Wine and cheese alert

Right now, at this very moment, I feel like I don’t know which life to lead. There’s broken leg life that still hurts from OCTOBER 2*!7. There’s fibroyalgia life. Library life, which doesn’t treat me like I deserve. Retail bookseller life, which is rotten to the manticore.

Each of those pull me in the bad direction. I’m trying to pull the good directions to me. Hula hoop life. Family. My awesome husband. They’re all there. They play a huge part in my life, but the things that hurt take up so much regurgitated brain space in my life that I get bounced around a lot.

I like pinball, but I’m not good at it. I always get the worst score and hit the lamest extra points possible totally by accident. I feel like pinball. I guess, though, that my bonus points are amazing, not loser-riffic.

Life hurts still. I’m not weighing under the oppressive cloud of depression like I did for so many months, but doing what you gotta do to get by maybe isn’t my thing. I don’t think the government has support programs for people like me—people too difficult to work hard enough—but the pinball holes of “loser insert more coins to try again” hurt.

I could really use a bonus round.

Defeat of the beard

Disappointment comes hard to the family's Pittsburgh Penguins fan. At the hands of the Redwings, the playoff beard reaches its dramatic climax:



Too soon to be shorn; goodbye, sweet beard.

Pimpin' myself

Hoops for sale at Loose Screws Friday June 6.

I am setting up a small booth with available hoops and business cards at Loose Screws (Southwest corner of Riberia and King Street) for "First Friday" Gallery Hop. Unfortunately, I won't be there because I have to work, but my hoops will be there! I'm getting five or six together for sale and display. And don't forget you can order any colors you can imagine! (Well, almost. I don't have armadillo, for instance.)

Hope you can make it by just to see my handiwork. Also, Loose Screws loves you, so you should stop by anyway ;)

I have also figured out how to mail/ship hoops, so ask away about that, too.

My LOLZ

moar funny pictures

Precious moments

It may be odd to have Precious as a neighbor, but she makes for some good yard art.



I guess being out there has its advantages.

Bed time at Team Wy HQ

"Thanks for participating in dog urine recovery unit."

"Unh."

"Do you think she's trying to tell us she wants to get out more?"

"Unh."

"Ah, dog urine--so gross. Cat urine--so much grosser."

"Unh."

"Just so I can think about it, do you have a laundry itinerary for tomorrow?"

"Unh."

"I'd like to get there by 4."

...

"I also need to go to the ATM to get money for quarters."

...

"Good night sweetie."

"Shgood nighht."

Easily hooked

Loki looks into my eyes, “Meow.” He turns a circle and paws my leg.

“Oh, Loki Toes.”

Eye contact, and he begins to walk toward his bedroom door. “Meow?” He paws the bedroom door, “Meow?”

“OK, baby.”

We walk in, and he circles his special towel. His meows increase, and he paces, pawing the towel eagerly. He never disengages eye contact.

“Meow?”

I look at the plastic tub. He knows where it is and what I’ve just done—“Meow!”

I gauge that there is maybe a pinch and a half left. “But Loki, this is it.”

“Meow!” he cries as he paws the towel.

I open the tub and think of his original owner. I drop a generous pinch of catnip on the towel. “You are just like your mother,” I say as I stroke his back. I love him anyway.

Reduce, reuse, recycle

I was just told by a friend's boyfriend, "I don't know the difference between shit and shinola."

When's the last time I heard someone say that? Is this slang we should recycle to preserve its heritage?

Either way, it was both shocking and refreshing. Like a curiously strong brain mint.

PS I hadn't talked to my friend in ages, and when she saw my Flickr photos, she was impressed with my "Ba-zooms." Yep, so am I.

Maybe this is the real source?

You know those terrible forwarded e-mails you get that say "If you don't send this to ten people, your first-born son will get polio and die of ebola"? I have a cousin who is WAY too into these awful forwards. Way too into them. One of them was "Send to ten people and you get a special wish." Her closing line was, "I have a very special wish, so please help me!" Turned out she wanted a baby. Oh she got it alright. No details. I've blogged her before, and I'm rude and mean etc.

What if they're true? What if the interweb really can curse you? What if all those deleted quasi-spam are some sort of judgment against me for not toeing the internet's line? Is the interweb the new supreme judge of all?

I hate forwards. Hate them. Just got one from crazy cousin again. Didn't even open it (Actually, that's a lie, but I didn't read it.) But do the forwards know something about the universe that I don't? Gawd I hope not.

Sorry, Super-Fans

A particular story was requested by Boyd, and this is sort of to say to her and all my Super-Fans that, sorry, can't do it.

I've been taking a lot of Benedryl (the dog hasn't, coincidentally), and I'm just so darn tired and spacey. I'm trying. I got the first sentence of the post written, and then I think I fell asleep.

I believe the state of Benedryl is coming to a close soon. I am taking it because I was allergic to a medication I was prescribed, believe it or not. Slowly (way too slowly), the bad drug is working its way out, and I am taking Benedryl less often.

I am about to fall a sleep on my keybpard an d make random letters, so I'll sign off, yours truly, Christine Wy.

Hockey fan face-off

Husband just came home from work and commented on someone's beard: "If our beards were to wrestle, my beard would kick his beard's ass."

“Why I will never be a good parent,” or “Please don't take my dog away!”

Some couples get dogs as trial children. They seem to think, “If we can handle a dog, then we can handle a human.” No. I would like to inform that using a dog as a prop is totally unlike having a baby. Or, I would like to inform that having a dog is exactly like a little human in that someone is always doing something wrong to the family baby.

Sunday my husband called me from Orlando. I said, “The dog is scratching a lot so I’m giving her a Benedryl.”

His sage response, “I’m not there to stop you, so go ahead I guess.”

And I did. I gave my dog a human medication she had never had before, locked her in her crate, and left for work. A few hours later I thought, “Oh man, what a shame. I’m not there to see if the Benedryl is actually working.” A few hours after that I thought, “Hm, I hope the Benedryl doesn’t make her sick.” Fast forward a few more hours, “Oh my god, I probably killed the dog with Benedryl because I gave her an unknown medication then left her alone in our house and she’s probably going insane or already covered in flies or having a doggie heart-attack right now!”

I tried to convince myself that all would be well because The QC Report often talks about her dog’s amazing ability to be allergic to everything and its inability to swallow pills.

One of the problems with me, the dog, and pills is that she loves them so much that I have a hard time not giving her random medication. Let’s see, I’ve given her multi-vitamins, calcium pills, flax seed oil capsules, and now Benedryl. I’ve given her tons of Dramamine, but the vet actually said that was OK. Once, she was driving me so crazy when we were on a road trip, I gave her one of my clonazepam. It made no difference. Something that knocks me out cold, and she didn’t stop barking and shimmying for a second. The clonazepam is probably my greatest offense against canine pill safety, but she was never the worse for it. Of course, she thought it was a treat. Maybe that’s why she was still insane. Pills are the greatest thing on earth to her, second only to rawhide.

I am the type of mother that would eat unpasteurized cheese while pregnant and feed my infant honey just because she liked it. I am the kind of parent that would FREAK at a fever and fill the bathtub with ice and cold water—just in case. I would be the type of mother upset by poop consistency. “Oh my god, Matthew, look at her diaper! It’s totally not like it was yesterday! Did she get in the dog toys? Oh, wait, did I give her Benedryl then leave her unsupervised for eight hours? Oh yeah, that’s it. But totally look at the diaper anyway. It’s really gross.”

Cats, however, are the perfect training tool for deciding if you want to have children or not. They never do what you want them to do when you want them to do it. People, get a cat. A dog will only teach you that crate training is a miracle on par with sightings of The Madonna. Or just Madonna sightings, if that’s your thing.

Enviable living circumstances

I'm pretty sure I just overheard my neighbor's miscreant friend say: "I fall down a lot, but that's because I drink too much."

Ceramic expectations

“Oh my gawd that hurt!”

“Why did you just do that?”

“I wanted to spit in the garbage can, but I didn’t notice the ceramic toothbrush holder would hit my head.”

“Why did you want to spit in the garbage can?”

“I don’t know; I just did.”

“But the sink is fixed. The ban on expectorate is lifted.”

“I’ll remember that next time. Man my head hurts.”

To flush or not to flush? And, why?

My psychiatrist asked me to add a retinue of vitamins and supplements to my medical regime. I hesitated because I'm broke, but I only buy the good supplements from the whole earth store. I grabbed some plastic, and (an undisclosed large amount of money) later, I've got pills! LOTS of pills.

Somehow, I forgot to buy B-3 though. Silly me, who could forget B-3? I returned to health food money hole, and looked and looked for B-3. Guess what? B-3 is called "Niacin." Maybe you knew that. I didn't. I looked around and found my fave brand of vitamins and supplements, Solaray (I am not a spokesperson or medical practitioner, but the comforting name and look of the bottle make me feel like I'm doing the right thing), and, there it is, my new Niacin. Grabbed, paid, left on my gas-leaking scooter.

I went to put the B-3/Niacin with the other morning supplement regiment in the kitchen, and I was followed by Huntress Supreme, Blanche DuBois. She thought there would be food involved.



Instead, I took an illustrative photo of the vitamin army:



This is how Blanche looked after she realized there were no dry spaghetti bits or frozen peas on the floor to eat:



Yes, Blanche definitely lacks pea-ness.

But, wait? Let's look at that vitamin picture again (indulge me):



Do you see that? It says "No Flush Niacin." WTF? Is this some sort of fat deposit thing I need to worry about? Like they say "excess vitamin C is flushed out through your urine." Did I just buy Niacin that won't flush? And this made me think about how some vitamins make your pee turn yellow. Is "No Flush Niacin" something that won't show up in your toilet?

