BabbleFish

Give us the truth

2006-09-06T07:00:00.000-04:00

Perhaps you have already seen this, a transcript of Salt Lake City's mayor Rocky Anderson's speech on patriotism, the Bush administration, and the Iraq war. If you haven't, and you oppose Bush, you need to read it. If you support Bush, you must read it, because

there were no WMDs
there was no connection between Saddam Hussein and the attacks of 9/11
Iraq was not a threat to the United States
2600 American men and women have died in Iraq
more than 40,000 Iraqi civilians have been killed
this is wrong
this is unconscionable
this must end

Post a link to Mayor Anderson's speech on your blog. Forward the URL to your friends. Write your elected representatives to tell them you will no longer support someone who continues to support war, torture, disinformation, lies. March. Post signs in your yard. But spread the word: this is wrong. And it must end.

Off the Road, Finally

2006-05-25T04:30:00.000-04:00

The road went ever onward (almost without end, amen) but we are finally here. We grabbed everything we could carry, without regard for whether it needed to go inside or not, and practically ran for the door. Liberty Bell? Convention hall? Betsy Ross’s house? Pfft. I just want to sleep.

On the Road, Again

2006-05-24T08:14:00.000-04:00

This morning I once more find myself heading east on I-80. (That makes it sound as if getting here was effortless, which, I assure it, it was not.) Destination? Philadelphia and the wedding of JT’s little brother, 43 and, up until now, never married. Life has been a whirlwind (or perhaps a whirlpool?) of activity since returning home from Michigan 4 days ago, but we managed to do everything that needed to be done, and now we’re off, finery in tow, to celebrate a joyous family event. Although I am surrounded by books to read and writing to critique (3000 pages by June 15 if I do the recommended reading as well as the required; 1869 if I only do the required), the trip will be a much-needed break: no houses to buy, no workshops to prepare for, nowhere that we have to be until Friday night’s rehearsal dinner. You know what they say about a change being as good as a break.

And the reading I need to do for school? I’m actually looking forward to it, and not just because I want to cross it off my list, (though I must admit that I have a great fondness for crossing things off a to-do list). What a concept: studying something I enjoy. What a nice change from my undergraduate studies. I might turn out to be a good student, after all.

On the Road

2006-05-17T23:04:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I am not, at heart, a blogger. I like the idea of blogging, of chronicling the events in my life, even if for my own amusement or future consumption. But when things get busy, I don't find the time to blog. Probably I would never have been a journalist or famous diarist, either. I am what one of my workshop writers called an "emotional writer." She was speaking of herself when she said that she tended to write when she was upset or in love, but she could have been talking about me. But while that tends to be therapeutic, and I'm all for therapeutic, those aren't often the times I want to go back and read about. And yet, when life is full of change and excitement, I can't seem to find the time to record my thoughts and impressions. Perhaps it is just not a priority to me; I'm in love with the fantasy of blogging, but don't want to commit.

Still, something keeps nagging at me, urging me to the keyboard.

We're in Michigan on Whirlpool's dime, in a Holiday Inn Express suite overlooking Lake Michigan. I knew we would have a room with a view, but the gift basket was a surprise. I've never been wooed by a corporation before so I'm easily impressed by offerings of Michigan cherries and blueberries and local fudge. It was dark and cloudy when we arrived, so we pretended that we could see the waves from our balcony. We immediately hooked up the computer so that we could re-check the home listings a local realtor e-mailed us last night. Tomorrow morning we'll meet a "tour-guide-cum-propagandist" for a 3-hour tour of the town, then it's off to tour the Benton Harbor facility where JT will work (if we accept the job offer, that is). After lunch, we're going to look at house. Just to see what the market is like, and whether there are neighborhoods we like and houses we can afford.

Those from JT's department who have already made the trek to Michigan and lived to tell about it have been impressed with location. One co-worker came up here with the clear intention of turning down the job; he is now a fan of the area, with every intention of accepting the offer. I hope we'll get a chance to watch the sunset over the water tomorrow night, and perhaps to walk along the beach somewhere. Oh, and that we'll see enough to be able to make an informed decision come next Monday.

To Move or Not to Move

2006-05-11T02:38:00.000-04:00

That is the question before us now. Whirlpool announced yesterday that it would cut 4,500 jobs, close plants, including the one here in Iowa. JT learned yesterday that he is one of 58 Research and Design employees offered a position in Benton Harbor, Whirlpool's headquarters. Neither of us wants to move, but, as we suspected, a real-live job offer, even one 400 miles away, is pretty hard to decline. He--we have to decide by May 22. Less than two weeks. I have shows this weekend and school matinees on Tuesday and Wednesday. We plan to leave after next Wednesday's matinee and be back here in time for Friday evening's performance. The Wednesday following that we go to Philadelphia for his brother's wedding.

Which is why I'm up at 1:43 on a Thursday morning. Nothing like a series of seemingly-impossible deadlines to jolt me out of my self-indulgent doldrums.

The Days are the Hardest

2006-05-02T13:54:00.000-04:00

I had Vienna sausages for lunch today. (I know. I have the palate of a child. And not a particularly well-bred one, at that.) Mealtime went much more quickly today because there was no Christopher begging for bits of sausage. I don't know why he liked them so much. (I don't know why I like them either.) But the only thing he liked better was chicken from Long John Silver's. (Yes, yes. See first parenthetical phrase.)

He was actually quite annoying when I was eating Vienna sausages, eating his portions faster than I could spread a saltine with Miracle Whip (ibid) and adorn it with slices of processed meat product. If I ate in the living room, he jumped up on the coffee table and helped himself. (He also liked Miracle Whip. He was my cat, all right.) When I moved the plate out of his reach, he'd jump up on the couch and then walk from the couch to my lap. If I ate at the kitchen table like a grown-up (albeit one who still eats like a kid--anyone remember Franco American canned spaghetti? Yummy with cut-up hotdogs), he would try to climb on the table (a no-no) or, failing that, paw my leg to let me know he wanted more more more. Often the claws were unsheathed. But today I was able to eat my Vienna sausages unmolested. Unmolested but sad.

With JT at work all day, Christopher and I developed our own routines. If I slept in, Christopher would be asleep on the love seat when I got up. My opening the blinds in the living room was often his first clue that I was awake, and he would yawn and stretch, then saunter in to say hello and maybe eat a bit more breakfast. He slept a lot during the day, curled up on an electric blanket draped over a wicker love seat in the solarium, which is located just off the living room by the front door. The door, a heavy old oak door, sticks, and shrieks a little each time it is opened or closed. Christopher raised his head each time the door was opened, so it was habit to look in on him. Each time I left the house I said good-bye, telling him where I was going and when I'd be back.

When all three cats were alive, I checked their whereabouts before leaving the house, and routinely said, "Bye, guys," as I went out the door. After Riley died in October 2001, I made sure I told Mikey and Christopher that I loved them each time I left. Just as with people, you never know when the last time you saw a pet might be the last time you see him. It seems strange, now, even after more than a week, to go out without stopping in the solarium to kiss Christopher on the head and say good-bye. Sometimes, because I can't stand not to, I pause at the door and, looking into the solarium, still say good-bye and I love you before I go out the door. And I still turn my head to look at his spot on the electric blanket when I come in.

