with a hefty dose of domestic troubles-- culminating in a decision I feel is probably unwise, but moreso necessary.

I talked to my research director at length last week, about graduate school stuff. She went to UVA (one of my top choices) and then did her post-doc at UCLA. We talked about the competitive nature of clinical psych programs, and Masters degree alternatives, etc. etc. I was torn. I look ok on paper, though I could certainly use more in the "experience" department in regards to research. Psych departments want good assistants; your PhD is like a consolation for several years of slavery. I could settle for a Counseling degree and get out in 3 years, but a school is far less likely to pay my way, since it isn't research intensive like the PhD is. Not a work horse program.
I've been mulling it over.

Sunday, Joss was outside with 2 of the neighborhood boys-- the semi-ok ones. Foul-mouthed, but not particularly violent. They're in the woods walking, and Joss sees a snake coiled up around a fallen branch. He panics. Now, if it were me and I were ten and panicking, I'd run like a sumbitch.  But not my little monkey. My baby bit remembered back a few weeks when my dad had killed one with a shovel. So Joss picks up a stick, and hits it as hard as he can, going for the instant kill so it wouldn't suffer. This is an important part of the story. Though panicking, he didn't want it to suffer so he tried to kill it quickly. He repeated this 3 times over the course of his discursive narrative.

He wanted to know what kind of snake it was, if it was poisonous.  Perhaps to justify its death.  So he gets a rake (I never did figure out from where)  scoops it up and starts carrying it to a teenagers house who's nice to him and knows something about snakes.  As per the neighborhood MO, he's intercepted by several bastardly kids screwing around at a corner. Who take the snake and start throwing it around.  Someone catches on that it's not actually dead, and they start throwing it on Joss. Repeatedly.  Joss throws it off and they keep throwing it on him, in his face, trying to get it down his shirt, etc. You can figure out how this one goes. Joss backed off down the block, and watched the bastardly kids torture the snake. Dragging it on the asphalt, swinging it against poles, making a gigantic mess of cruelty in short. He went to a nearby house and rang the doorbell and told the police officer that lives there what was happening, and the cop shrugged him off.

Joss comes home crying rips off his snake gutsy clothes sobbing so hard he has an asthma attack which his inhaler doesn't help. I talk him down to where he can talk and curl up with him on a bed and he tells me the disjointed story.  When he's done, I ask questions to clarify details, holding him. He starts crying again, whispering "I didn't want to kill it" over and over and over. It was so quiet I could barely hear it. He was rocking back and forth a little. Poor kid felt responsible for what the other kids did to the snake. I kept saying "it's not your fault" but I don't know if it got through. He eventually quieted down , and went upstairs and played games with Brian. The next morning he was back to his usual self, in trouble by 9 am.

But that was the last straw for me. I want to get him out of that neighborhood more than anything. More than keeping him in arms reach of my dad.

So, when I graduate in december, I'm taking time off. I'm going to try to get a  Psych field job helping with some kind of research, hopefully gaining enough experience to ease my way into Duke or back into UNC. In the back of my mind, I'm worried that I'll never go back. I'll procrastinate until I'm old enough to retire. But postponing my grad school apps will give me year and a half to focus more on Joss, and the financial flexibility to get us into a good neighborhood. I can't take it anymore. I think my 10 year old kid's got a mild case of PTSD. This is unacceptable.
In case I didn't mention it, he's also borderline failing his grade. That parent teacher conference was a nightmare. About biting the ADHD bullet, I called the UNC clinic, and it seems a clinical evaluation is somewhere between $700 and $2000 dollars. Luckily, I had set some money aside to visit Andy in England after graduation (oh, uh, Andy, btw, I think I'm gonna have to postpone my trip :) ). So, I think this is a somewhat lengthy process, but of course I'll let you all know how it goes.

For happier news, my dad's 68th birthday was Saturday. I got/had to see my brother and his family... endearing as they are. We had dinner at the chinese restaurant where my father has been adopted, where my future step-sister works. I think he had a really good time, though honest to gods I think my brother and I were encroaching on the party the staff was trying to throw him. Anyway, I love the mural in the room we were in, and couldn't resist taking a dozen pics of my dad in front of it. These are my favorites:

Anyway, that's all for now. Everything else in my head revolves around Shakespeare's history plays and prufrock's anxiety and regrets. I'm feelin' it today for some reason. Something about moments flickering.

love.