Niacin is getting mysterious. And illogical. So I turned to my best friend GOOGLE! (Like Solaray, I am not a spokesperson or medical practitioner for Google, I just like that they do cute search page icon changes for the holidays.) After much sorting through blurbs about how Niacin may prevent Alzheimer's and how Niacin isn't proven to prevent anything, I finally found this gem that explained it all:

"Niacin (but not closely related niacinamide) expands CAPILLARIES and can lead to itching and flushing at doses commonly used in multivitamin supplements (100 mg or more).... "Sustained release" niacin may cause less flushing."

Thank you internets. You mean my face. You mean my face may become red, a condition also called "flushing." Ergo, I must have purchased a "sustained release" niacin since it is "No Flush." Thank you, Solaray, for caring about my capillaries enough to not make my face red. Un-Thank you, Solaray, for making me wonder what the hell I was doing flushing B-3 down the toilet!

Oh, and Solaray, my dog says thank you because she thinks pills are treats, so I give her the more harmless vitamins on occasion. I wonder if she flushes....

Quit staring at me!

It's resume time again, and every time I click on my Word window, that huge, blank, white canvas glares at me. It's intimmidating. So many "no's" lately that it's hard to get pulled together to conquer that blank, white screen. Words for Word. I need black ink on a white screen.

For some reason I'm thinking of Picasso. I need to channel him to turn my abstract ideas into something relatable on canvas. Unless you don't find Picasso relatable. I do. I hope the next person who reads my resume does too.

You didn't even know I was away

My dad instilled in me a deep paranoia about ever letting anyone know when I was going out of town. Surely, he was convinced, some miscreant would take advantage of the knowledge and rob my home of my crockpot and espresso machine.

I was away, and I didn't tell you, internets, because some cyber criminal looking for blog posts on vacations might have taken my stash of yarn and collection of dollar vases from Ikea. Or my favorite couch pillow. God bless me if they took my favorite couch pillow.

Lovely husband and I were in North Carolina for his cousin's wedding. We were south of the Outer Banks and north of Cape Fear, somewhere called Top Sail. Which is funny because there was visibly a huge sandbar that makes sailing in the area pretty much impossible.

I'm glad I survived the vacation. Matthew's parents rented a huge condo and the ENTIRE Wy family of in-laws and babies and sisters and sister's friend stayed together in one house. Everyone was on their best behavior (except when inebriated), and the whole trip went much more smoothly than I would have imagined. It's a compliment to my mother-in-law that she pulled everything together and it went so well.

The wedding was odd in that the etiquette of the bride and her family didn't jibe with the way I was raised. I was constantly surprised by her sudden departures from parties thrown in her honor. Really, she's a lovely girl, and I like her a lot for someone I barely know, but I couldn't wrap my Southern Trained Brain around some of her behavior. I told myself, "Everyone's different. She can do it her way," but that only helped a little.

I took more than 200 pictures, and the ones shot on film I can't wait to develop. Once I weed out the loser photos, gobs will be going up on my Flickr account. As you know, internets, I am incredibly lazy, so don't expect the photos quickly. Maybe a few of me hula hooping in the ocean will go up soon, but some of the wedding photos need to be Photoshopped to correct for bad exposure (It was my fault for not getting the aperture right on the first few photos).

Team Wy is back. Some of us slightly sunburned, both of us very tired, and the dog thrilled to be reunited with the loves of her life.

Now we just need groceries.

The warrior and his wife

Matthew and I embarked on some home green campaigns starting a few years ago. High efficiency washer and drier, unplug cell phone chargers when not charging, unplug laptop when not laptoping—stuff like that. But Matthew has a new one I just can’t get my head around.

Our desktop computer and all its peripherals are plugged into three different power strips. One of the power strips runs my wireless router, so it’s supposed to stay on all the time. But to keep the CPU, external hard drive, printer, and etc. from continuing to draw power when not in use, Matthew has devised a plan to turn off two of the power strips.

I’m easily confused. Two power strips are gray. One is beige. Two power strips, but not both gray, are under the desk. One power strip is on the desk. So which two is it that I’m supposed to turn on to make it go and to turn it all off? I call Matthew at his office all the time. “Which are the two I need to turn on?”

He generally points out the obvious, “The two that are turned off.”

I generally point out the obvious, “But I can’t tell which two are turned off.”

Then there’s the explanation that one under the desk and one on top of the desk but not the one for the wireless router and one beige and one gray but not both gray. I stand there on the phone, still perplexed. Seems like it should be pretty easy, hm?

I have finally mastered the art of turning the computer on, but when it comes time to shut down, I’m lost again. I used to try.

Phone call: “Matthew, which two power strips do I turn off?”

“One under the desk and one on top of the desk but not the one for the wireless router and one beige and one gray but not both gray.”

Me: crickets chirping.

Matthew: “I’ll do it when I get home.”

“Thanks sweetie!”

I feel a little guilty that I’m not green enough, but I think I’m dumber than I am guilty. If I were to do all the things those new global warming commercials say—unplug the coffee maker, unplug the toaster—I’d never know what to do when it was time to make coffee and toast and nothing was happening. I’d stand there in the kitchen, staring at the appliances blankly.

Phone call: “Matthew, which one do I plug in to make the coffee?”

Matthew: crickets.

Use the bathtub

"Quit spitting in it! You're only making it nastier!"

"Honey, I don't think it can get much more nasty than this."

"New rule. No more expectorate."

"19 inches" is the only part I remember

I’m getting a new baby nephew today. His name will be Ian, and he’s expected to be on his way out any minute based on the latest report.

My sister is inducing, and it’s for what I think is the funniest reason ever, so I’m going to share.

Sarah and her husband bounced around through a few obstetricians with their first child before they found the one they really clicked with. The new doctor, Dr. Her because I know she’s a woman and know nothing else about Her, promised to be with Sarah and Bill through their new baby. They knew the due date, had the birth plan, Dr. Her promised there were no vacations coming up and she would absolutely be on call—but no one thought about the Kentucky Derby.

In Louisville, Derby time is huge, obviously. It’s the one week a year my home town gets to be a world class city. Little Ian was due during Derby week. No one was too worried because of Dr. Her’s assurances that she wouldn’t be at the Derby, so everything seemed OK. I even thought it would be cool if Ian were born in the first week of May so that every once in a while his birthday would be Derby Day (Derby Day is the first Saturday in May). I was rootin for Derby Ian.

Then the family called. And called. Sarah and Bill’s family called for constant updates, but Dr. Her’s family called because 30 of them had decided to come stay with Her for Derby week. So much for baby Ian’s Derby dreams with the new obstetrician.

Back-up plan was initiated. Instead of waiting for Ian, they decided to make Ian come to us. Dr. Her scheduled to induce Sarah on the last day before Derby vacation—today—to make sure baby Ian came out into the world with Dr. Her as his good shepherd.

I just heard the word. Baby Ian will be ushered into this world pre-Derby within a few hours. It’s kind of funny to know what day you’re going to be an aunt in advance. I’ve been counting down to the 25th, waiting to see his first pictures. Soon. I’ll see you soon baby Ian. I’ll be your aunt that lives too far away but loves you as if she were just down the street.

I got paranoid/superstitious after I wrote this and couldn't post it until I knew the result, officially. Ian is here! I got the call at 3:45 pm. Everyone is safe, healthy, happy, and doing very well. I got all the baby stats, but I can only remember that he is 19 inches long. Something about 6 lbs maybe? Congratulations family! I love you!

I actually can't juggle at all

I keep telling my friends (and myself) that I am trying *really* hard to find the silver lining in this crazy life of mine. I keep finding little ones, like my friend Monya is happy, and that rules. And Monya reminded me that no matter how effed up my life gets this summer, Matthew will (probably) still pay the rent.

Not following on the “effed up life this summer” thing? I don’t know how clear I’ve been. I know I’ve been whining about wanting to find a new job, but have I ever actually told you why? I’m being forced down to part-time this summer. Now I’m being negotiated in a way I’m not comfortable with.

OK, life, lemons, lemonade. I went and applied for a part-time gig at a bookstore to supplement my summer. They thought it would be great to have me work Saturdays and Sundays at the bookstore. So did I! I like paychecks!

I suspect the weekend part-time job news worked through the library grapevine and got back to my boss. He said, “I’ll give you eight extra hours a week if you agree to work those hours on Sundays.” Can’t really say no. Even if I’m gettin’ played like a fiddle, this is my career (and pays way better than the book store), so now I have to go into the bookstore—where I haven’t even started working yet—and say, “You know, I totally lied about the Saturday Sunday thing. It’s actually Saturday plus whichever other day than Sunday that you choose. Take your pick. But I’m already reneging on the ace I played to talk you into giving me this bookstore job. My bad!”

I try to remind myself that my life could be SO much crappier, but I’m not prone to being a positive thinking person. I never have been. My entire life I’ve been “glass half empty.” I believe it’s a hereditary disease I caught from my father’s side of the family, cause, lemme tell ya, mom’s side ain’t like that. I’ve never known a more positive person in my life than my mother’s mother, The Rock-Star of God.

Last night I was trying to give the universe a talking to (yes, I was literally talking to the universe in my pajamas at 1:30 in the morning). “I’m juggling all these lemons, universe, but you just keep throwing me more. I need a spare hand to grab the pitcher and the juicer and the long handled wooden spoon and the sugar. If I have to keep juggling all the lemons you keep tossing in, I just can’t keep up. I’m no Vegas act, universe. If you’re serious about the lemonade thing, I need some kind of break.”

Does the universe have a kitchen counter? Can I set down all the lemons while I work on this?

And gosh darn it, people like me

After going through a bananas time in my life right now with the "change the destiny you can control" stuff, I am posting here to give myself some fortune cookie advice:

"People love you and want you to succeed."

I want that to be the little nugget that sustains me through the grueling job interviews and the rejection letters and the jobs that I nearly got but the organization decided not to fill because of budget cuts.