The electric blanket is off now, but still draped across the love seat. I know it needs to be washed and either put or thrown away (after years of providing a warm bed for elderly cats, it's not really fit for human use), but I'm not yet ready. Nor am I ready to deal with our outgoing answering machine message, which still says, "You have reached the home of Hannah, JT, Mikey, Riley and Christopher. Please leave a message at the tone, and one of us will get back to you." When I lived alone, I used the cat's names as a sort of protective camouflage, and when JT and I moved in together, couldn't bear to give that up--I was giving up so very much as it was, moving from Virginia to Iowa where I knew no one but JT and his sister's family. And then, when Riley died, I couldn't bear to take his name off the message.

The day Christopher died, I turned off the answering machine, not wanting to hear the outgoing message. We haven't turned it back on. I know it's time we took the cats' names off of it. It was one thing to have the names of our cats on the announcement when they were alive, and another to leave the names of deceased cats on the message. But it's a whole other level of crazy when all of them are gone. It's just...I'm not ready for them to be completely gone. I picked up the litter boxes and cat rugs. I picked up and put away the water dishes and his food bowl, and the mats that went under them. I'm just not ready to give up everything.

Sometimes I think I hear him. When I'm the only one here, I still think that any moment I'll hear the click of his claws on the floor as he gets up to use the litter box or eat a little more food. When I sit in the recliner with a computer on my lap or say my lines out loud, I expect him to come out of the solarium, stretching his back legs to get the kinks out, and then to jump up in my lap. After 21 years, it's strange not to have my day and house filled with Christopher's needs and presence. Perhaps this is a little like the way parents feel when their children move out. We are, after all, empty nesters now. Or maybe just empty hearters.

Marcus Christopher Montgomery II

2006-04-25T12:54:00.000-04:00

Funny how, when some part of us is injured or broken, we not only stop using it, we stop trusting it, certain that it will let us down or that we can't stand the pain. So we engage in avoidance behaviors, when what we really need to do is let ourselves feel. As a friend said to me, we can lose a piece of our hearts, but our hearts never get any smaller.

I lost a big piece of my heart on Saturday. Bubba, whose real name was Marcus Christopher Montgomery II, never really recovered from the dental surgery on Friday. Although we took no x-rays, we feel certain that he had some tumors growing on or near his lungs that were slowly decreasing the ability of his lungs to move oxygen throughout his body, something that didn't become apparent until he went under anesthesia. I brought him home Friday night, weak and uncomfortable, where he spent most of the evening lying on an electric blanket in our sunroom--his usual sleeping spot. But he never relaxed. If he fell asleep he couldn't keep moving air through his lungs and he'd wake up. He wasn't interested in food or water. When I came home from rehearsal, he purred for a couple of seconds and pressed his head against my hand, but it was clear he wasn't doing well.

JT thought he would recover, but I had a feeling he would not.

When I got up to check on him in the night, he had moved from the sunroom just into the living room and was lying on a corner of the rug. I think he was just looking for a place where it would be easier to breathe. I laid on the floor with him for over an hour, before moving him back to the loveseat. His paws were cold, and he was beginning to shiver. He didn't cry out when I picked him up, but made a little noise of protest. I'm sure that holding him made it harder for him to breathe. I checked on him twice more. No one got any sleep Friday night.

Saturday morning we took Christopher back to the vet. We put him in his carrier, knowing he would be more comfortable on an unyielding surface than on my lap, put I sat in the back seat with him, and opened the door so I could pet and talk to him. He seemed more alert than he'd been at any time since I brought him home the night before, watching the houses and cars pass. I was glad that he didn't seem to mind the trip, since riding in the car was pretty low on his list of pastimes.

It was clear to everyone that he was not going to improve, and we talked about our options, which really amounted to letting nature take its course, or easing him into a peaceful death. After the vet finished examining him, Christopher crawled away from me to the edge of the examining table and lay his head down, breathing heavily. "Looks like he's made the decision for us," the doctor said, and I thought he meant that Christopher was going, right then. But, no. "It could be a little while, or it could be twelve hours." No, it couldn't be twelve hours; I wasn't going to do that to him, no matter how much it hurt to say good-bye. Whenever he's been sick, I've said that I wished there was something I could do to make him feel better. On Saturday, there was.

The vet took us to a room outfitted with a couch, chairs and rocking chair and left us alone with Christopher. We were able to spend time with him in privacy and comfort, to say our good-byes and make peace with what we were about to do. I told Chrisopher what was going to happen, that he would just go to sleep, and that when he woke up, he would be with Mikey and Riley (with whom Christopher spent 16 and 17 years of his life). I told him I loved him and that I would always love him. And I asked him to tell Mikey and Riley that I still loved them. At that point, Christopher, who had not really reacted to anything we'd said, raised his head and gave me a look that very clearly said, "What are you doing talking about them at a time like this?" JT and I burst out laughing through our tears. For all the years that Christopher and Mikey and Riley lived together, Christopher still sometimes acted as though he was an only cat, and for him to appear affronted, in his last moments, by a mention of the other two, was a wonderful gift. It was a last glimpse of his unique personality.

When we were ready ("Ready." What a funny word, ready. 21 years wasn't enough time to get "ready," how could 10 or 15 minutes or two hours make a difference? I kept thinking, "How do parents do it? How do they turn off a child's life support, how do they prepare for that moment between before and after?"), the doctor administered a sedative, warning us that the sedative alone might be enough, given Christopher's respiratory problems. JT and I each kissed him and said our final good-byes, and then he drifted off to sleep. I wish I had asked the doctor to administer the other shot too. As Christopher slipped away and his bladder released, his body went into involuntary spasms, gasping for air. Although JT has assured me (repeatedly; every time I ask) that Christopher was gone by then and had no awareness of what was happening, it's a memory I wish I didn't have.

Afterwards, Christopher lay in my lap, head across my arm, as if he were truly asleep, and we sat with him for a while longer. I knew he was gone, but I also knew it was my last chance to feel his weight against me and to stroke his soft fur. Once we left, there would be no going back. The vet's wife prepared a place for us to lay him, and said we could just leave by the back door when we were ready. They both did everything they could to make us feel as comfortable as possible. I covered Christopher with one of my old tee shirts and put one of his favorite toys between his front legs, the way he sometimes slept with it. I covered him with another towel, and he looked as though he were just sleeping. It made me feel better to do those things, though I knew he was beyond caring about towels and tee shirts and catnip cigars.

In a little while I will go back to the vet's office for his cremains, and I will bring him home for the last time. I will go back for him, because I promised him that I would always, always come back for him.

Bubba Goes to the Dentist

2006-04-21T10:51:00.000-04:00

The house is quiet. I keep thinking I hear the rustle of Bubba getting down from the love seat in the sunroom, where he spends his time sleeping, or the click of his claws on our hardwood floors, but it's always my imagination. I keep thinking I should check on him, but then I remember that he's at the vet's office, and that someone else is looking after him today.

On Wednesday we went to the vet for his monthly acupuncture treatment. We knew he had a tooth that was bad, but we'd put off doing anything about it. In addition to his kidney problems, Bubba has a congenital heart murmur, and at his age, any procedure is a concern. And yet, it doesn't seem right to allow him to suffer the agony of a toothache, an agony I know well, just because I'm afraid of the what-ifs. So this morning I dropped him off for a tooth extraction and came home to await a late-morning call from the technician saying I could come get my cat.

I was surprised and more than a little apprehensive to hear the doctor's voice on the phone instead of the tech's, though his first words were reassuring: "Bubba is doing fine now." Now. Now? "But we almost lost him." Ah. His breathing has been a little rapid since Wednesday's vet visit, which could have been due to pain. But it could also, the vet said, be due to some pathology in the lungs. As in, this could be It. Or the beginnings of It. That's so hard to contemplate, even though Bubba, at 21 1/2, has already lived a very long time.