Succumbing to Hegemony

Songs of the Hour: Wilco, Reigning Sound

Oi, what a week.
School started Tuesday. I have now managed to make it to each of my classes, and I can tell I have a hell of a semester in front of me. The research assistantship for the psych lab I signed up for is going to be incredibly time consuming. Fun, challenging, educational... but time consuming. So far, I haven't had much time to do anything else.

Before us lowly assistants can start looking at real data, we have to study for and take an ethics test. This is a 5 hour process, that had to be done by this morning.  I've never cheated on a test in my life. I'm not sure I'll ever really wrap my head around the irony of midnight last night, finishing the last 2 modules, where I sat flipping between browser pages looking at the information and the test alternately, filling in the little circles and passing the course.  Now, there are no instructions demanding that these hypothetical situations or history questions be answered purely from memory. But as a general rule, I try to navigate through life using fairly legitimate methods. Last night, however, it could be argued that my first, and last, experience with cheating was on an ethics test. Well, if you're going to do it, do it right I guess.

My other classes are Shakespeare, 20th Century Literature, Terrorism, and Practical Cultural Studies.  The last requires a 20 minute presentation, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do about it. I need all of my classes except Terrorism in order to graduate in December, but hell if I'm giving a 20 minute presentation by myself. It took a lot of drugs and alcohol to get through the last presentation, and I had a partner. I just can't do that again. So, that's pending.

Aside from the aforementioned stressors, I'm having a blast. Christ, I love learning. My favorite lessons this week were how Nelson Mandela was a terrorist; and learning that Hegemony isn't what I thought it was; it is instead the word of which I've always dreamed.  One of those obsessive thoughts, those concepts that lurks in the back of my mind seeking vocalization, seeking a name, has found one. I know it has a variety of meaning in different contexts, but "Ideological Hegemony" is the ticket. It's like paradigm with power structures. mmmm. Hegemon. Like digimon or pokemon but different. Hegemony. Finally. Expect me to work it into every conversation I have for the next 3 weeks. You've been warned. Hegemony.

I had one of those moments in 20th Century Lit today that have run like exit signs on the highway of my English degree. In discussing differences between Modernism and post-Modernism, in how Frost and William C. Williams fit the ambiguous Modernist definition in different ways, in the elements of alienation, I had the tell-tale thought: "What a load of bullshit."
In some analysis of writers feeling "alienated from the self" as opposed to "alienated from society", my prof went on this Freudian-based tangent of dreams and identity and having not knowing oneself and ultimately, divided an individual into various sub-parts with the capacity to look at each other without recognition. Now, I'm going into clinical psych for chrissakes. You'd think I'd be patient with these sorts of metaphors and perspectives. But they get under my skin like few things can. If you don't encourage people to break themselves down into sub-parts, into parts of a collective and say there are some aspects one can't ever know, well, then there isn't much to be alienated from.
I adore TS Eliot. Prufrock's Love Song is my favorite poem. I get the idea. But it was soooo academically self-absorbed somehow. Seriously. We are given expectations of how we should live and feel, and it rarely works out as prescribed (by the Ideological Hegemony) and we experience a cognitive dissonance that makes us unfulfilled and unhappy.  There are lots of ways to describe the same emotional phenomenon. I'm not unreasonable. But 45 minutes of an in-depth discussion about the interaction of metaphorical sub-parts of a human being , well, makes me want to throw myself from the ivory tower in a giant ball of flame.  What luxury we have to spend our time this way.

Ok. All done. I need to write Joss' teacher and try to set up a meeting with the school counselor. Some one, I won't say who, is apparently not doing ANY of his classwork, and getting homework done is like pulling teeth. From an infant. I'm gonna bite the ADHD bullet and see what's going on with an actual diagnosis. It's that, or he repeats the 4th grade and graduates when he's 20.
Wish us luck.

love.