I just went through a week of job search high drama. The internets doesn't need the details (really I'm too tired to recount the tale), but I gave a phone interview Tuesday and was expected to give a face-to-face Friday. I may not want it, but I still have a regular job, so it took a lot of juggling and extra-curricular homework to prepare for the sudden interview.

I'm tired. I'm mentally and physically sapped for this week, but, like I said, regular job goes on. Microfilm needs to be inventoried, name authority records need to be created, and lousy campus lunches need to be eaten.

But, please fortune cookie, remind me that my journey of a thousand steps is not alone. Remind me of all the people who are there for the venting, the crying, and even sometimes the excitement. I think I say it enough, but I love you friends and family. This is just a diary entry to remind me of all the prayers and good thoughts and fingers crossed I am receiving. I don't take the encouragement for granted, but sometimes I feel alone because I forget the army of loved ones who are propelling me forward.

"People love you and want you to succeed." I will make that enough to sustain me right now.

The fire (within? without?)

I have many medical ailments. I'm like an old lady trapped inside a thirty-year-old's body. I don't know why. I read an amazingly insulting article about how people with one of my ailments are the whiniest asinine people ever and that cancer patients are better off mentally. Written by a Ph.D Psychologist, I could only think, “ Dude, if you hate sick people that much, please get a new job.”

I have bad nasal allergies. Chronic rhinitoid sinusitis. Isn’t that the most amazing name for sneezing ever? I used to always get my allergist write the scariest letters in the world to teachers and administrators about the limitations on my actions because of my “chronic rhinitoid sinusitis.” It ruled. In grade school, I never had to participate in “clean the classroom” day. Or clean chalkboard erasers. It probably added to how much my classmates hated me and tortured me, but it made me feel special, smiling, sitting at my desk while my classmates wiped down bookshelves. I have outgrown my nasal allergies to some extent—I’m NOTHING like I was as a child and young-adult--but I’m still a nose-dripper and sneezer pretty often.

I never really had skin allergies though. Amazingly, my little sister is allergic to Vaseline. Vaseline is in so many skin care products, whether you realize it or not, so she’s limited to bizarre prescription skin treatment potions. When I visit her house, I use them in secret because they really do feel better. Adds to my evil, right?

But where have I developed skin allergies as an adult? My armpits. They’re on fire lately, and I have no idea what’s triggering it. I want to scratch and claw at my armpits but I know it will only make the symptoms worse, so I sit and try to think about something other than my armpits. It’s hard. Have you had athlete’s foot or something? How do you keep from thinking about burning toes? That’s how I feel about my armpits. They’re there, gnawing at me. “Christine, we sting and hurt! Don’t think about us! Just imagine that you’re fine.”

Net result? I stink. I’m so allergic that I can’t use deodorant. There are two deodorants that I can use intermittently, but not consistently. Winter, I’m so proud of myself that I don’t smell like a barn animal. Summer? I don’t raise my arms around people. It’s humiliating. And painful. I feel stink rays radiating off of me, especially today. I don’t know why today is so bad—like I said I don’t know what triggered this particular reaction—but I feel deadly odor laser beams striking out from my underarms every time I have to gesture.

I try to just imagine I’m European.

oh-mah-gawd

How did I just waste that much time on Myspace? I don't even like Myspace. Like, Wikipedia, I'll throw away hours clickin on links til my little heart's content. Myspace? I did learn that someone who I like a lot but am not good friends with is moving from Boston to Seattle. So it wasn't a total loss.

It's OK, I still *heart* you internets. I just need a little break is all. Like 15 minutes should do it.

Precious decisions

my neighbor has a new/old roommate that matthew and i can't stand. i've blogged her before as "precious."

i'm in my work bathroom wednesday. i look over out of the corner of my eye at the woman washing her hands next to me. she has more tattoos than the normal college student here, so i'm kind of checking her out. then she surprises me.

"oh hey, i didn't recognize you."

my brain flashed through cue cards of people i know, and i couldn't place her at first. precious. it was precious.

"i didn't know you go to school here?" actually, i know for a fact that she doesn't, and that all of campus is restricted access. now i go through cue cards of what to do in this situation.

"no, i was just using the computer lab to scan my artwork for my portfolio."

major red flag. our art equipment is the most expensive technology investment on campus, but i still can't decide what to do since she's my neighbor and i have to live with her bedroom next to me and all.

me: "oh." god i'm a chicken shit.

"you know i'm going to school in denver in june."

"really, i didn't know that?" this actually hurts my feelings because i know how much the neighbor i'm friends with enjoys living with precious as a roommate. "what are you studying?"

"journalism. i'm going to be a writer."

she's dumb as shit. i'm not kidding. i do know people who are stupider than her, but, really, she's unemployable except in the service industry. i try to take the high road, again, her being my neighbor and all.

"you know my last job was at a newspaper for three years, right?"

"no, i didn't."

"they're literally laying off people by the hundreds. i'm not kidding. it would be really hard to get into journalism right now."

her, blankly: "oh, wow."

since i know she's been illegally trespassing to scan her artwork, i say, "you should consider graphic design. newspapers still like graphic designers because they're less expensive than photographers."

"oh really?"

"also, interactive media," i suddenly realize she doesn't know what that means. "web journalism is still a place where you might get a job."

still, spacey, dumb, like i said. "oh yeah, i was thinking about something with the web."

"something with the web," i think. like i said, she's incredibly stupid. that's like saying "i was thinking about throwing a dart in a map and going wherever it lands, like, you know, the pacific ocean." i know the numbers are hard to quantify, but how many web pages are there? billions? how broad are their scopes? millions?

i'm still trying really hard to be nice to her in this increasingly frustrating bathroom experience. "yeah, web journalism might be right for you if that's what you want to do." wrong. i bet she can barely write a paragraph. here's what matthew and i have imagined precious writing:

“the goverment is bad! there taking away resources for a army campaign in iraq! we dont need guns! we need food for the homeles!”

she might be sort of right, but that would be the total of her argument, and, face it, it's not journalism. at best it's a bad letter to the editor to a free newspaper printed on four pages.

she's none of my concern. i really don't care about her life. i'm not responsible for her actions in any way, but in a decent, human compassion sort of way, i want to help her charitably. telling her that newspapers are hemorrhaging is going to do nothing to stop her from doing something foolish, though.

precious, please listen to me. i know you won't, but please listen--i want you to.

Just what I asked for

Matthew is laying beside me, snoring. Not Deathstar power plant snoring, just “I’m asleep” snoring. It’s what I’ve wanted, and now I can’t help but laugh at myself.

Matthew’s been reading a book by Elmore Leonard, and he has been bringing it to bed with him so he can enjoy a good nighttime read. After many months (years?) of always going to bed before Matthew, it feels so strange to have him there. I toss and I turn and I whimper. But he just keeps reading at me. That night light is like a spotlight on my sleep trauma, and him—him!—just reading there happily like nothing is wrong. I can’t sleep!

I can’t sleep with him in the room, sitting up in bed, with his reading lamp on. I’ve tried, lord knows I’ve tried, but I just can’t do it. I am so tired of this Elmore Leonard kick, and I hope our public library runs out of his books soon. In order to torment him into going to bed early, I poke him over and over in his arm like a seven-year-old. He ignores me. I wave my hands in front of the page. He reads on. I thrash around and whine a lot. Silence. I kick at him (gently (sort of)), and I tell him, “I need to sleep! Go read on the couch!”

Guess what he reminded me last night?

“Back when we were first married, you begged that I would turn the TV off and we could go lay in bed together and read side-by-side. Now we’re doing it.”

“I said that?” perfectly incredulous.

“Yes,” he smiled.

I laughed hysterically. “Well you’ve corrupted me! I care more about TV now, and I don’t want you in the bed!”

He laughed at me.

“Turn off the damn light!”

“Let me finish this chapter, and then I’ll go to sleep.”

Tonight, I told him, “I’m tired. If you want to read, stay on the couch.” After I got ready for bed, I came in to find him snuggled with his pillow, fast asleep, snoring. Me? I’m blogging. Maybe it wasn’t his wild nightlife keeping me up after all.

Reservoir Dogs

Matthew and I are at a Mexican stand off about a dog. He blogged about it here. Our disagreement over the possibility of adding a new dog to our family has become so overwrought and tense that we've pretty much determined not to talk about it. Except we keep talking about it. We can't see eye-to-eye at all. I want a small toy dog breed of my choice from a reputable breeder. He wants a shelter dog. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with shelter dogs--our own Blanche was a rescue and she's a baby angel--but there are a few very specific breeds I am interested in that are rare enough that they can't be found at shelters. He actually said, "See this? Foot, down. And you know I'm not changing my mind once my foot is down." I don't want to change my mind either. So, both barrels smoking, we stand staring each other in the eyes, waiting for the other to cave. I predict we end up with no dog.

I'm also distraught over my job situation. This whole "taking control of the destiny I can cantrol" thing isn't moving as fast as I'd like. It turns out that taking control of your life is a slow and arduous process on a winding road with no sign posts or blue emergency call boxes. I wait. I send out resumes. I wait. I get phone interviews. I wait. I send out more resumes. I didn't realize I was so unemployable. I'm taking classes on the type of librarianship I'd like to transition into, so I feel like that's something I'm controlling. I'm also going to launch Plan C on Monday. See how bad it is? Plans A and B are stalled out. Not terminated, just not rolling either.

I've secretly been using "The Secret" to project my positive energy into the universe and draw in the good things I need. Learning the fight songs and the mission statements of the libraries I want to work at don't seem to be doing it though. But you should see my fight song performance ;)

Should I apply "The Secret" to the dog situation? Will learning the breed history and AKC recognized color variations bring my dog closer? (One breed is black only, so I have to learn something else.) I've been imagining the dog purse I'm going to sew so I can secretly tote it into work and sneak it out for pee breaks while it's house training. Is that good enough? Should I imagine pee breaks at the library I want to work at?