But there is some good news. The pre-surgery blood work showed that Bubba's creatinine level (an indication of kidney function) is at the same level it was nearly two years ago, slightly over normal, amazing given his age and health. He's on IV fluids and in an oxygen chamber, but he's alert and stable and in a few hours I should be able to go get my cat and bring him home where he belongs--for as long as we have left together. Because I promised him I'd come back for him. That I would always come back for him.

Afternoon update:
They've taken Bubba off the oxygen and capped his IV, but left it in, in case they need to administer more meds. And they want to keep him for a few more hours. Just in case.

(So Not) Ready for My Close-up, Mr. DeMille

2006-04-19T16:29:00.000-04:00

I am not photogenic. I am, in fact, whatever the hell is the opposite of photogenic. If I'm lucky, I take an okay picture. Which might explain why I'm not looking forward to tonight's publicity photos. It's my first time. The Playhouse always takes archive photos on Preview Night, but those are a piece of cake, action shots, as close to candid as staged photos can be. This is different. These are the photos that will go to the papers, expressly to entice people to come see the show. Yeahhhh. Pictures of me, making the play look fun and worth the money. Aiyeeee.

And then there's the whole costume anxiety issue. This will be my first view of my costume. After tonight, I can stop imagining how hard it will be to climb up on a headboard, crawl into a rabbit hole and roll on the ground while wearing a 1920s-era dress. After tonight, I'll be able to picture exactly how fun it will be to be dragged across the floor, bounce on a bed and jump off a toybox--while wearing a 1920s-era dress.

Why is it I do this again? Oh, yes. Because it's fun. I am so in need of an attitude adjustment.

Resistance is...

2006-04-18T15:08:00.000-04:00

a) futile
b) a waste of time
c) sometimes based on fear
d) all of the above

Last night I couldn't sleep for thinking of all the things I've been avoiding. High on the list of things I should be doing is working on my lines. I know them, but not like I should. One of the things I do to learn lines is make a tape of my cues, leaving enough blank space for me to recite my lines. This allows me to "run lines" with myself, and to work on lines on while doing other things. At least, that's what I usually do. The play opens in less than three weeks, and I haven't even finished the tape yet! Once in a while I ask JT to run lines with me, but not nearly enough. I just can't seem to bring myself to really work on them.

I think it's because I don't feel like Pooh. I don't think I'm doing a good job, think the director should have cast someone else, and believe I'm going to be the weak link in the show. How fun is that?

And the play should be fun: lead role in a well-loved children's show, the director's great, the cast is wonderful and talented. Why else do it, if not for the fun? So why not just relax, do my best, and have fun? Yeah, easy for you to say.

My natural inclination is to 1) castigate myself for not working harder (and being more talented), and
2) ridicule myself for being so stupid. But. Neither of those things are very helpful.

So. In the interest of treating myself kindly, I'm going to acknowledge that I feel scared about my ability to play the lead. And I'm going to tell myself that it's okay to feel scared. And that being scared to do something doesn't mean that I can't do it. I just need to relax. Do my best. And work on my lines.

How Many Roads Must a Man Walk Down...?

2006-04-15T15:31:00.000-04:00

What do you think it costs a man to stand on a busy street corner searching the faces filled with downcast eyes, while holding a cardboard sign that announces to all who care to look that he is "Homeless and hungry"? I don't know, either, and, if I'm lucky, I never will.

Mine was one of those faces with downcast eyes. Rehearsal ran until 1 today, so JT said he would eat lunch without me. I was tired and decided to pick up a sandwich on the way home. I'm not great with directions, so as I drove east along Ingersoll, I asked myself, more than once, "Did I pass it already?" Just as I decided that no, the Subway was still ahead of me, I saw him. A man my age, holding up his handwritten sign. Homeless and hungry. I looked away, not wanting to see the pleading in his eyes. Not wanting him to see whatever might have been in mine. And there, just through the intersection, was the Subway.

I pulled in. Told myself that I could at least buy the guy a sandwich. Climbed out of my paid-for Saturn (a '96, but still in great shape) and saw that the guy was crossing the street, moving away from me. Well, that's that, I thought. At least I had good intentions. But I thought about Girlbomb, who was homeless for a while as a teenager, and who now volunteers at the shelter where she lives. I thought about the women at the prison, who had written so eloquently that morning about silence. I had $20 on me. I couldn't cure homelessness or end starvation in the world, but I could feed one man.

I walked to the edge of the parking lot. Watched to see if he kept going down the street, away from me. No, he stopped at the corner, just trying a new vantage point. I waited for him to look my way, was just about to cross the street after him when he finally turned and caught my wave. He jogged over to me, the sign tucked under his arm. "I was just about to buy a sandwich at Subway," I said. "Would you like one?" His smile lit his face. "Yes, ma'am, that'd be real nice." He was dressed in work boots and jeans, and carried a jacket over one arm. He was clean, but seemed a little fuzzy around the edges, as if his hair hadn't been trimmed in a while. There was a light stubble on his cheeks, and his light blue work short looked soft and faded from multiple washings.

I said my name was Hannah. He was Don, who was from Des Moines, but had been away for a while. He was trying to re-establish himself but said it was hard. "Order whatever you want," I said, wondering about soup, salad, what he'd last eaten. We looked at the menu together. Should I go first, I wondered, so he wouldn't feel pressured to make a decision? Or let him go first, and then tell the cashier I was paying for both? I couldn't even remember what I normally ordered at Subway, or think of what I might want. "How about a #7?" he finally said, and I told him sure, if that's what he wanted.

He hung back a little, to let me order. I told the sandwich artist (no lie--that's what they're called) behind the counter that we'd have a #7, and she said, "6-inch or foot-long?" I asked Don if he wanted a foot-long. Get the foot long, I wanted to say, maybe you can get two meals out of it. He finally agreed that a foot-long would be good. I think he didn't want to take advantage. Then the woman behind the counter asked me what kind of bread. I asked Don, showed him the bread choices. He chose wheat. She asked if we were going to share the sandwich. I said no. She asked me if I wanted it toasted. I looked at Don, who said no. I wanted to say, "Talk to him, it's his sandwich," and maybe I should have. But I didn't quite know how. I wanted, most of all, not to condescend. And second, I wanted not to make a big deal. For all anyone needed to know, we were two friends, one of whom was taking the other to lunch.

I ordered my own sandwich, a 6" roast beef, then the sandwich artist dumped two paper baskets full of hot steaming beef onto Don's bread. "That looks good," he said. I told him I was thinking the same thing. I was glad he'd gotten something hot. By the time we got to the condiments, the sandwich artist had gotten with the program, and talked directly to Don about what he wanted on his sandwich. I told him to make it a meal if he wanted, which meant he got chips and a drink. He said, "If that's okay..." and thanked me for buying his lunch. I told him he was welcome, but that really, I wasn't doing much.

Our order came to $10.26, so I have the cashier $20.26, and gave Don the $10 change. "Maybe it'll help with another meal," I said. "Bless you," he said, "and thank you. I really appreciate this." He told me he'd had a job lined up for Monday--day labor--and then he got sick, but that he was hoping things would turn around next week. I shook his hand, said it was nice to meet him, and wished him luck. I wondered, as I left the restaurant, if people were watching, and what they were thinking. Did they think I had just gotten scammed? That I shouldn't have brought That Man into a decent establishment? Had some of them driven past Don themselves, or watched him from the comfort of their tables?

I don't know, and I don't really care. I just know I used the money in my wallet to buy a man a sandwich. And that I cried all the way home.