My Chinese Stepmom

It came to my attention during DD's visit, that I haven't shared one of the more interesting developments in the Bridgers' homefront with you. Really, I can't believe I haven't posted it-- maybe I just told everyone? Who knows. Here's the story:

My dad eats at the same Chinese restaurant almost everyday. My father, being a sociable person, got to know the waitresses. All of whom are Chinese, only half of whom are here legally. Soon, he was doing little favors for them-- taking a few of them to the market,   taking them to the mall-- whatever.
After a few months, this woman "Amy" has a serious conversation with my dad. In short, her two kids are in China with her mother (remember, only allowed one kid in China). The only way for Amy to get her kids, or so she believes, is for an American to go to China and marry her mother and bring them all back. Even then, she says it'll take 18 months for them to get here.
My dad brought this up almost a year ago, kind of a joke. He said someone offered him a free trip to China. I told him he should go. He blew me off. He brought it up again later, this time getting into more of the details, and I told him he should do it, that I've always wanted a Chinese step-mom. He blew me off again, and said my mom would roll over in her grave. I left it alone.
He brings it up AGAIN last week. I've had enough, and tell him for the love of god, go get that poor woman's children and stop making her wait while he waffles about it. It's been a year already, and it'll be another year and half before anything comes of it. That's more than 3 years for Amy, without her children; and them without their mother. I speculate about what mom would do to keep Joss and I together, and how I'm sure she'd understand this other woman's dilemma. It's not going to cost my dad anything, except a ring. And he gets to help these people. I don't care, my brother won't care, just pick a day to leave and do it already and stop chewing on it.

The next day he came home and said he was leaving January first. Now, I'm expecting him to change his mind about 5 more times between now and then. But I'm hoping Amy (from what I understand, her family is wealthy back in China) will go ahead and get the tickets and lock him into this. I know he wants to do it, but he keeps hesitating thinking of me and my brother. I think this whole issue is so complicated he's only got a 50% chance of success anyway, so he may as well try. The immigration people aren't joking about this stuff. It's gonna be hard. But a 67 yr old widower looking for a Chinese wife-- what, is that freakishly odd or something? Doesn't sound nice, but it sounds plausible. I think he should do it.
and no, I'm not making this up.

Love.

Camera Obscura

Again, friendster's a pain in the ass for posting multiple photos, so for Joss' b-day pics  you're gonna have to hop over to myspace. Sorry for the clicking inconvenience.

Cross-cultural eating restrictions

I only have a few minutes, but I have to share one of those classic moments that fell upon us last night.

We all went out for dinner, and I was behind Joss in line at the Mongolian grill. He was piling some raw pork on some noodles, and he dropped some pork on top of the beef in the next container.

"Joss, pick that up and put it back. Some people eat beef, but not pork. You wouldn't want them to put it on their plate by accident. It's might be against their religion."

"I know. Lesbians. Lesbians don't eat pork," he says knowingly, offhandedly.

I stared at him blankly for a second, awed. "Wait, you mean Muslims?"

He moved on to the pineapple. "Yeah, Muslims and Lesbians."

I debated for a minute, and concluded that the Mongolian food bar was not the place to interrogate Joss as to how exactly it is he defines "lesbian". I couldn't keep a straight face about it through dinner,  so I just didn't bring it up again. I'll get to it this afternoon, when I can be composed and mature about it. I'll let you know what he says.

more tomorrow.

and her words were few and small

Songs of the Hour: It's unquestionably a Leonard Cohen day.

On my way out the door 20 minutes ago the latest in the I'm-moving-and-so-are-you saga occurred. This one has left me weak and teary-eyed. I hate to be redundo-girl and I know you're dreading the next 75 installments of the saga; but so am I and I'm just absolutely at my wits end.

Thursday night I took home a list of every Clinical PhD program in North America and showed it to my dad. I'm willing to work with him on choosing where to apply. He asked a zillion questions about how things worked but was otherwise kinda quiet. My top choice is now UVA, UNCG is my "safety school", and I wouldn't mind going to Temple (PA) and of course if you twisted my arm I'd settle for Duke.

Tonight my dad relaid out the plan where I go to school and he takes care of Joss until I graduate. 

-Daddy I'm not leaving Joss. We've been over this.
-Honey, the second you take that boy outta here my heart's gonna break.
-I know daddy, that's why you have to move with us. We'll find you somewhere nearby. You've been wanting to sell the house anyway. What's wrong with buying a new one in Virginia?
-I'm 67 years old.
-So?
-There's still a lot I want to do. And it don't involve moving.