I'm not actually sure how this "Secret" stuff is supposed to work. Personally, I think the author is one of those weird savants made genius and manic by a brain tumor in a fortunate location. Or she's a genius of taking in suckers and making a fortune off a bogus guru book. I don't know. I like the tumor story because in a review I read of her book, they said she basically claimed that you drew cancer to you. But wait! Let's interpret that differently. I'm astrologically a Cancer. So shouldn't everyone be drawing me to them? OK, that's my new theory. People are calling me. And dogs. Dogs are calling me.

** Phone call. Matthew has declared "No dog." I guess nobody wins in a Mexican stand off.

Hah-hah!

An anonymous commenter on my blog (a chicken for not leaving his or her name!) told me I am ugly. Just for that person's benefit, here is a gratuitous picture of my glorious visage.



Love you! Please, do come back and read often!

Christine, please don't tempt fate

I called in sick today because I kinda felt yucky and I kinda just felt like not going in. I had been dreaming about aurora borealis, and I didn't want to break the magical spell by going to work. Punished by the universe's magic, I am actually sick now. Honestly, that dream of aurora borealis may have been worth it.

** I've changed my mind. I feel awful. That stupid dream magic really wasn't worth it.

I get this feeling inside

Someone has made a stack of "Out of Order" signs, on the ready to be placed on malfunctioning library computers and printers. I look and give them a twinkling lop-sided grin. I yearn to place them on computers and printers at random, like a little naughty gnome set loose in the library. Amazingly, I practice restraint.

Night Sweats

Starting in college, I began losing my night vision. I’ve only had one optometrist talk to me about it, and since then I’ve forgotten to mention it to the others. Until lately, there’s been no real harm from it, and the original medical reason for my optometrist to point out my night vision problem seemed like no big deal. But it’s gotten worse. Much worse.

I now hate to drive at night. The lights of the oncoming traffic and the white dashes and the yellow lines and the colored traffic signals—all screaming at my eyes from the darkness—terrify me.

I don’t want to call it a panic attack, because it’s generally not that bad, but it scares me to bits when I have to drive at night. Yet more of Matthew’s long-suffering plight, we usually go out together at night. Who ends up driving every single time? Matthew. He sometimes complains that I never drive, but, really, the inky blackness of the impenetrable night punctured by the blasting headlights of oncoming traffic is just more than I can bear. Dusk is fine. I should probably offer to drive to things more often, then let him drive home, but I never think of that. I open the passenger side door and think of those glaring streetlights, yelling at me, “THIS IS NOT OK, CHRISTINE!”

And it’s gotten worse. The minor inconvenience has become a serious problem. (Obviously, since I’m bitching about it so much.) Moving to St. Augustine was traumatic on so many levels that I’ll never be able to recount the story without extreme hand gestures, eye rolling, head twitches, and vocal mimicry. The worst part? We always drove at night. First we left Chicago significantly later than we meant to. Then, after our stop-over in Louisville, every family member in a 17-mile radius insisted on seeing us, so we left way even later than we intended. Next we were so exhausted from driving all night that we left Atlanta later than we should have. Add to this my driving the compact SUV alone with a trailer too big for our car to be rated to tow it, and my night vision terror increased exponentially. I think I spent the entire drive gripping the steering wheel like only it could save me from death, and I craned my neck and squeezed my shoulders in such a vice-like fashion that I fell to sleep every night exhausted physically and mentally.

The literal pinnacle of the night-terror was Eagle Mountain, I think it’s called. Whatever the name of the mountain pass that goes through Chattanooga, it was nearly my undoing. I think I became slightly unhinged during the episode. Actually, that’s an understatement. I became … I can’t think of the right, terrible word. Something bad. I became something very, very bad.

Going up the mountain, the little car that almost couldn’t strained to pull that over-sized trailer full of scooters, motorcycles, and mattresses up the dramatic incline. But, which lane? The right lane was supposed to be for trucks. Am I a truck if I have a trailer? The left lane was for the hot-shots, and I clearly couldn’t hang with them. The middle lane? Was I a middle lane car with trailer? I just didn’t know. To play it safe, I chose the middle lane. And boy did I ever piss some people off. My snail’s progress got honked at by aggro cars, and I felt always in trouble as I saw someone riding my trailer tail in my side view mirror.

Now for the egress. Coming down the mountain, I felt even less in control. The lights were searing my eyes, there were hardly any lights over the highway, and the blackness of the night swallowed every visual cue I needed to stay on course. And the trailer? Every time I tried to brake, I felt the trailer begin to jack-knife. I crawled as slowly as I could down that mountain pass in the middle lane, praying no harm would befall my little car and the big trailer and my broken eyes. Cars still honked aggressively at me for taking up too much space in the lane they wanted to fly through. To add to the cacophony (and terror) semis started honking at me too! As the giant tractor-trailers sailed by me in the right lane, they honked their displeasure at my minute mountain progress.

There I was, an over-burdened jack-knifing compact SUV huddled in the middle lane like an adolescent boy with terrible acne and head gear, and I was being zipped past by cars on my left and semis on my right. I felt like a lost goldfish in the wrong pond. I felt upside down. I felt blind and groping, thinking now of the Helen Keller joke, “How does she drive? With one hand on the road.”

Clearly, I survived. But Matthew in his over-sized U-Haul he could barely handle it was so huge felt equally traumatized by Eagle Mountain. Maybe more traumatized. I cowered in fear at our next rest break, trying to erase the horror of Chattanooga from my memory, and he railed at how hard he worked to not get killed. Maybe he was a sick carp in the wrong pond if I were a goldfish.

We made it to Atlanta, weary, rattled, shaken, exhausted from sheer force of driving horror, and we collapsed into bed as soon as we could, resting in a dear friend’s spare bedroom. Bless her for her hospitality and amazing pillows after that trauma. I will always remember her green comforter and soft, fuzzy, white towels that soothed with balm our jagged brains. She gave us an island oasis in the river of our travel travail.

We didn’t have any flat tires during the move from Chicago. That’s pretty much the best thing we can say about the move. The memory of the night vision horror lingers with me, though, and I can barely get behind the wheel after 6 pm. If I must, I do, but not without trepidation.

Dirty indulgence

If you don’t know I love REALLY bad reality television, you haven’t been paying attention. Man do I love to tune in and check out. Last night, Matthew watched the entire commercial for the newest cheerleading movie, “Bring It on: Yet Again.” I watched in amazement at the joy of crap-ola, even though I’ve already seen the same commercial a million times. When the commercial finished, I turned to look at Matthew. His mouth hung open and he looked stunned. I said, “Thank you for watching that commercial with me. You’re the only person in the world who would make that sacrifice for me.” He was no longer capable of speech he’d lost so many brain cells, so I asked, “Are you stupider now that you’ve seen it?” He could only nod.

And what am I watching obsessively now that “Gossip Girl” is in re-runs? “Girlicious.” Really it’s “The Pussycat Dolls Present Girlicious.” Could that be any better? It could. NFL player Ron Sayers’ daughter Chrystina is a mediocre talent whiny brat. She may also be Gale Sayers’ niece, though I’m not sure. I think this is funny because she is not worthy of Gale Sayers’ Chicago Bears mega-talent-superstardom. She’s like a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy—from a machine with a bad toner cartridge.

Then there’s Natalie. Precious, precious Natalie. I long to have her voted off because she is such a back-stabbing, hateful, two-faced bitch, but man she makes good TV. She called her Mom in an episode a few weeks ago because life as a Girlicious contestant was hard. She was sobbing into the phone—with no tears. I used to know a young mother who would say to her baby daughter, “Hah-hah, no tears, you’re faking!” OK, so that was cruel, but it was all I could think as she sobbed her perfectly choreographed crocodile un-tears to her mom. Her mom was actually decent and compassionate, and I thought Natalie was undeserving of such love. OK so that’s cruel too. Anyway, her mom says, “What is the most important thing?” Natalie says, “Winning.” Totally serious. In her one moment of vulnerability, all she cares about is winning. Her more equanimous mother says, “Being true to yourself.” I think Natalie’s answer “Winning” was her being true to herself. She’s always the first to make fun of the other contestants, and the first to fake-cry hug the voted-off contestant goodbye.

Brief note on “America’s Next Top Model.” I don’t think we’ve seen the real bitch of the group yet, but this is the sceechiest, screamiest, most excitable group of contestants ever. Matthew asked, “How many times do they scream? Do they always scream like this?” I gave him the long answer: “No, this is the worst season ever for screaming.” Is the screaming not on the cutting room floor because we haven’t seen the real bitch yet but we need some level of drama? I wonder. I can’t wait until the stress level breaks someone down and she goes berserk. OK, so that was cruel too. So what? It’s bad TV! I love it!

Foot meets door?

I have been O-U-T for a week now, and it wasn’t because I was just lazy or uninspired for once. I was at three days of seminar on library stuff. Here’s the deets for you library luvrs: first, a refresher on MARC coding, second, LCSH free-floating subdivisions, third, LCSH pattern entries, fourth, LC authority records and their MARC coding. I loved every part but the MARC header information on authority records in the LC view. There was this field that looked like “annabanana” to me that was supposed to report information about—see? I can’t remember, that part confused me. Otherwise, it was library geek-out fun. Although I must confess that I can’t retain MARC coding the way I should. Ugh.

For the people who don’t understand what I just said (sorry for the nerd-speak), I commuted to Jacksonville three days last week and sat through eight hours of intensive library training daily. It was exhausting. I’m still wrecked from it, which sucks because I work all weekend too.

One more library speak item: I also don’t remember my AACR2 as well as I’d like to.