The Waiting is Over*

2006-04-14T08:10:00.000-04:00

Sometimes no news is good news. Sometimes no news is just...no news. And sometimes...sometimes you just know in your bones that no news, when it eventually turns into news, is not going to be what you had hoped to hear. Which means that I'll be heading west to Antioch instead of east to Goddard for my graduate studies. (Holy crap, I'm going to graduate school!)

I am disappointed. Who wouldn't want to be accepted everywhere they applied? And Goddard was my first choice. But Antioch's quick acceptance and friendly wooing had begun to work their magic on me, and I've been leaning toward Antioch for the last week or so. Truly. I mean, where would you rather go to school: the place where you can't get anyone to return your phone calls, or the place that says, "We love your writing"? Uh-huh, me too.

Back in the day, when I was an Assistant Registrar at Virginia Tech, a certain Director of Admissions from the east coast tried to impress upon us that Admissions was everyone's job, that the contact a prospective student or parent had with someone in another office, on the phone or even on the sidewalk could affect whether or not the student applied or enrolled. I really hate that he was right.

*for graduate school results, anyway. No word on JT's job yet.

Waiting for Go-ddard

2006-04-11T12:49:00.000-04:00

Have I mentioned (lately) how much I hate waiting?

Oh, sometimes--once in a while--I manage to go about my business (la la la) without thinking about whatever it is I'm waiting for.

This is not one of those times.

There is much business I should be going about, but all I seem to be able to do is compulsively check e-mail (hold on...Nope, nuthin') and listen to the phone not ring.

I hate this.

Makes me want to stop being Good Hannah and indulge in some good old-fashioned Hannah B. procrastination. Yeah, yeah, procrastination, that's the ticket. That will make me feel better.

Crap crap crap.

Sigh.

Okay, okay. I'm off to buy groceries for tonight's workshop. But just so we're clear? I have to. Doesn't mean I want to.

School Daze

2006-04-10T06:55:00.000-04:00

Some disturbing dreams this morning, most involving communal living (i.e., college dorms) and going back to school. The deadline for accepting Antioch's offer of admission is Friday. I still haven't heard from Goddard, which I'm starting to think is some kind of sign that maybe that's not the right school for me. Yeah, choosing a graduate school is exactly the kind of life decision that should be based on signs and dreams. Perhaps Antioch would be willing to grant a short extension. I may ask, as I should hear from Goddard "any day now." (Whoa, déjà vu. Methinks I've said that before.)

Pen Pals, Part Two

2006-04-09T07:02:00.000-04:00

Just before I woke up, I dreamed that I was on a crowded patio, waiting for a seminar on writing (or maybe MFAs) to start. It was one of those days that was supposed to be warm, but the temperature had dropped, the wind had picked up and everyone was under-dressed. And the seminar was late in starting. People started chatting and woman nearby made a comment about my MFA plans being a good basis for "going on." Which I took to mean going on to a Ph.D. I told her that while those who wanted to teach English or writing often got an M.A. and then Ph.D, that an MFA was considered a terminal degree, and that, depending on the school, a person with an MFA could teach at the college level. A man sitting across the table made a face at someone sitting above and behind me, as if to say, "What does this woman know? Nothing." Which made me wonder the same thing: what do I know, really, about writing or about what doors an MFA will or will not open? Or about anything at all? After all, the "man" later became a woman. Then the wind got worse and it started to snow, and I decided I didn't need whatever information the seminar was to provide badly enough to suffer the weather and left. Or woke up. Again.

Bubba was hungry this morning. Bubba can be very pushy when he thinks someone should be feeding him. Bubba is 21 so he gets away with a lot. On weekday mornings we get up at 5:30 and go for a walk. Bubba doesn't eat until 5:40 or so. On weekends he thinks we should get up at 5:30 and will often start talking to us about rectifying the situation. Still, I managed to ignore his cries of imminent demise from starvation and sleep (and dream) for those last few minutes. Cats don't do time changes. Which, in the spring, works in our favor. Last Sunday I was able to sleep until 6:30. It was wonderful. But he's figured out the schedule now, so here I am.

Yesterday we had our third meeting of WHEW! at the prison. WHEW! is the new name of the prison writing group (aka Creative Writing class, as the COs call it). Crackly announcement, intended to be heard everywhere on the grounds: "Creative Writing Class is meeting in 202." I like the way the women put it: "Writing Class is on the grounds." Creative Writing Class is punctuated by similar announcements:

"Parents Anonymous is meeting in room 201."

"The library is now open. (At 10:30) It will remain open until 11:30."

"Bible Study is now meeting. Anyone signed up for Bible Study can now come to the Admin Building."

"Those in Bible Study 2 can now go to Unit 4. Bible Study 2 is meeting in Unit 4."

I find it very distracting. I don't know how the women manage to take the announcements in and yet not acknowledge them. Practice, I guess. Frequently there are also announcements asking that "Inmate Smith come to the visiting room. Inmates Smith, Jones and Doe come to the visiting room." Actually, I'm making those names up because generally I can't begin to understand what was actually said. Half the time it sounds like Miss Othmar got her hands on a bullhorn.

Yesterday was the 25th birthday of one of the women. She showed up in her usual denim and fleece, all in shades of blue, but with her normal ponytail had been replaced by I-have-a-visitor-today hair, all braided and curled. She looked very pretty. Her father, whom she hadn't seen in four years, was coming to see her, but she had told him not to come until after class. Every time the announcement was for someone to come to the visiting room, I tried a little harder to make out the name called, but it was never hers. She didn't seem to be concerned, didn't even seem to be distracted. I hope she had a good visit. I really hope she had a visitor.

We got some gorgeous writing yesterday, particularly in response to a poem called "Where I'm From." (Which I can't share with you, so don't even ask.) I have used this exercise before, but have never gotten such wonderful writing, nor have I ever much liked what I've written. But yesterday was different. JC, the other facilitator, led the exercise, asking us to close our eyes if we wished while we listened to her read. So I did. And it made all the difference. Usually I think, "I don't even know where I'm from. I'm from Detroit and Georgia and Virginia and I don't know any family history and..." You know, I resist the precise thing I'm asking the other writers to do. Yesterday, images of Detroit came to me, and before I knew it I was writing through tears. I was completely taken aback by my emotional response to a poem I've read many times.

I am from grey city streets, broken concrete hard beneath my hopscotching feet, streets where houses, left behind by the flight of whites to the suburbs, stand abandoned and barren, surrounded by waves of encroaching grass. Where the embers fanned by the flames of the 60s still smolder among the scarred ruins of a once-proud city. Detroit, city of my birth, soul of my mother, symbol of the worst of the worst. I have abandoned you in body and repudiated you in spirit. You are no home of mine. And yet, you are the sing-song chants of my childhood, the innocence among the rising menace of approaching crime--and the only place I ever believed that my family was real.

Money Talks (Back)

2006-04-08T17:32:00.000-04:00

We survived The Money Talk, and graduate school is still on the table. Whew!

Incidentally, WHEW! is, as of this morning, the official name of the prison writing group. It stands for Writing Helps Empower Women. Pretty cool, huh?

Money Talks

2006-04-07T13:55:00.000-04:00

So. JT and I are going to have The Money Talk tonight. We hate talking about money. Hate hate hate it. We've been married 7 1/2 years, and I think I can count on one hand the number of times we've had The Money Talk. Okay, maybe two hands. But still. We each lived alone for a long time, and were very used to (and comfortable with) handling our own finances. The hardest thing about moving in together was not always having someone around where before we'd had plenty of space and privacy. Nor was it fighting over closet space. (JT conceded before the battle ever began.) No, hands down the hardest part about sharing our lives has been Talking About Money. It's only been a few months since we set up a joint checking account, for pete's sake! (Hey--no judgments. You do it your way, we'll do it our way.)