I didn't have much to say to that. The look on his face when he spoke of his age was rending. I wasn't prepared for such a frank and imploring admission of mortality. Not from pop. Too humbling for both of us. But there is was-- pale and pleading blue eyes nestled in a face of stoicism. I have no idea what to do. Seriously.
The only way out is to get into Duke. I just can't commute to Greensboro again. I don't think he's going to budge. And I cannot leave him alone. This just sucks.I know I've always been a Daddy's girl, but this is beyond that. My dad's insanely lonely as is, and to take Joss out of reach is too cruel for me to live with. Alright, moral crisis stated and rehashed beyond tolerable limits. Enough of that.

Joss has been at camp, and he got back yesterday. He came home sunburned and exhausted and slept from 4 pm to 9 pm. Then, of course, he was wide awake. He woke up wanting to watch Star Trek, which we watched in his room until midnight, when I was literally trying to prop my eyelids open. He talked me into sleeping on his bottom bunk.

I had one of those moments. Whether it's due to exhaustion, or genuine bizarreness, I had one of those 40 minute blocks that feel so surreal the whole question of life and what we do with it, or what we're doing here, or whatever questions plague you in the surreal moments, hung in the very subtext of the silence.
The time between midnight and one was spent staring up at the bottom of the top bunk, answering Joss' 247 questions about The Borg (a star trek villain). How do they work, what are all those wires, what's the big deal, how come if Picard could have surgery to stop being a borg, why couldn't all the others? Why did that one borg have a name? What's a Hue? Isn't it "Hugh"?  And then I'm explaining the difference between the android Data and his brother Lore, and what those words mean and how their names are reflected in their different personalities. And then it's science and technology and magic legends like werewolves and vampires and where they come from and how people believe in things that aren't real because they're scared of them. It was exhaustive. I guess what made it really surreal was how my dad was awake, and playing hymns on the harmonica the entire time. Not little melodies mind you, but professional style (if there's such a thing) harmonies and these complicated weavings and medleys from one to the other where he manages to elicit full symphonic levels of music from this tiny 7 inch peice of metal.  Does that sound surreal? Well, it was. And let me tell you, bunk beds aren't nearly as cool at 30 as they were at 10. Is my exhaustion showing? My exhaustion's showing. Sorry, let me tuck that back in.

I have Joss' B-day pictures, I'll post them when Brian gets back from Hawaii with my camera (lucky bastard). 

I'm getting my delirium outta here. Thanks for the patience with the redundancy. Next post will (hopefully) be better.

love

The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light

  Songs of the Hour: Moby Porcelain, some Mazzy Star

I fell asleep last night with words marching through my head in unit formation. Apprehensive, apprehended, prehensile, comprehensive, reprehensible... I woke up this morning and they were still there, but in a single helix spinning like pinwheels, hinged on "prehen". Just… spinning. Glowing blue times-new-roman twirling in closed-eye darkness. What do these words have in common? To grab, maybe. To hold.  I think about this sort of thing constantly, in the background, and ultimately I'm never certain. Obsessive? Perhaps. I got so obsessed with "hap" I actually bothered to look it up. Hap. Hapless. Happy. Happenstance. Mishap. Haphazard. It happens to mean luck, fortune, or chance. Oh. Of course it does. It's obvious now. That makes sense.

 

I had to know.

   

 It's one of the things I love about Japanese (and subsequently Chinese) [sequence, consequence, subsequent, sequel… nevermind. Inconsequential].  You have a kanji character that has a meaning, and probably several different ways to pronounce it, but the meaning is modified by the other characters in the word. Just like the Greek, Latin and German roots of English words are modified by the prefixes and suffixes around them. But there are only so many pre/suf-fixes in English. In Japanese, everything revolves around combinations [evolve, revolve, revolution, volume, convolute, volatile, volunteer]. The combination of meanings is crucial [I'm resisting the power of "crux"].  