Now back to random Christine-broken-brain musings. Regret. I know people are supposed to live without regret, but that’s one of those healthy brain things I just can’t seem to manage. Right now I’m regretting that I took an archives track in library school instead of technical services. OK, so honestly, I had no idea that the mega-nerd stuff would become important to me. At the time, I thought the relevance of the historicity of archives was paramount to my love of research. Turns out history isn’t as fun as the present. So regret, I didn’t work as hard at the word jumbles of cataloging, not knowing how much I would one day love metadata.

Un-regret. I did work really hard in library school to get what I thought I wanted out of the program. I didn’t go to an archive-emphasis university; I had to create my own program through internships and independent studies. Regret. Why didn’t I work as hard at what would really become useful to me?

I wonder where the Future Catalogers of America I was in school with work now and what they’re doing. Did they make it? Are they living their dream of Lois Chan’s metadata vision? My heart aches with the desire to join them. I totally want to get into technical services, but I don’t know how to break through. Florida just hasn’t given me the chance yet. In the meantime, I cross my fingers and dream of macro batch edits of updated subject headings.

Living in the limins

Benjamin Kunkel wrote in “Last Things: The Sinister Charm of Frederick Seidel” that “[Poet Frederick] Seidel writes as if id had become ego, but in the worst way: all insight, no cure.”

The quote resonates with me because I feel in some sense as if this could be an oversimplified analysis of my own life. I live in a space where impulsiveness is recognized but not controlled. I admit to eating a bowl of cookie dough like one would eat ice cream—and I admit that it’s a travesty against my bodily health—but I don’t stop, no matter my awareness of how willingly self-destructive I am.

I am id become ego, insight sans cure. Do I care? Id says no.

Sweet dreams of you

I took a nap on the couch for the last five minutes before I had to leave for my Sunday shift at the library. I dreamed I was ice skating in Chicago, in Millennium Park. The dream re-played all the real events I saw and experienced when I used to skate on my lunch break. There was the silver fox in his cashmere coat, casually drifting in languid ovals. I saw the two guys who always skated together, competetively, to see who had the best aggro hockey moves. And last was the guy who would come on to me by executing a quick turn at my side and skate backward while smiling at me.

Then Matthew said, "You have five minutes to get to work," and all the ice and skates melted away, back to dream land.

Signs, signs, everywhere signs

I talked about managing the things I could control in my life, like looking for a new job, right? I got a phone interview with a potential employer! Yay me, step one accomplished. Now I’m totally nervous because I’m dying for the call-back for a face-to-face interview. Please universe—I want this so bad!

In the meantime, I feel like everywhere I look, I see omens and portents that the job is so nearly mine. First, after seven months of employment, my boss finally got me business cards. That’s surely a sign that he wasted his time, right? Second, I saw a stack of books in my current library that were received via inter-library loan from the library where I phone interviewed. Third, I *just* saw a student here walk into the library wearing a shirt for the football team affiliated with the other library.

Either I’m getting mega thumbs up for all my positive vibes I’m sending out to the other library, or the world is unspeakably cruel. I like to believe in the former, but can I tell you how much I fear the latter? I don’t regularly buy into positive energy field projections and stuff, but I feel like that’s the key to pulling this job to me. Am I going nuts (nuttier)? I don’t think so, actually. It’s felt good to dwell on the positive feelings instead of always dreading the self-doubt that usually comes with these things.

Matthew said, “No matter what, you did the absolute best you could do.” He’s right. I’ve given this my best, now I just have to see how the universe chooses to reward me.

Hairstyles of the damned

Yesterday


Today


For more of the un-dread-ing saga (before, after, and in-process shots), tune in to my Flickr page.

A slight penchant...

I haven't written about my various bad media obsessions in quite some time now, and I keep meaning to, but I'm totally busy with bad media.

But this--THIS--re-cap of an All-Star America's Next Top Model just slayed me so bad I had to write.

(Do you have to be an insider to get this? Probably. Call me if you totally want the insider dirt. I'll dish. For hours and hours on end. Doesn't that sound like fun? Totally. Call me. For real.)

Ugly on the inside

At my physical therapist’s insistence, I finally went to Jacksonville to see my orthopedic surgeon for my exit x-ray. I am officially healed. He said that the only way I can really hurt it at this point would be if I were to do something calamitous—again. Here’s the thing: it’s ugly.

He pointed to the bone fragment that chipped off and my whole tibia and said, “Here is what was broken, and see, new bone has knitted in there.”

I asked, “Is it chunky monkey?”

He looked at me like I was nuts, “No, it’s fine. The piece is a little out of alignment, but it’s not over the joint so it should never give you any problem.”

“But it’s chunky monkey,” I said, pointing to the projecting bone. “It didn’t go back into place exactly. It’s kind of sticking out.”

He looked at me weird again. “Yes, it is kind of sticking out.”

“You can call that chunky monkey.”

He finally caved, “Your bone is chunky monkey.”

That settled, I was totally bummed that my leg healed ugly. It’s healed alright, but the x-ray does not reveal a pristine tibia restored to its former wholesomeness.

“My leg is ugly,” I told Matthew.

“But it’s healed,” he pointed out, trying to get me to shut up about it already.

“It’s chunky monkey. It doesn’t look good.”

Look from Matthew.

“When I’m a mummy, and they x-ray me, they can look and say, ‘Here’s where the specimen broke her leg ante-mortem and it healed ugly.’”

“Yeah, that’s what they’ll say.”

Lines in the mirror

There’s lots of little things (and some big things) to worry about in the mind of Christine Wy. Will I get the interview I want? Where did I put the romance novel I’m reading? Is the weather tomorrow finally going to be just right for my outdoor self-portrait?

My worry lately: will my face look like worry?

I’m worried about worry wrinkles. The wrinkles that make you look unhappy even if you just feel, you know, even.

Today, Peculiar Woman approached me and said, “You look like someone who is deadly bored.”

That stung. In the first place because it was Peculiar Woman, and in the second place it was just because I wasn’t smiling at my computer monitor. So does my regular face look like worry?

And—wait—if I am worried, is it wrong for my face to look worried? I mean, except that I don’t want the worry lines, right?

To counteract the worry, I try to smile to myself at random times. Now I’m worried I look creepy. Which makes me look worried…

Hullo, I'm Christine Wy

This is my 300th post. In honor of it--I'm doing nothing! How bout if I promise to work harder at taking pictures? Like a New Year's resolution? Ooh, I will also promise to set up my scanner and do scanograms of the detritus that shows what's going on in my life. How bout that?

Love and more love,
Your Lady Friend

Hold my bones

I’m bone weary today, though I can’t put my finger on why. Emotionally ragged? Sleeplessness catching up with me?

I’m starting to climb out of my sadness fog. That little gray raincloud over my head is lightening up, but today I need snuggles. I need to cozy up with someone and talk about nothing. Things we saw on the internet, movie phrases we like, Simpsons quotes.

Instead, I’m at work, cloistered and alone behind a desk, working on the world’s most tedious microfilm project. I’m trying, I’m really trying, but the project is like… it’s like… a noxious odor that you know you have to scrub away before you can be clean again.

I miss you, all of you, just guess who you are. I wish I could snuggle you right now and we could tell each other it’s going to be alright.

Merry Christmas!

Seems late for Christmas, right? Not in our house. Discussions of gift giving reverberate through the whole year. And have for many years. There is my husband’s great revelation that I give gifts I think the receiver should want, but not what the receiver actually does want. Then there is the issue that Matthew’s gifts are always “almost” but not quite right.

Christmas 2007. My gifts to him: Bowl of Cherries, by Millard Kaufman and Comedy by the Numbers, by Eric Hoffman and Gary Rudoren. While he admits that Comedy by the Numbers was dead-on gift-perfection hilarious, he also told me he doesn’t like books as gifts. Let’s see, other recent gift purchases by Christine for Matthew: What Ever Happened to Orson Welles?: A Portrait of an Independent Career, by Joseph McBride, Christmas 2006, and Monkey Portraits, by Jill Greenberg, Valentine’s Day 2008.

My logic behind these was that Matthew loves slap-stick comedy (got that one right at least), Orson Welles, and monkeys. Turns out Matthew didn’t care as much for the foremost contemporary Welles biography as I thought he would. And monkeys? He loves monkeys. Why wouldn’t he love a book of monkeys? He said, “It’s pictures. You look at it once and then you put it away.” Ouch. I thought it was genius.

He loves video games. This morning, as I walked out the door, we agreed that in the future of all gift-giving situations he will make me a list of the video games he wants to be given. That’s the most unromantic gift situation I can imagine, but whatever is going to keep us sane is what is going to work.

But, wait! Matthew’s not innocent either!

I won’t get into details because that’s shitty to slander him on my blog where I reduce him to defenseless words, but I’ll give you one example. All I wanted for Christmas was this stuffed sheep. I begged for it. I sent out more than one Christmas list e-mail saying how badly I needed the sheep. Not only did no one who read my Christmas wish list get me a sheep, but neither did Matthew. When you demand a sheep, don’t you expect at least your husband to get you a sheep? I loved the sheep so much, I even gave a frog as a Christmas gift to someone else (who loved it like I would have loved a sheep).

What did I get instead? Silver earrings. This may sound nice, but there are two reasons this gift flopped with me, one practical and one medical. First, my sheep was half the price of the earrings, and he was seriously over-charged for the earrings he got. Second, I’m allergic to most metals and can only wear silver earrings for a few hours. So these expensive earrings would then be useful only at special occasions where I could wear them for a few hours and then take them out immediately, when I would next hit the cortisone cream and Benadryl. The sheep I would have used every single night.

Anyway, we’re all guilty. I want to give gifts that reflect me and my tastes so that I can share myself with the gift receiver, but Matthew claims I’m wrong and that no one gets what they actually want from me. I don’t know which of us is actually right—I still think there is a part of the giver in the gift—but I know that in the future we’re sticking to the play list. No more surprises, since the surprise always leads to disappointment.