With JT's job situation cloudy (or, as Spike's 8-ball just told me, "Outlook not so good"), he thinks he'll feel better if we talk about finances. That I can do. I can't make Whirlpool keep the design center in Iowa open; nor can I conjure up the perfect replacement job. But I can talk about money. Even if it means talking about deferring graduate school and giving up the cleaning service. Talk is cheap, right?

But all is not gloom and doom here on the street with the trees. I learned the other day that one of my poems was accepted by Patchwork Journal. I'm amazed at how calm I am about this: Oh, yes, another of my poems is going to be published, ho-hum...Like this is an everyday occurrence. Right. Only, not. (Perhaps I've just reached by adrenaline quota for the quarter.) And I've been awarded a small grant at my second-choice school, based on diversity (WTF? Diversity? I'm white, middle class, live in the middle of the country, middle-aged...ohhhhh) and merit.

I think I am a little bummed about the whole graduate school thing, though. (Wanna know how I know? I'm sitting here nibbling on a fingernail--nasty habit--and staring at the computer screen.) I'm waiting to hear from the first-choice school, which should happen any day now. Today would be good. Very good. Or at least far better than Monday.
See, my second-choice school wants a written commitment to attend (plus a non-refundable $250 ) by April 14. They're in California. If I overnight it, I could hold off sending anything (i.e., deciding) until maybe April 12. That's five days from now. I can't make a decision like that in five days! (Nibble nibble nibble.)

Maybe I should defer. That would allow time to decide, plus we would then know JT's future with Whirlpool. (Nibble nibble nibble.)

But I don't want to defer. I'm afraid if I don't jump into graduate school now, when I'm poised on the edge of the pool, that I'll never do it. I'll never even get close to the water again. (Nibble nibble.) There will never be a perfect time to go to graduate school, and it will be all too easy to find reasons not to do it. (Chomp chomp.)

I've got to post this and back away from the computer. This isn't getting me anywhere, and I have something like 16 pieces of writing to comment on for tomorrow's prison workshop.

Fingernails harmed during the writing of this post: 2
Hours spent writing this post: 1
Things accomplished/settled/decided: 0

Oh, yes, this was a good use of my time. Only, not.

I did manage to talk to my dad today, though.

Too Busy to Call Your Dad? You're Too Busy to Blog

2006-04-06T13:48:00.000-04:00

Last month I read 3 books. Sound like a lot? Not compared to the 21 I read in February. Or the 27 I read in January. Yeah, I read a lot. Or, I used to. This month I'm hoping to finish Girlbomb: A Halfway Homeless Memoir, by the awe-inspiring Janice over at Girlbomb, but so far I haven't had time to read more than 5 pages.

I haven't learned my lines yet. That is so not like me. I'm so competitive that I just have have have to be the first one off book. Oh, and? It's a point of pride for me to know my lines verbatim. Ha! Who has time to learn lines? I'm lucky to make it to rehearsal. And now they want us to spend time--our own time, mind you, not rehearsal time--doing physical and vocal warm-ups? Every freakin' day? Who has time for that crah--uh, helpful stuff?

And I just--just, like, while I was typing the last paragraph--got an e-mail from an editor at Meredith. He's got the bluelines ready. So I can come in anytime I like, this afternoon or tomorrow, to proofread. Anytime I like. Anytime I like? Yesterday I went in to do some proofing for this same editor (they got a million of 'em). Thought I'd be there an hour, hour and a half, tops. He had a couple "extra" things for me to do. No biggie. But while I was proofing, another editor walked by and said, "Oh, are you proofing today? Would you have time to do a job for me? It might take a couple hours..."

What did I do? I said yes. Even though I had a ton to do. I was there four hours. I missed lunch. Traffic was terrible on the way home. I got home hungry, cranky and stressed. But, good sister that I am, I called my little brother to wish him a happy birthday. While I was fixing lunch. Fortunately for both of us, a customer dropped by his shop about the time my grilled cheese sandwich (hot, melted Velveeta cheese--mmm!) was ready. So I called him back later. While I emptied the dishwasher. I did not call my dad yesterday. I have, however, tried him twice today. No answer.

And I just got (yes, wait for it) another e-mail from the Meredith editor, this time wanting to know about weekend availability. Am I free this weekend? Well, let's see...I'm going to the prison Saturday morning. And then to rehearsal Saturday afternoon. And then I really should spend time with JT. Sunday I have another rehearsal. But...you know I'm going to say yes, don't you? I can't afford to turn down paying work, not with JT's ambiguous job situation. I still believe we'll be fine, but we don't know that yet. In addition to everything else, we're going to have The Money Talk tomorrow night. Ick. Necessary, but still? Ick.

I guess I need to go call this guy. And then get back to my regularly-scheduled activities. Oh, and? Bubba just sat on my arm, and I'm not entirely positive that he left everything that belongs in the litterbox in the litterbox, if you know what I mean. So I might also need to change.

Sometimes I Fly Like An Eagle...

2006-04-04T08:42:00.000-04:00

You have totally got to check it out. A local dj talked about this on the radio yesterday and I totally forgot about it until this morning. It's live during daylight hours, Pacific time, but good luck getting through. In the last few days they've had 2 million visitors per day, with as many as 4500 connections at any one time. I keep getting kicked off, but it's still pretty cool.

Bald eagles nest along the Des Moines river in the winter. It was the first benefit (aside from my husband) I found to life in the Midwest. The first time I saw an eagle take flight, I was moved to tears. I had never seen one outside of a controlled setting, and seeing them in the wild reduced me to articulate exclamations such as: Look, he's flying! Here he comes! There he goes! Oh, oh, oh, now he's diving for a fish. Yeah, not me at my most brilliant. Fortunately, only JT is privy to most of my less-than-stellar moments, and he appears to have a high threshold for inanity.

Enough about me. Go check out the eagles. But if you start saying things like, "Look, she's preening!" or "Look, she's sitting on her eggs!" well, consider yourself warned.

People are Strange

2006-04-03T10:18:00.000-04:00

Why is it that there are just some people that we'd like to see fail? Or, conversely, whose success and happiness we resent? A guy I went to high school with was appointed a judge last week. I was flabbergasted. I immediately sent a note to a lawyer-friend, typing, as fast and as hard as my short little fingers would go, "WTF? How the hell did that happen?" (Okay, I didn't say WTF, as my lawyer-friend is quite conservative and would have found the f-word highly offensive. And I didn't say hell either. But I was quite agitated.) The reporter covering the story could only find 2 or 3 attorneys willing to go on record, and then saying fluffy things like, "He's a great guy, and he totally deserves this and I can't wait to plead a case before him." Oh, please. My lawyer-friend said, for the record, "Well, he has parlayed his basic gifts into a success that is beyond the sum of its parts." Isn't that great? Perhaps not a good career move, but it made me laugh out loud.

So, how'd he get to be a judge? Politics, influence, money, hard work? What does it matter? Why does it matter? I don't even live there any more, and I really have no reason to resent the guy. He was in my brother's class, so I knew him slightly. His family came from money and what passed for influence in our little town, and maybe he was arrogant about it. He was kind of a wiener, but he never did anything to me, and so I have no reason to sneer when I think of him as a judge. And yet, I do. I'm sneering now.