   

 My personality professor implied to me an email, kindly, that I was obsessive. As obsessive as he was in college. I had written something about seeing cross-disciplinary patterns in the things I learned. How history, science, art, math and literature are all interdependent through time.  I take it for granted how obvious this is, but he took the opportunity to imply obsessive tendencies [tend, pretend, attend, tender, tendon, intension, intensive, detention]. I suspect we're both right. Ultimately, a lot of what I see is science shaping paradigm and how it manifests in all the other areas, but the power of metaphors shaping science is also pervasive. It's in the terminology. Stem cells. String Theory. Metaphor is the very foundation of cognitive science and artificial intelligence. The solar system as a model for the atom. And working the other way, damn near anything can be put on a graph. These metaphors aren't always accurate, but the dominant use of them, to me, is wholly indicative of the way humans think.

   

I'm not exactly sure what it is that I would say I'm obsessed with. I could argue that it's metaphor. But that's not quite right, it's something beneath metaphor. It's the concept beneath, one thing representing another. Or perhaps, as with the linguistics, it's simply a matter of what things mean outside of their symbols. What words mean. How we communicate. How phrases like "You don't have to rub my nose in it" come to common use. Obviously, it comes from house-training puppies. But when you say it or hear it, are you thinking about puppies? Probably not. It's a concept of blatantly reminding one of one's mistake. But how often do you say "stop reminding me of, and punishing me for, my mistake"? As I "cut" and "paste" this post from Word to Friendster and Myspace, will I give the terminology, and its implications about how the species conceptualizes, a second thought? Should I?

   

 
Perhaps I'm just trapped in a cycle of deductive and inductive reasoning. Deducing core meanings and applying them in generalizations to humanity at large in an effort to better understand. Perhaps I'm thinking about twenty separate things at once and getting them all muddled up together. Roots and meaning and metaphor and human processing. I'm obsessed with gesture. What your fidgeting during a particular conversations indicates about you. I'm obsessed with the power of a peculiar glance. I'm obsessed with Wing Biddlebaum's hands. I'm obsessed with your word choice, and what it implies about your values and schemas. I'm obsessed with the analysis of implications. And currently, I'm contemplating what that obsession indicates about me [Indicate, predicate, predict, indict, verdict, vindicate, syndicate, dictator, contradict, addict, benediction]. Ok. Enough.

 

 

 

Joss went fishing with my dad this week, and we took some time to clean before they left. I put hundreds of dollars worth of toys in a box labeled "free toys" on the curb and hauled everything else to the trash. It was a lot to get rid of. Ten years worth of accumulation of buzz lightyear dolls and happy meal toys. I was surprised Joss was willing to let it all go, keeping mostly just transformers and magic kits and little kid-science things. "On Turning Ten" is haunting me as I write this. Four days away. Jeesus.

   

I had my dad's truck while they were out of town, so I took the opportunity to put a few things in storage. I looked at all my mom's expensive antique porcelain dolls, her life-size Raggedy Anne and Andy dolls (orphans, just like my brother and I, that's why she liked them—they represented the two of us), the 3 foot stuffed Little Orphan Annie (same principle), and a fuck-ton of silly antiques that have crowded an already overpacked house. The antique butter churn, the glass-top wagon-wheel-on-a-barrel table, the four-hundred pound wrought iron safe, wrought iron sewing bench, the antique "ice-box"  full of Joss' books and art supplies. 85% of our furniture is antique, and half of it so old I'm scared to put a glass of water on it lest it crumble. Secretly, I hate it. Every bit of it. I always have.

   

I started thinking about what these things indicated about my mom. It paints an easy portrait of a woman from a small town who grew up poor and when she came into her own, wanted to populate her home with expensive things. She was a romantic in her way, antiques heralding back to an idealized past of privilege and class, traditional family values and gender roles in her choice of dolls and the zillion cross-stitched pictures on the wall—half of which she actually did, the other half paid for, and paid to add my mom's initials to the bottom where she humbly took credit for the masterpieces of my and my brother's stitched in portraits. She was insanely sentimental. Little poetry books "From a Mother to her Daughter" full of fluffy monosyllabic iambic pentameter are stuffed into every antique drawer beside permutations of "Chicken Soup for (some poor bastard's) Soul". Taking it all in, I think the person she wanted to be was the type of woman you can only find in "Touched by an Angel" reruns or old country novels about rural southern gentry.  

      

It doesn't say as much about who she was, as it does about who she wanted to be. But that's definitely worth knowing, maybe even moreso. Isn't that how we'd all rather be remembered?
 