So ho-ho-ho, merry effing Christmas, quite late.

I'm knot a knitter

I don't knit, but I love the last sentence of this post:

"I could cast on another sock and admit: I am an unfinished project."

My shoelaces are loose

If I had a microchip that connected my brain to a word processing program on a remote computer, my blog would be full to the brim. When me and my sleep dysfunction lay side-by-side, we think of awesome sentences that put all the words together in such an echt way. I feel like an ingénue laying in bed awake at night, but there’s no way for me to type out the words and still fall asleep.

Awake, the thought nuggets are there, but they are sleeping at last, and the sentences just don’t go together the way they should. I have a million fragments of one sentence openers I’ve written, but never gotten farther than that one premise.

Too bad I can’t stay up all night. I’d be a genius.

Butttermilk Pie

Also called Magnolia Pie

Pre-heat oven to 325

2 cups sugar
1 stick butter, room temperature
4 tablespoons flour
3 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup buttermilk
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla
1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell

Beat eggs (slightly). Add butter, sugar, buttermilk, and vanilla (my method is to run the mixer and slide the ingredients in). Add flour last.

Pour into unbaked 9 inch pie shell and bake for 1 hour at 325 degrees or until knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Allow to cool.

This recipe calls for a 9 inch pie crust, which is generally difficult to find. If you make this recipe and put it into an 8 inch pie crust, you will have batter leftover. I like to buy three pre-made graham cracker crusts at the grocery store. If you double the recipe, you can make exactly three 8 inch pies! Tah-dah! Share the two extra pies with your co-workers, and they'll hate you less ;)

Dreaded questions

I probed, I prodded, I may have prevaricated (a little). I demanded, I plead, I hypothesized, I proposed. I cornered, I pinpointed, and I cajoled.

And the answer was “Yes.”

I have asked everyone whose opinion matters to me, “Do I keep the dreads, or do I give up now and start growing out my hair?”

Worst answer: “Either you do or you don’t.”

Best answer: “Make the decision based on your career goals and how you think your hair will affect how you get there.”

Right answer: “I think they look cute.”

My dreadlocks have been a self-esteem struggle for me: “Do I look cute or do I look ridiculous?” They’ve been a career struggle for me: “Do I look eccentric or just badly unprofessional?” A motivational struggle for me: “Do I wax them tonight or do I procrastinate again for the thirtieth day in a row?”

Now, I feel the decision has come to a head, as it were. My dreads have looked basically the same for the past month, neither particularly improving in their healthy roundness nor disintegrating into wiry frizz. I feel like this is the crucial moment where I make the decision, to cut or to commit?

I asked everyone’s opinions, but, ultimately, their answers revealed what was in my heart all along but I wasn’t listening to. Some said “cut them off” in a kind way, but I still wasn’t committed to that answer, no matter how committed to that person I am. I finally got a row of three people--a good friend, an acquaintance who hates dreadlocks, and a barber—to all say, “They look unconventional but they look good.” They all said that. All three in a row. And there was my answer. There was the mirror to my heart: “They aren’t quite right but I like em.”

To all the respected “no’s” I received, thank you for your input. I really needed it as a balance, and it made me decide what I was feeling on the inside. And to all the people who said “yes,” thank you for revealing what I really felt.

The dreads stay. Who knows how long they’ll stay, based on what does happen with my career, but for now, they stay. It’s still a fun ride, though some days they drive me nuts.

When I’m ready to hear “no,” I think the “yes’s” will tell me what I’m really going through inside.

Emulsion propulsion

“Tightly bundled neuroses kept marginally in check by a slight grasp of reality.” If I had only one sentence to describe myself to eternity, that would be it. I don’t take it lightly, really. As contrary as I am, I also recognize the full weight of those words. That might not be the one sentence my dear readers would choose to describe me, but that’s the one I feel. To the outside world (but not the world wide web, of course), I seem like a pretty together babe. On the inside, I feel churny.

Sometimes churny is good. Sometimes churny is powerful and motivating and brings about change. Sometimes, though, churny makes my brain all twisty-straw and my thoughts are goopy fluid being twirled in spirally circles.

The churny’s been pretty out there lately, as readers know (but not my co-workers or my fake friends or … who else is there?). I’ve been taking great care to change the churny things about my life that I can control. I’m looking for a new job, for starters, which answers a bunch of churny yearnings like depressed pay and depressing work, and I’m looking for local friends. I found a new psychiatrist (yay crazy pills!), and I’m on track to find a new therapist, so the things that I can master I am trying to master.

Except the creation churn.

I don’t believe that one day I hatched and discovered that it was of critical importance to me to be an expert at something before I even tried it, but I do know that I woke up one day and realized that’s how I was acting. I don’t want to start anything new just in case I’m not awesome at it. I don’t want to walk into a room and not already be the most advanced science club member present. I don’t want to crawl and then walk and then run—I want to hit the ground a well-honed Olympic sprinter. I want to walk into fiction writing class and be Margaret Atwood. I want to walk into the stable and be Annie Oakley.

I’m taking a free photography class for fun. Let’s insert “fun” in air quotes here. I was having a great time on the first few weeks when we talked about theory and “this is how a lens works,” lording it over my pathetic air-quote “peers.” “Fun” ended Monday. For the first time Monday, I saw my classmates’ actual photographs. Damn, they’re really freakin good. Like amazingly light-years ahead of where I am in compositional skill. I went from being the girl whose hand was always up first in class to the girl who was like “How do I do this lasso thing on Photoshop again?” I went from teacher’s darling to girl-who-ties-up-the-color-printer-with-her-sophomoric-attempts-at-photography.

Doesn’t sound “fun,” does it? See? That’s the churny. Why can’t I look at their work and say, “Wow, that’s really inspirational that they’re just students too and were able to accomplish so much”? Why can’t I take that inspiration as a challenge to try harder, to push myself to achieve at their level?

I can’t wrap my mind around it. My intellect says, “You’re being foolish. Get out there and shoot; it’s the only actual way to improve,” but my lower intestinal tract says, “God you’re arrogant and naïve to walk in and assume that you are holier than anyone in your presence. Since you'll never be good enough, you should quit now.”

I try to channel Camus in these moments: “Imagine Sisyphus happy.” Can I? The first time I heard that quote, my heart swelled with understanding the thing Camus wanted to tell me, but I’ve never been able to hammer it inside me properly. Can I be Sisyphean-ly happy? Can the quest gratify me? Or do I need to have the boulder at the top of the hill before I’ll even condescend to be pleased?

My superior behavior is condescending to others. I let myself down when I descend into condescension. And I descend a slope of scree when I expect myself to master the tightrope blindfolded without ever trying a harness.

Crawl; be new. Be Camus’ Sisyphus. Be contented with learning. And making mistakes. Obviously, this bundle of neuroses will never be perfect, so un-churn a bit, let loose, and, hey, have fun. Make your one sentence "Imagine Christine Wy happy."

I watched “Thirteen” so you didn’t have to—you’re welcome

If memories of the adolescent social scene make you uncomfortable (check), if you remember your friends as backstabbing, fashion-obsessed, nasty bitches (check), and if seeing real teen trauma go untreated brings back too many flashbacks (check), well, then, you can skip this one. Oh, unless in your real life there was no light at the end of the tunnel. Well, I guess if you have internet access and you read my blog, there was probably light somewhere at the end of your tunnel, but whatev.

The movie opened to the typical “I’m a nerdy middle-school girl jealous of the in-crowd” and quickly montage-d into “this is what it’s like to *finally* be accepted!!!” complete with surrealist lighting and spinning camera angles. Cliché! But, wait, is that Holly Hunter? It is! What’s she doing here?

Chicken, egg, I don’t know. Holly Hunter made her appearance as the mom right around where the movie started to get less hackneyed and more believable. But! Even our quirky, indie-film doyenne couldn’t save this movie from itself.

For its genre, teen-angst-a-thon, Thirteen was actually pretty decent. It felt sort of documentary in that there wasn’t a whole lot of moralizing or interpreting events, rather, they just let teenagers be teenagers and do the things terrible teenagers do—hurt and be hurt by each other. There’s the peer pressure to shop lift, which mounts to peer pressure for body piercing, which escalates to peer pressure to make out with guys, which then turns into peer pressure to escalate drug abuse. Frankly, it’s just “kid-gone-wrong” stuff.

Until we learn Tracy is a cutter. We learn that Tracy’s home life isn’t as All-American as it seemed in those opening shots, and that one reason she’s so susceptible to let pressure escalate her self-destructive behavior is that she’s already engaging in out-there self-harm. This kid isn’t just acting out the way an adolescent does, this kid has serious problems.

The conclusion was so real it hurt, though. In the end, once Tracy has been kicked out of the cool girls’ club, her erstwhile best friend, Evie, rats on everything Tracy ever did. It begins when Evie spreads lies about Tracy to get her shunned at school. It worked. Then Evie had her guardian stage a disingenuine intervention with Tracy and her mom, pouring out onto the coffee table all the secret stashed cigarettes, alcohol, and pills. Coup de grace? Evie wrenches up Tracy’s sleeves to reveal the long rows of cutting marks from her wrist to elbow.

After that dramatic catharsis, Tracy and her mom fight, but Holly Hunter has learned that Tracy needs love more than she ever realized. Mom grips Tracy and says, “I’m never letting go again.” They fall asleep in Tracy’s bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. It was an unexpectedly genuine moment in a movie that alternated between real youth drama and clichés.