Maybe it's because he was Bobby* all through high school. Once he finished law school and returned to the area to practice law, he insisted that everyone call him Robert. "I'm Robert now," he would say, loftily. (Or snottily. Or perfectly-within-his-rights-ly. Take your pick.) But then, when he decided to run for Commonwealth's Attorney, suddenly he was Bobby again. Or rather, Bobby! Everywhere I looked were billboards, yard signs, bumper stickers and buttons that said, "Bobby!" Someone came to my door to campaign for him. "I'd like to tell you about Bobby!" he said. I said, "Oh, I know Bobby!, all right." He's a Republican, so I wouldn't have voted for him whatever name he called himself, but it just made me crazy that he went back to a nickname he'd repudiated just to make him seem for like one of the common people. Or maybe it pissed me off that it worked. At any rate, he's been Bobby! ever since, and now he's Judge Bobby! Pftt.

By the way, I'm quite aware that his success takes nothing from me, that he has the right to call himself whatever he wants and that sneering reflects more poorly on me than on the object of my disdain (not to mention the risk of having my face freeze like this.) Still. I sneer. (Or, as we sometimes say in the south, I snerl up my nose.)

*not his real name

2006-03-31T13:57:00.000-05:00

"...party
Karamu, fiesta, forever
Come on and sing along!
All night long! (all night)
All night long! (all night)
All night long! (all night)..."

Dancing back to BabbleFish from the party over at GirlBomb's place (party, Karamu, fiesta, forever...) I may not enjoy that good old TGIF esprit de corps anymore, but I can sure take advantage of others'joie de vivre (come on and sing along...)

Good thing, too, as there's not much to joie my vivre around here today: it's cold and gray and windy and JT no longer works for Maytag.

They finalized the deal, signed the papers, and "Maytag ceased to exist as a stand-alone company" an hour or so ago. I'm surprised to feel a little sad about that. Does this mean no more Ol' Lonely? Also known as the Maytag Repairman, the character survived the deaths of Jesse White and Gordon Jump, saw the coming (and going) of the Maytag Apprentice, but will it survive the buy-out?

All this talk about the merger is bringing me down. I might have to cha-cha back over to GirlBomb for more margaritas.

Heh

2006-03-30T14:43:00.000-05:00

That whole Maytag-Whirlpool thing? No news. JT is okay about it, at least in the face of no specific news about his continued employment status. Probably should have mentioned it earlier. But?

I wanna talk about me
Wanna talk about I
Wanna talk about number one
Oh my me my
What I think, what I like, what I know, what I want, what I see...

--"I Wanna Talk About Me"
Toby Keith

A Day Off

2006-03-30T11:06:00.000-05:00

Today I'm doing nothing. Well, almost nothing. Well, only things that have to be done. At any rate, I've done nothing so far but sleep in (until 6:45!) and read other people's blogs. Oh, and, feel anxious about the doing-nothing thing, even though I decided last night that I deserved a day off.

Except, you know, for that proofreading job that has to be finished by 9:00 am Monday (400 pages of slow cooker recipes) and I still have nearly 100 pages to go plus the 15-page cross-referenced-by-ingredient bitch of an index. Oh, and learning lines. Because rehearsal last night totally sucked because I hadn't looked at my script for three days and, as JT says, even though I'm not getting paid I do have a responsibility to the director and the Playhouse and the other actors. Being, like, you know, the star and all that and it wasn't for lack of interest but lack of time that I ignored the script, being all busy applying for scholarships at Antioch, scholarships for which I had exactly 8 days from notification to when the 500-word essays had to in hand, no fax or e-mail. In California. So it's not like I could just crank them out at the last minute and drop them by on my way to rehearsal (and all this for a school I may not even go to), and then the winter writing workshop ended on Tuesday and the spring session starts next Tuesday and what was I thinking, not taking a break? and there's a shit-load of handouts and nametags and details to prepare and what was I thinking, wanting to do the smells exercise at Saturday's prison workshop when a nice first-lines exercise would have been just fine and required no preparation, unlike the smells exercise for which I had to come up with a suitable list, submit it, come up with alternatives for (Vicks, bubblegum and nail polish), find film cannisters, and now I'll have to fill the damn things...

Okay. Okay.

Enough.

Breathe, Hannah, breathe.

One of the downsides of working at home is the loss of the traditional lines of demarcation between work and home. 5 o'clock? Yay, time to go home and leave all this behind. TGIF? Yay, time to go home and leave all this behind. For two days. Yeah, yeah, I know that many people work many more than 40 hours a week. And that they take work home. (Why do you think I quit working for someone else?) But here's the thing: the stuff I'm working on? Is always with me. Particularly since I persist in ignoring the perfectly good guest bedroom that I insisted we turn into an office (what? I can't get anything done in there.) I prefer to spread my junk the length and width of our dining room table, and the so-called office is basically just a place to shove all my papers and projects on Tuesday nights when my writing workshop meets.

I can't remember the last time I had a day off, or even a day when I wasn't careening from one thing to another. Oh, yeah, maybe it was March 1. They're calling for strong storms here today. I can't wait. It will make me feel more virtuous about all this doing-nothing that I'm not yet doing.

And the Winner is...

2006-03-29T17:29:00.000-05:00

Whirlpool, apparently. You can read about it here. And here. Or here. Or wherever the hell you want. I don't know what it all means, but Whirlpool execs will meet with the Maytag engineers next Monday. Probably no specific news then, either. I find I'm feeling a "skosh" (as they say in these parts) less sanguine. Bah. I have a big book of slow cooker recipes to proofread. I can't sit around and kvetch over the virtual fence.

Sittin' on the Corner, Waitin' on the DOJ

2006-03-29T09:38:00.000-05:00

Things have been a little tense around here lately. Any day now the DOJ (Department of Justice) will announce whether it will approve a merger between Whirlpool and Maytag or fight it in court as a violation of anti-trust laws. JT works for Maytag. He's hoping the merger doesn't go through. He's afraid that he would lose his job, or, at best, be transferred to Benton Harbor. He likes his job, and we're really not interested in moving to Benton Harbor. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Particularly when it's taken me seven years to feel at home here.

As zero hour approaches, my calm, generous, steady JT has become a little testy. Most people wouldn't even notice, but he's got this little noise he makes when he's frustrated. It's kind of a cross between a snort and a huff, a quick Snrrf that is usually reserved for things that interrupt his sleep. (Sleep is very important to JT.) Because he is so even-tempered, I don't hear that little snort-huff much, but when I do, I typically wonder what inconsiderate thing I've done to provoke it. (No, really. I know how that sounds, but, truly, I can be very self-involved.) And what I can do to fix it.

Almost from the beginning (and we can no longer just when all this began, but it's been months and months and months), I've had the strongest feeling that things are going to be fine. I'm sure that the fact that it's not my job that's on the line contributes a great deal to my peace about the situation. Caught up in a whirlwind of graduate school applications, last-minute scholarship applications, the play and writing workshops, it never occurred to me that not only did JT not share my optimism but that his anxiety has increased as March 30 approaches. (See what I mean about self-involvement?) Lately we have a lot of conversations that go like this:

JT: Snrrf.
Me: You okay?
JT: (not very convincing) Yeah.
Me: Really?
JT: (still not very convincing) I'm fine.
Me: Really, really?
JT: (giving in) Well, as okay as I can be under the circumstances.
Me: Oh.