 

I don't know if this analysis was a result of my usual obsession, or an afterthought related to one of Marco's posts, but it's lengthy and detailed and I'm going to spare you the rest because I love you all and it's probably awkward to read about. And for the love of the gods, this is long. Well, Amanda, be careful what you wish for. J You've got 3 weeks worth of gibberish to pilfer through.

Outside of my incessantly churning head, I've spent a couple more weeks playing spades and looking at grad schools. I had one job interview, with those who Didn't Call Back probably due to my unnecessary honesty, and one interview for an unpaid research assistant position next semester that went pretty well I think. I'll know next week. The rest of my time has been spent with the baby biscuit, and seasons 1 and 2 of Battlestar Galactica, the commentary on which will just have to wait. Because I love you. And you've been listening to me too long already.
 

 

Love.

Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase

Songs of the hour: Starman by David Bowie, assorted Liz Phair

I have finally managed to put the cards down and focus on life a little. I spent yesterday afternoon researching grad schools-- and  I say again, University websites are the bane of my existence. They tell you nothing.

I've decided (as much as I decide anything) that I'd rather go into a PsyD program than a PhD program. The main difference is that the PhD prepares you for research as well as practice, while the PsyD focuses on practice. It's also about a year shorter on average. The problem is, there are far less PsyD programs out there. Looking at ranked universities, Widener in Philadelphia seems to be one of the best. The the others are in MA, NJ, MI, IN, CT, CA and there's one in VA at The College of William and Mary. Point is, none of these are in NC.

It's not that I'm averse to moving. I just can't imagine leaving my dad all alone. I brought up the subject yesterday in a roundabout fashion, somewhere along the lines of  "So daddy, how do you feel about moving to Philadelphia?"  He stopped what he was doing and stared at me,  in one of his characteristic eternal pauses, "Not so good."
"Dad, I don't want to leave you here alone."
I explained the situation and his immediate response was, "Well, you on to where you need to go and do what you got to do. We'll be fine here." Meaning of course,  him and Joss. 
"Daddy, I'm taking Joss with me."
"No you're not either."
"Dad, I'm not leaving him for years. When I move, he moves with me."
Long pause.
"Jenny, I can't get along without that little boy."
"I know it. That's why you're moving with us. So where do you want to live? Philadelphia? Massachusetts?"
"Naw, it's cold up there."
"What about Alabama? or Florida? You tell me where you want to live, and I'll work something out. There's just nothing here. Not in NC."

He started playing the harmonica and I let it drop. But I've planted the seeds of his uprooting, I need to give them time to take hold. I really don't know what to do. Given the choice between skipping out on grad school, and forcing my dad to live out of Joss' reach, I'm skipping school. I don't think I could leave Joss and be content flying/driving back on weekends. Of course there are a zillion financial considerations no matter what happens, and I have no idea what kind of schools I'll even be able to get into, and the whole goddamn thing's sketchy as hell to me, but this is the biggest hurdle. I'll have to see how he "figures" it.

On a different note, I would like to share with you my latest discovery. Here we have Vojo's citrus energy mints. Sugar free, contains some amount of vitamins  caffeine, and comes in this sleek box. Very exciting. But when I opened it, lo and behold, it revealed itself to be the ideal, cutting edge cocaine carrier that it is. Not only does it contain a nice amount of space convenient for any shape substance, it also has a mirror inside the lid. Obviously, I do not involve myself in narcotics of any sort. however, I can't help but wonder what other purpose such a mirror  would serve in such a container.
   

The mints themselves, being a connoisseur of mints, are a little tart  and have that bitter vitaminy aftertaste. I, however, love them. They taste just like baby aspirin. And when I was a child, I loved baby aspirin.

Actually, I ate half a bottle of baby aspirin once. I had just watched that cartoon "The Littles" about little people about the size of mice that lived in walls and had to hide all the time so that no one found out about them. There was an evil man  that suspected their existence and was always hunting them. Anyway, that episode, they were doing a don't do drugs thing and the immediate danger of some kid who was on the verge of doing some kind of drug was enough to make the littles REVEAL THEMSELVES to the kid to talk him out of it. I may be misremembering, but I think that's the gist of it. So I, in my tricky 8 year old cleverness, went back to my room with a bottle of baby aspirin and narrated loudly and at length what I was about to do to an empty room. When I had finally consumed half the bottle in slow, dramatic, narrative gestures, I finally concluded-- what's that? You think I concluded that they didn't exist? Don't be silly. Of course they exist. I concluded that they didn't care if I lived or died.

what a brat. my god.

love.