All of this leaves me wondering who the prospective audience was supposed to be? You know I’ll watch any crap, but there were many times I wanted to turn this off because it was so boring. And obvious. And tedious. The zinger? It was rated R. Seeing it, I know *why* it was rated R, but the movie fell into a teen no-man’s land in between the grit-free PG-13 and the gritty R. Audiences most likely to be affected by it are in that no-man’s land too, I guess.

If you really want to see Holly Hunter do good angst, watch Laurel Canyon. "Thirteen" is only worth watching if you had a clinical problem as a kid and want to feel vicariously vindicated through Holly Hunter’s love.

Ten little bits

1. I don’t like Dinosaur Jr. I’m really sorry, Matthew, I’m trying, really I am, but I just don’t get it. I think it’s one of our generation gap things.

2. That earlier piece on being fat, that really was written a whole year ago. There’s lots of ways I’m not OK, but, at the moment, I’m a proud size 16 shopping for plus-size sexy bikinis for my summer flirty beach debut.

3. I don’t like watching re-runs of Sex and the City because I get all twitchy. I start thinking I’m investing too much in a relationship that isn’t happening on my terms and that I’m not appreciated or loved enough and that maybe my love for Mr. Big just isn’t big enough to carry both of us…. And then I remember that I’m the Mr. Big in the relationship—emotionally unavailable, difficult to love, taciturn, whatever. Oh, but I’m not rich. I also don’t have a car and driver. Anyway, me, I’m not Carry Bradshaw. I’m going to make a flash card that says “You’re not Carry Bradshaw” and tape it to the entertainment center. “Oh yeah, right, I’m angst-ing out over something totally fake. Duh!”

4. I wish I spoke German. Or French. Preferably German and French.

5. This one shouldn’t be relegated to Number Five, but when you’re trying to keep something outside your brain, sometimes that something slips in somewhere weird. My little baby nephew had some sort of seizure. I didn’t hear it called a seizure, but something bad happened and he behaved abnormally. He had a spasm and then couldn’t be woken up. Good news is that it happened on Sunday and he seems perfectly fine now. He went to the emergency room, woke up, had many tests and observations done, and they think he’s fine. If it happens again, he’s not fine, but if it’s just once, he’s fine. That’s pretty vague, huh? I’m opting for the “he’s fine it was only once” vague but comforting route. Also, he was excited about the hospital room. He pointed to everything and said, “Mama, we have a new TV. Mama, we have a new lamp. Mama, we have a new bed.” To me that’s comforting evidence that nothing about him has changed.

6. In honor of the Worldwide Wrestling Entertainment spectacle called “Elimination Chamber,” which is really just a cage match or “Hell in a Cell” but fancied up, I have decided to re-name our bathroom The Elimination Chamber. The first time I used The Elimination Chamber tonight, it took all my powers of self-control and maturity to not shout: “Hey Matthew! I’m in The Elimination Chamber!”

7. It turns out that Matthew doesn’t even like bikinis. I guess that cancels out the search for the world’s sexiest and sturdiest support bikini ever. That’s OK. There’s a lot more one-pieces for us chubbos out there.

8. Lately I need to be physically restrained from rescuing dogs. Only the reminder that our lease was very grudgingly written to include just one dog keeps me from dialing that rescue number at the vet’s. Is this nesting for childless people? Wanting dogs?

9. As usual, I really ought to be in bed.

10. Love ya, Ta Ta For Now!

BDD

January 31, 2007, excavated today:

Lord, give me the courage to fast. No, not be fast. Give me the courage to fast.

I want to be anorexic. I long to be anorexic. I want to switch to a diet of caffeine and cigarettes and smell terrible but wear size two clothes. I want to be my teenage shape, petite to the point of tiny. Everyone gripped my forearm and said to me, “God, your arm is so thin I could break it with one twist.” Proud—I felt pride. I was so fragile I could be broken or protected. Or both.

But even then I didn’t see my body as magazine thin—and that was fifteen years ago, before models looked really anorexic. Not that I was allowed to read magazines other than peeks sneaked at my mother’s Southern Living. What I saw when I looked down were jiggly thighs and loose abdomen. Looking down I saw imagined cellulite and pasty skin.

Psychiatrists call it body dysmorphic disorder now. Fuck that. Fuck them for making it a disorder. I want to be size two again. I remember when I grew to size four and I was devastated. Fast forward to size fourteen, and I’m a hulking monster.

God, I want to be anorexic.

Maybe I want to be a zero. Maybe I want to be nothing. Nothing at all…

***Update, 2/5/2008: That whole bit was from a year ago. I don't feel like being nothing right now. I found that unposted blog entry and thought it was interesting that at a year ago I was having a tough time too. It felt parallel. And the message was never about suicide--it was about dissolving into un-being. Write me if you're worried and you need to talk about this. I won't tell you I'm OK, but I will tell you that I'm getting help and that I'm positive I will be OK. See? Not so bad after all, right?

Help me I'm fallin'

Depression is a mind hole, but, falling into it, I feel no impact. There’s no point of contact. I bump against the walls of the well as I go down, but there’s never a bottom to land on. No place to say, “Well, I’m here; now it’s time to climb back up.”

It’s not even a bungee free-fall plummet. It’s not a roller-coaster’s descent. It’s not cushioned or feathered, it’s not soft or hard--it’s not even a slope. I just wake up one day and realize I’m falling.

I’m so used to falling by now that I never know when it’s time for help. When is it my ordinary dip and when is it a plunge? Where is the dividing line between “get over it” and “seriously Christine, this is bad”? I can’t feel that space.

I always ask my therapist, “What is normal sadness and what is clinical?” I ask, “When is it my need to pull myself out and when do I need your help?” He says he can’t answer that. He says, “No computer can do therapy because there is no scientific parameter to it. It’s too delicate.”

Wednesday, my husband said to me, “You need to call your doctor.” At the time I wanted to ignore his advice because I didn’t feel like calling anyone, which, coincidentally, is a sign of depression for me. I didn’t resent him, I didn’t feel offended by his request, I just didn’t want to do it. How did I know this wasn’t normal and that I needed help? I didn’t know, but I guess he did.

I called my doctor Thursday. I felt better Thursday, which made me feel kinda silly for calling, but Matthew said I should anyway. My doctor said—without any prompting on my part—“It’s good that you called and told me this. We need to get you back to baseline.”

Baseline. It sounds like the starting point of a base jump. Is that depression? A base jump with no parachute? No target, no landing zone?

How do I rewind? How do I un-jump backwards, pulled up by invisible wires, like a kung-fu movie in backward slow-mo?

Matthew wants me to come back. He wants to help. He sees me bobbing away and knows I’ve gone too far to reel myself back in. On Thursday, after I called my doctor, I told Matthew, “It’s good of you to have told me to call my doctor. I want you to know that. Sometimes I need that outside perspective of someone who can see me and tell me it’s time to check back in.” I hope he understands how much he helps me when I’m falling.

The Honeybell

As promised, a photo of the delectable Honeybell orange



It's the vibrant fruit on the left. Feast your eyes!

Wednesday, it's about Thursday

“Hi, Wednesday. Um, we need to talk. I kind of want to see someone else.

“No, it’s not over between us. There’s just someone else I like so I thought we could step it back a bit and be more casual.

“Really, I still like you. It’s not like I’m going away. I’m still watching all the Gossip Girl re-runs even though I’ve seen every one.

“I know, America’s Next Top Model starts February 20. I’ll be back full-time then.

“But, it’s like, you don’t have any new episodes that I’m into right now. You know I’m committed to you, but I just need a little break.

“No, it’s Thursday. I know Monday is the Gossip Girl behind the scenes episode, but that’s just one night. This every Thursday.”

“It’s… it’s… Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

“But you know I love whipped cream pseudo-drama. You knew that going into this, Wednesday. I like the empty calories and brain-slushing. This show is perfect for me right now.

“No, I’m sorry, you’re still perfect for me too; I just need to see Thursday for a while.

“Well, it’s interesting because it’s self-destructive D-List celebrities airing their dirty laundry and actually getting good therapy from Dr. Pinsky’s treatment center.

“I like a train wreck. I like harmless strife. It doesn’t affect my life at all. I like that check-out.

“I hope you understand, Wednesday. It’s just that Gossip Girl doesn’t come back until the fall. I’ll get tired of Thursday when all the D-Listers implode themselves because of their inability to face their responsibility for their own actions. I’ll be back.

“I love you, Wednesday. I’ll see you soon. Bye-bye.”

New traditions

Being my first winter in Florida, I can’t say with authority how things work here, but I have discovered a local custom that I find quite tasty. People with orange trees in their yards share their extra fruit with friends. Delicious, they’re the most delicious oranges I’ve ever eaten. Today a man named Enzo dropped off a bag of grapefruits, oranges and Honeybells at my office neighbor’s desk. The moment I heard him leave, I begged for a Honeybell. I told her she should keep the rest of them for herself because of their utter orangey bliss. I can’t wait to eat my new treasure. And I love this new tradition.

Paranoid android

4/4/2008: Sorry, in good conscience I had to delete this post. It was funny. Make up whatever story in your mind that you think is funny, then laugh, then it will be like you were really reading this entry... Are you laughing yet? No? Visit LOLCats here then. If you don't laugh, you're not on the right meds.

Fake French

The problem with fake friends is that they’re just like white lies: how do you keep all the stories straight? Like, which friend was it who I overheard making fun of my food allergies behind my back, so now I know I can never tell her about any of my other maladies? Which friend pretends to my face that she’s queen of the world, but then I hear stories that she has personal problems she's unwilling to share with me? Which friend is it that I have learned I can make jokes about my therapy with? Now, toss all those little complications in a bowl, mix with a raspberry vinaigrette, and you have the salad that is my personal life in Florida.

I have many wonderful, spectacular friends with whom I am completely myself and I never have to lie to or hide things from, but none of them are in Florida. What’s a girl to do with a gaggle of half-friends and no real friends? Lie. Lie by omission only because I do have some moral standards, but, in essence, I lie.