And then, having succeeded in forcing him to admit that he's not fine (he doesn't want me to worry), I feel an overwhelming urge to try to make it better. To reassure him. To talk him out of worrying. All because I don't like it when he snorts. I finally realized that I need to let him feel what he's feeling. Whatever he's feeling. No matter how uncomfortable it makes me. It is, after all, what I ask him to do when I'm unhappy. So for now, we wait. God, I hate waiting. Snrrf.

Rules are Rules

2006-03-28T15:40:00.000-05:00

On the agenda for Saturday's workshop at the prison? An exercise using the sense of smell. The sense of smell is our most evocative sense. Doing an exercise based on the sense of smell takes us right past the internal critic to writing that is strong and powerful and true. It's one of my favorites, and never fails to elicit great responses.

I submitted a list of potential smells (which would be contained in empty film canisters--Walgreens has been good about donating them but they are inexplicably short right now) for approval and got the following reply:

"The institution does not allow the following items.
Play-doh, nail polish and bubble gum.
Play-doh and gum can be used to make molds of keys and nail polish can be sniffed for a high. "

Yeah, okay. I didn't know if nail polish would work, anyway, as it tends to smell most strongly when it's wet, and there's no way to keep it in that condition. And, not being in the know about these things, I have no idea whether you can sniff dry nail polish for a high. (I'm guessing not.) So, yeah, whatever. And I didn't bother to say that the amounts of bubblegum and Play-doh would have been so small, so tiny, nearly infinitesimal, that they couldn't have even been used to make molds of even a baby tooth, let alone any kind of key that would have done a devious-minded inmate any good. Rules are rules, and it is their game.

On the plus side, we did not have our recently-acquired volunteer IDs revoked for failing to notify the Control Officer of the three no-shows last Saturday. When I asked the volunteer coordinator if Ms. So-and-So had notified Control, she said, "She's not allowed to notify Control. She's an inmate." Yes. I know that now. It would have been helpful to know that ahead of time, but yeah, whatever. See previous comment about rules. I'm just grateful they didn't flat-out squelch the smells exercise.

By the way, I'm happy to see that I am not older than Play-doh. It's bad enough, being older than Rudolph and A Charlie Brown Christmas and the Superbowl. But I bet that even if you scoured every byte of the Hasbro site, you wouldn't find one word there about Play-doh being used to make molds of keys.

Pen Pals

2006-03-26T06:39:00.000-05:00

When I left the house yesterday morning I said to JT, "I'll see you around 11:30. Unless I get taken hostage." Wouldn't I have felt stupid if I had been taken hostage? Oh, sure, I'd have felt a lot of other things first, but eventually stupid would have put in an appearance.

I'm pretty sure that feeling stupid would look a whole lot like the photo on my volunteer ID. All of the excitement over having an official prison badge--lemony yellow, with the words CREATIVE WRITING just above the official State of Iowa Department of Corrections seal--is pretty much mitigated by how bad the picture is. My eyes are closed, my head is back, I look like I was forced to stand against a prison wall while someone said, "Turn to your right. Now your left." I am used to taking bad pictures. I am not photogenic. But this is bad, even for me. It might be the worst picture ever. Certainly it's in the top five. Even JT, who is extremely biased, laughed . He looked at it for a long time. I could tell he was trying to find something good to say. He finally shook his head and said, "It's not a good picture." Lucky for him. I'd have smacked him if he'd said it was good, or even "not that bad." Bah. It's bad. Very, very bad.

But the stupid-looking thing gets me into the prison, and even more importantly, out. I didn't realize we would need to show identification in order to leave. What, the CO (correctional officer--see how fast I pick up the prison lingo?) couldn't just look at us and know that we weren't inmates? Hmph. The only other times I've been to the prison have been with groups accompanied at all times by a staff member who had keys and a radio and was known to the CO. (And still, now that I think about it, had to sometimes say, "Hey, Davis...you gonna open this door, or what?) And the other reason I didn't know that we'd have to show our badges to get out is because when I tried to ask the Volunteer Coordinator some very specific logistical questions, she said, "Oh, So-and-So, who works for me, will meet you and she can answer all your questions." Well, okay. Even better.

So we get to the prison, show our Drivers' Licenses to the Control Officer through a little window. He asks what we're there for and do we know what room we're in. I thought, "Don't you have that information written down somewhere so that you always know where volunteers are at all times in case of a riot or other situation that might be dangerous to the citizens of the community?" but just said, "Uh, 202. I think." Giving up my last piece of concrete information. He handed our badges and DLs through the window and then, after we stood for a long time outside the door, a CO came up behind us and radioed the Control Officer, "Hey, Davis, are you going to come let them in or what?" There was a mumbled squawk from the 2nd CO's radio, and then she unlocked the door for us. Maybe the Control Officer can't leave his bulletproof pod if he's the only one in there. Maybe he can't leave it if there are inmates coming and going. I wouldn't know, because apparently the logistics of how to get in and out of the prison are covered in the 257 more hours of training that staff get. (We had three.)
We knew how to sign in, both of us having been in a class that went to the prison to write with the inmates. No Ms. So-and-So in sight, so we just stood around in the entry. Apparently, Control Officers don't like people just standing around, because he told us we could "go on up." It took us a couple tries to get the sequence right: First the buzz, then you pull on the door that leads into the prison proper. Fortunately, again, we had both been in the Admin Building where the classes are held--which looks, by the way, just like an old school building from the 50s or 60s. (Which it apparently is. One of the important things we learned in Orientation was that the facility used to be a state training school for girls, where families sent "incorrigibles" to have the individuality squelched out of them. ) We figured that Ms. So-and-So would find us.

Which she did. Or we found her. Sitting on the floor in the upstairs hall. Wearing dark blue pants and a light blue shirt. And a...was it? Yes, it was. She was wearing the white badge of an inmate. Apparently my definition of "meet" and the Volunteer Coordinator's definition of "meet" didn't quite...uh, meet. We'd have waited forever for her downstairs. Ms. So-and-So introduced herself and stuck out her hand. (RULE #9: ANY PHYSICAL CONTACT BETWEEN INMATES AND VOLUNTEERS IS PROHIBITED AND VIOLATES STATE LAW.) I shook her hand. So that was one rule broken.

Although there were 12 names on the roster, by 9:00 am, our official start time, there were only 2 or 3 women present, all of whom had to sign in with Ms. So-and-So. Typically, a CO makes an announcement about the start of an activity or class, and none had been made. Ms. So-and-So went down to the control office to rectify that, and then a few more women trickled in. At 9:15, we started with the 9 women who were present, and a few minutes later, Ms. So-and-So left. (RULE #14 IF AN INMATE LEAVES THE ACTIVITY SITE, NOTIFY THE CONTROL CENTER IMMEDIATELY. This also means we're to notify the Control Center if someone scheduled for the activity fails to appear.) I assumed that Ms. So-and-So would notify Control of the MIAs, but I probably should have done it, too. So that was another rule probably broken. And it never even occurred to me to check for a phone in the room so that, RULE # 15 IF AN INCIDENT OCCUR[ED] IN MY AREA THAT IS DISRUPTIVE, [I could] NOTIFY THE CONTROL CENTER IMMEDIATELY BY TELEPHONE (DIAL 0). So I suppose it was fortunate that there were no incidents and that the only disruptions came from periodic announcements, voices from the yard, and a stray inmate who knocked on the locked classroom door and asked if I had called for her to come to the admin building.

We had to provide a list of materials ahead of time. We were also supposed to make sure we took out of the prison everything we brought in. I'm pretty sure we didn't leave anything behind (or that anything was confiscated by a devious inmate), but, uh, we didn't do an exit inventory. Which might have been another rule broken. It was a very good first meeting, and I can't wait to go back next Saturday. Assuming, of course, that they let us go back.