You Snooze You Lose, I Have Snost and Lost

Song of the Hour: I Hear the Bells by Mike Doughty, assorted Okkervil River.

Due to a recently reborn spades addiction, I have been unavailable for comment. If you would like to wave at me, I can generally be found at pogo.com nilling some poor unsuspecting Canadian retiree to death. I have a problem. It's not gambling, but you do win lottery prizes and of course there's your all important ranking system. Who needs to research grad schools or study for the GRE? There hands to be played, dammit, and if i don't play them, who will?

It's nostalgic, really. Spades, and Suzie's porch are forever linked. Gin and Kool-aid (what was wrong with us?), and the meth lab next door (what was wrong with everybody?). I've spent more time chatting with online spades partners than I have the people around me. I can only hope I grow bored with it soon.

I bowled a 125 today. Which isn't stellar by any means, but it's my best since class started. I've found bowling to be as much a lesson in anatomy as in physics. By pulling different muscles everyday, I get to learn about muscle groupings and the length and breadth of each. This is high quality, hands on education that I couldn't have come by at an earlier age. Thirty is still young, but bowling didn't feel like this at twenty, that's for damn sure.

Wow. I seriously have nothing exciting to report. It's all spades and bowling alleys and Joss. And Star Trek TNG. We're on season 3 now, and I feel this bizarre mingling of guilt and pleasure as Joss gets more and more interested in it. I subjected him to Harry Potter, LOTR, Star Wars, X-Men and now Star Trek with equal dedication. It's as though I'm going out of my way to shape a bona fide geek, such as I am. I even got him to watch the D&D cartoon that I watched growing up. Should I feel guilty? You can't force someone to like something. As much as my parents tried to force me to like more "normal" things, the influence of wanting to please them only went so far. I think Joss genuinely likes the sci-fi/fantasy stuff I throw at him... I hope so at least. I hope he isn't just trying to please me. Last night he was very insistent that we watch the next episode, and completely without prodding. He obviously doesn't get all the science jargon, of which there is a copious amount if you've never watched the show, but he wants to watch it anyway. I don't know, should I feel guilty? I guess he'll grow out of it soon if he's only doing it for my sake. I stopped watching all the sports/wrestling crap that my dad and brother watched when I was about his age. It wasn't worth it anymore.

I also spend about 7 hours a week playing Joss' new favorite video game, Jak III. It's like this weird cross between Road Warrior and Sonic the Hedgehog where you're fighting a losing war against an army of powerful machines fueled by "dark ego" and you have a series of missions to accomplish that are fairly difficult. I've never been so interested in the actual story of a video game before. It's kind of dark at times, you're wondering through a town and there are raids by the enemy and your character mumbles "we've already lost this war"  when the battles are over, even though you won. I was skeptical at first that Joss would, I don't know, "get it"-- but one of the allies says some really harsh things about "acceptable losses" that has spawned some interesting conversations between us. Insights into human nature come from the strangest corners I guess. Regardless, it's something fun to do together. And since Joss is doing his "end of grade" testing all week, he doesn't have any homework.
let's see how this "no child left behind" thing goes.

Alrighty. Time for one more spades tournament before I meet the jossling's bus.
I really, really hope I get bored with this cards thing soon. It's worse than The Sims.

love.

Birdsong

You can't post videos on friendster, but for one of the coolest things I've ever seen, tied up in a 4 minute video, go to my myspace blog and watch it.

Forced to kneel in the mud next to me

Song of the Hour: Crazy by Gnarls Barkley
                                    Assorted G's from Grandaddy to GLB

So, in all this silence, I'd like to tell you I had accomplished great things. Joined Greenpeace, or signed up as a Cancer research assistant, maybe even picked up roadside litter. But no. That would be lying.
I spent last week watching 3 seasons of Veronica Mars so I'd catch up in time for the finale on Tuesday. Which I did. Which has left this gaping VM shaped hole in my life. The other shows I've watched from beginning to end-- Buffy, Angel, X-Files, Star Trek TNG-- had all known they were canceled in advance, and thus provided an ending. VM didn't, and left its fans with a tricycle-tassel-full of hanging threads. I'm not going to rant too much, but it was VERY, VERY DISAPPOINTING. More disappointing than Carnivale. More disappointing than the Matrix trilogy. More disappointing than finding out that Howie Day was dating Britney Spears. Very, Very Disappointing.