You know what? I’m not a good liar. I know every time I open my mouth that it’s just a matter of time before I reveal that I have fibromyalgia to the woman who believes every ailment is “fake”(her word). I’ll accidentally reveal how little I trust the woman who pretends to be such a great friend but doesn’t confide in me that she’s having troubles. I worry most that I’ll accidentally tell one of the campus gossips a personal detail about my life and that it will spread like wildfire around campus, hurting Matthew’s reputation as well.

And I worry that I don’t have any real friends in Florida.

I know, real friends take time. I didn’t get Monyas and Boyds in my life overnight—they took time. But when you’re new to town and you’re missing the Boyds and Monyas, the comfort of real friendship sounds awfully reassuring. I should be grateful for the acquaintances I’ve made and not force any of the fakers to be anything they’re not capable of being. Mostly, I’m grateful that I still have the Monyas and the Boyds there to reassure me when I need some long-distance lovin.’

It read like a bitch-fest, but this is a love letter to all my adored friends out there in the world. You know who you are, and you know I love you.

Sunshine State True Friend,
Christine Wy

Upgrade / Downgrade?

Dispatch from the broken leg update: I started physical therapy today. I felt so good before today, like I had really turned a corner in my healing, and I was on my way to walking like a healthy two-legged person. No, I’m not as close as I thought.

I learned today that the boot has been doing all the muscle and tendon work for me, so my tendons and muscles are really painful and tight. I got upgraded today to a splint instead of the boot, and, surprisingly, it hurts worse. I couldn’t wait for the splint, but now my muscles and tendons are learning to work on their own again, and it’s quite painful. I’m now walking slower today than I was yesterday with the boot.

All complications aside, it does feel great to be out of the boot, and my ankle does feel happy (if not sore) to be moving again. I’ll be doing physical therapy for another four weeks, but my total healing time will be another 20 weeks. My physical therapist said that recovery time is generally two times the length of time I was in the boot. I had the boot for ten weeks, thus 20 weeks from now I can expect to be pretty much healed.

Somehow, it seems my healing time keeps getting pushed further and further away. Not that everyone hasn’t been honest with me about healing, but as I get further into healing, the end seems farther away.

I’m walking. I’m walking slowly, but I’m walking. One foot pushed in front of the other, here I go….

Cat poop, eternal doggie delight

My nasty dog. She *tries* to gross me out, I swear.

Because of my broken leg, we've had the cat's bedroom necessities set up pretty oddly. Instead of the baby gate blocking total canine entrance into Loki's room, we moved the litter box and food bowls into the closet and sort of wedged the baby gate across it.

Yesterday, the dog breached security.

I feared that this moment would come, that the dog would realize she's much stronger than the temporary closet situation we had erected, but for the past three months she was oblivious to this. Until yesterday.

I heard the dog snuffling around in Loki's bedroom, and I knew with certainty that something bad was about to happen. (I think I'm going to vomit just writing about this.) I had to go to the bathroom though, so I left the vortex of doggie mischief unattended. Fromt he bathroom I heard the unmistakable sounds of the dog chewing. She broke down the baby gate and munched away on cat litter.

(Yep, I'm probably going to vomit now.)

As soon as I could, I jumped up screaming at the dog. She knows it's wrong to eat cat poop, so she was out of there like a flash, but the damage was done. Her breath reeked of litter box. Shudder.

Unfortunately, Matthew was at home so I couldn't get away with Scoping her mouth and feeding her cough drops to disapate the germs and neutralize her mouth odor. He did suggest using our last charcoal bone (usually reserved for doggie gut cleansing), which wasn't a bad idea, but I couldn't help but hold her at bay for the rest of the night.

Poor babe, she was confused that suddenly mommy didn't want her face licked, but I just couldn't stand it. All I could think of was the amonia smell of her breath after her poop rampage.

I let her get up on the couch next to me instead of on my lap. What did she do? She stretched her neck and let out a great cat butt belch. God she's gross.

I know you can't carry me now

There are the times that I want to talk to you, and then there are the times when it’s OK to call. Like now. I need you. Just something simple, something stupid, to ask you about a book. But it’s 1 am and you’re asleep.

I want to reach you on shared ground, but we can’t seem to get that footing lately. We both slip and end up somewhere else. Do you feel it? Or is it just me?

We share a piece of soul, but what I wanted from you this Christmas was peace of mind. I didn’t get that. Sometimes you give it and sometimes you give intellectually to my emotional needs. Like ice water through a sieve, you chill me and there’s nothing to hold onto. You give me no purchase.

But not all the time. It’s not always like this. I want to rewind and start over. I want to draw a line in time and say, “That happened in the past, and in the future we’ll grow like this….”

Is that a phone call I can make? Can I create that barrier on my own and carry you over, or do we both need to use our legs? Make the bridge that piece of our shared soul. Walk with me.

Time won't let me

I had no idea I'd been away from the blog for so long. I've had some strife. Nothing earth-movingly dramatic, but little things.

I went back to work full time after all those weeks of bed rest and then part time in-office hours. It was stressful and hard to get the swing of. I really felt kind of wracked by it. It sounds so simple, but going to work was so taxing.

Next I went to Kentucky for a week, which was simultaneously stressful and relaxing. Half of the people were just pleased to get to spend time with me, and the other half just couldn't be pleased by me at all. There were people I ended up craving to be away from, and people I craved to be with to get away from the former. How sad.

Now I'm sick. My first two days back to work after the holiday, and I already used two sick days. Great way to start the semester. It's a sinus infection, and it's not going out quietly. No, it's lingering and kicking up a ruckus, but I'm on antibiotics and improving slowly.

I have things to write, and one on the burner that's been cookin for a while, so I'll get back to the blog. I regret I've been away so much since I broke my leg, but, I know you understand, dearest friends.

Oh, the shining news of the New Year is that my leg is much better and I'm improving all the time. I walk around the house in just regular shoes, and when I go out I wear my walking cast but don't use the crutches. It's a real relief to finally see the light at the end of this painful tunnel. It still hurts and there's lots of ways I can't move my foot, but I'm vastly better over the beginning of the saga. Think back to this:



Now flash forward to a Christine only occasionally whining instead of constant whimpering. Ask Matthew how much better it is.

Much love to you, internets. Thanks for the sympathy and understanding.

Love.

Trap doors

My memory has two faces: one, the idealized happy places; two, the grim, desperate places. The haunted side sticks like a broken record in the grimiest corners of my memory, no matter how hard I try to fight it.

Tonight, as I lay awake once again, sleepless, I am actually stuck in a loop of idealized happiness. Tonight, I lay awake yearning for Chicago.

I’m imagining Whole Foods--of all the things in the world to miss—and seeing the bulk bin of Israeli couscous and the diminutive glass jar of Thai red chili paste. I imagine buying henna, even though I’ve never used it before. I visualize the beautiful organic bacon and its thick, apple wood-smoked slices. I see the bulk herbs aisle, smiling at me with its bright lavender and dank burdock root scent, beckoning that I mix teas for sore throats to give as Christmas presents to my friends.

I also see downtown, Michigan Avenue by the Chicago River and north. The lights—beautiful twinkling lights—the red bows, the odd lighted glass globes artistically arranged in cedar branch covered flower beds. So many people, smiling, happy, taking pictures of the lights with point-and-shoot digital cameras set with the flash on (those pictures never come out; you have to set to night mode.). People are shoving and there are armloads of packages jamming sidewalks, but the children smile with glee, and the tourists stop to appreciate the wonder.

I’m thinking of the Chicago River, lighted so green in a summer gleaming blue sky with just the right amount of puffy white clouds in the distance. I see sunlight on art deco buildings, suddenly striking and awe-inspiring as the vision of their masters reveals their ornate, fanciful creations for the rare birds they are. I see the same Chicago at night, when the towering, black, art deco creations seem to loom with sinister intent—or maybe I imagine too much, maybe the Santa Fe building doesn’t glower.

And I lay in bed, thinking, “You chose to leave, Christine. Remember all the reasons you left?” And I think of an acquaintance’s t-shirt that was written in the style of “I heart New York,” but hers read, “I dot Chicago.” I remembered being stunned by it. How could someone who loved to lunch at Fox and Obel’s “dot” Chicago? I asked her about it, and she laughed at her feigned ambivalence toward the city. “You know, it’s the opposite of heart. I don’t love Chicago.” But she was a liar, I know.

But the “dot” t-shirt. Remember Christine? The “dot” was why you left. Christine, you were tired of traffic and public transportation and crowds and indifferent security guards who saw you four times a day for three years but never remembered your face. You were tired of how hard it was to get to Whole Foods. You were tired of even regular grocery shopping at over-crowded, picked-over, under-staffed stores. You were tired of parking. You were tired of your job. You were insanely tired of cold and ice and lingering slush that managed to find its way into your Wellington’s (how did it do that?).

And so, St. Augustine, the anti-Chicago. Little, quaint, tropical, easy-going.

Christine, don’t let Chicago keep you up at night. It’s a chimera. Halcyon. It doesn’t exist; it’s just an ideal you’ve encapsulated into pill form that you accidentally took before bedtime.

A friend once asked me why I didn’t blog about Chicago. She said I had so many interesting things to tell her about Chicago, but I never wrote them. I told her, “I’ve never been able to write a place where I lived. It could only happen after I left. I don’t know when I’ll leave Chicago, but that’s when I’ll tell Chicago stories.”

I feel I’m being trite, but it must be time. It must be Chicago bursting through me at last. But I have to remember the “dot.” It wasn’t all herbal teas and fresh sushi with lucky parking.

Goodnight sweetings. I hope I dream of sushi without regret for loss. I longed for St. Augustine and got it, now I have to keep from losing it to the memory of something that only existed sometimes.