I've started summer school, and my intense, high stress, 4 day a week Bowling class is up and running. There's a science to Bowling, and I am its mad scientist. There is a textbook. There are angles and linear fulcrums and slippery soled shoes. There is form, force, tilt, and balance. There are balls and pins and gutters. For the low, low price of $220, you too can bowl 4 hours a week with teenagers dressed in stylish NCSU fashion wear; you can listen to the instructor use titillating military jargon as you attempt to "deliver" the ball and "execute" a strike. You, too, can escape having to take the only remaining available PE at UNC, "Lifeguard Training" by stealthing your way into another university's summer program. You, too, can benefit from my genius.

In other news, the social overload from my last post left me in a cocoon of anti-sociality that I have yet really to shake. I did take some time to finish a short story. It's not good for anything other than an exercise, but it was nice to finish something on my own that had nothing to do with school. Andy has determined that we will both get published somehow somewhere this summer, and his enthusiasm is infectious so I'm on board. It demands a level of courage to which I'm not accustomed, but I'm trying.
As a testament to my growing pro-activity, I managed to overcome my overwhelming and overwhelmingly bizarre social anxiety last week, and took care of a problem I've put off forever. 2 1/2 years ago I joined a gym and signed a 1 year contract. The next day I fucked up my back trying to lift a 6x12 Uhaul trailer at a bad angle, and didn't go back to the gym. Eventually months passed, and honestly I was just too embarrassed to go back in general for not having gone at ALL, so I never went back. The gym auto-renewed my contract for a second, and then a third year, so that I have now spent $500 on a membership I never even picked up my card for.Why didn't you just go by there and talk to them about it, you say? Why, because I'm retarded, of course. That kind of confrontation is the bane of my existence, and in my screwy mind it was worth the monthly fee just to avoid it. So I did. But something possessed me the other day, and I drove straight there and went in and was as nice as I could possibly be and worked it out. Of course, it was a piece of cake and I feel ridiculous for having put it off for so long, but well, that's how I roll. Point is, score 1 for pro-active me.

I have a Joss story I wanted to share, but it's going to have to wait. Now that schools out we've been spending a lot more time together, and it's been a little rocky. I think the child genuinely believes that the word "No" means "Ask again in a either a more demanding or more pleading tone". It's very, very frustrating. Anyway.
We went outside yesterday to toss a football around, and I was shocked at how good he was. He throws straight and the ball does that twisty spirally thing.  The last time we went to the  park (last summer) to play he didn't want to catch it because it hurt his arms and he'd curl up and duck when I threw it to him. I don't give a damn about sports really, but he'll get no end of torture if he employs the duck-and-hide strategy playing with other boys; so I tried to coax him out of it but he got mad and stopped playing. But he seems to have grown out of it now, and says "Watch this mom!  I'm the all time QB!" every time he throws. I have no idea what that means exactly, but he's determined to be a quarterback. Except when he misses. Then he says "I'm really a soccer player, you know."
What a goof. Well, at least he won't get beaten senseless during recess for cringing. What the hell am I gonna do when he tries out for a varsity team? Have a heart attack, I guess. My kid the football player. Jesus. Well, they're his knees, his choice. :)

Ok, enough for now. Sorry for lameness of post. I think the interesting part of me died during the VM finale. Ah, Logan, I'll miss you so.

The memories fire, the rhythms fall slow

Song of the hour:  Mojo Pin by my baby Buckley via jukebox. Not my quarter. Never my quarter.

    I'm surviving social overload.
    I've been to 2 parties this weekend, which is 2 more than the last 3 months; not to mention being already jaded from "Tuesdays with Andy" at Mitch's with even more social contact... the kind that involves loud explicit sexual content that makes me cringe as it echoes.

    Marco's birthday was a success, in that he's now 30. The party, too, was fun. It was more matur