I'm So Excited!* And I Just Can't Stand It!

2006-03-23T11:59:00.000-05:00

*Excited. Not manic. Not hypomanic. Even though...

I'vebeenupsince5:45an'wentwalkingwithJTan'spent2hoursona415-pageproofreadingprojectforBHGan'I'vegotalltheseideasformywritingworkshops
an'I'mgonnahavelunchwithJC, myprison-writing-workshop
cohortsowecanfinalizeplansforSaturdayan'then...an'then...an'then...

I've got a legitimate excuse to go to Office Max and spend money on paperan'pensan'inkan'stationeryan'...I love love LOVE Office Max/Depot/Staples and their ilk. Every time I go in an office supply store it feels like gathering new school supplies in September. Ah...pristine denim-covered 3-ring binders, unopened packs of loose-leaf papers, unsharpened pencils with unsmudged erasers, reinforcement rings for the loose-leaf paper, a new pencil case...ah, geekdom, you hit me early.

I keep trying to convince JT to just give me office supply gift cards for significant gift-giving occasions. No luck so far. Which means I have to spend my own money. Bummer.

H, My Name is Hannah and When I Go to Prison...

2006-03-22T17:15:00.000-05:00

I'm gonna take...handouts. And, uh, a buncha other stuff.

Had to submit a list to the volunteer coordinator at the prison today of all the stuff we're planning to bring with us on Saturday, when we have our first meeting of the writing workshop.

15 pieces of heavy paper/card stock
4 magic markers (red, blue, green, black)
3 handouts, 14 copies each of:
-"My Name," from The House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros
-Guidelines for writing together
-"When I Met My Muse," by William Stafford
14 legal pads
1-2 pens each (the facilitators, not the offenders)
2 bottles of water
1 pad of Sticky-Notes "flags"
expandable folder for hand-outs
keys
drivers' licenses
volunteer badges

And yes, I had to be that specific. I have to submit a list every week of the items we will be bringing in and, by extenstion, taking out--the taking out is pretty important. We can't leave items around for inmates to find, because there's no telling what devious uses to which they might put ordinary items like cough drops, paper clips, gum or, heavens, a spring-loaded pen. It's a whole different world, and volunteers are warned to be on guard against prisoners eager to con them.

I'm sure there's truth to that, but it's counter to everything I belive about teaching writing, most of which comes from the Amherst Writers & Artists method developed by Pat Schneider through her work with low-income women in Chicopee, Massachusetts nearly 20 years ago. One of the most basic tenets of AWA is creating a safe environment in which writers are free to explore their creativity. Think that can't be done in a correctional setting? Think again. Read this. And this. And I have my own experiences from two years ago when I took a class called Community Writing in which college students wrote weekly with inmates. When we bent our heads over our notebooks, we had two things in common: we were all women, and we were all writers. And that was what mattered most.

It's not therapy. It's not even about rehabilitation or redemption. It's about offering the disenfranchised the opportunity to find and develop their own voices. So if the administration wants me to provide a list of everything I plan to carry on my person into their facility, I'll do it. If the Department of Corrections says I have to leave my cell phone and handcuffs keys in my car, I'll do that, too. And should I be taken hostage, I'll know that trained officials will be doing everything in their power to secure my release.*

*according to the training coordinator for the prison, they've never had a hostage situation. And did I mention that staff gets 260 hours of training while volunteers get 3? I did? Okay.

It Was the CAT!*

2006-03-21T16:35:00.000-05:00

We have this cat, Bubba (not his real name).** He's 21-and-a-half-years-old and I've had him since he was a day shy of eight weeks old. (Much longer, actually, than I've had my husband.) Although perhaps not as cute to strangers as this or this, he is the light of my life. He's also been in a state of compensated renal function for the last three years so I guess you could say that he's...uh...a little spoiled.

So, when Bubba wants to sleep with us, we let him. Even though he takes up more than his fair share of the bed.

He's not a big cat. In his heyday he might have weighed 11 pounds, but now he's down to about 7.4 (hey, that .4 is important! We're pretty proud of holding him to the same average weight for over three years). And yet, he manages to end up with half the freakin' bed to himself! And we don't move him. Oh, no, he's too fragile for that. Fragile, and stubborn. And talented. Even asleep, he does a damn good imitation of an immovable lump.

Last night he slept just slightly on JT's side of the bed, about knee-level, so that JT had nowhere to put his long legs. Except on my side of the bed. He's a foot taller than me, and so has a tendency to sleep on a bit of a diagonal anyway, but last night, by the time he got his legs situated on the Hannah side of Bubba, I kid you not, I was sleeping on the freakin' edge of the bed! And every time JT moved, I woke up. Every time. He would sigh, and groan, and move his legs incrediby sloooowly. I was just waiting for him to tell me he didn't have any room, and then I was going to point out, self-righteously, who really didn't have any room. Because usually? I'm as much to blame as the cat for crowding JT.

The only one who got any sleep last night? Was the cat. Which is really unfair, as he sleeps all day anyway. In fact, he's asleep right now.

*flashback to a production of Stuart Little in the children's theatre, where the audience tends to talk back to the actors. When Mrs. Little said, "Why, how did Stuart's jacket get over here by the mouse hole?" a little girl said, loudly enough to be heard backstage, "It was the cat!"

**psudeonyms all around. The last time we were at the veterinary acupuncture clinic, the vet's wife/receptionist/world's friendliest woman called him Bubba. (Yes, she knows his real name. She should. We've been spending many dollars there on a monthly basis for 3 1/2 years now. ) It was a nickname. An endearment. Trust me, it was cute.

Desperately Seeking BabbleFish

2006-03-20T15:54:00.000-05:00

I don't know what the deal is, but many of my visitors seem to find their way here by typing "Babblefish" into a search engine.* What are they looking for? It ain't me, I know that; most of them breeze through, staying no more than a second, viewing no more than one page. As far as I can tell, most don't make return visits, and Canadians seemed to be over-represented in my totally-unscientific and self-selected sample. Perhaps, if I were a little more interesting, a little more provocative, a few of these lost souls would take off their coats and sit a spell instead of just dropping by to say, "I can't stay. I've only got a minute." Maybe nekkid pictures of celebritites would up my stats? Sigh. Isn't that the way it always is for writers? Poor us, always having to choose between flash and substance.

But hey, if any y'all looky-loos want to take a moment to tell me what it is you were really looking for, I'd appreciate it. Hear?

*Gotta love MSN, which puts me on the front page of a search for "Babblefish." Thanks, ya'll.

But Honey, I'm Doing This for POOH!

2006-03-19T18:31:00.000-05:00

Why is it that I can do the right things for someone (or something) else? I mean, I'm not a stupid person. Despite what you might think upon spotting me in the grocery store checkout line with a pint of Dove's Unconditional Chocolate ice cream, I do know how to eat right. I do. And I also know that, to lose weight, I need to eat less and move more. I know the right things to do--I just don't do them. And I don't understand that. I know that being overweight increases my risk of heart disease, diabetes and certain kinds of cancers. I know that if I lost weight I'd both look and feel better. I want to weigh less. I just don't want to have to do the work.

Ah, but put me in a play where I have to scoot through a rabbit hole, run around the stage as though pulled by a kite and climb up a bedpost, and suddenly I'm motivated. I actually dug out my Pilates DVD today and attempted the 20-minute workout. I couldn't tell you the last time I did Pilates.

Whatever gets me moving is good, right? But. But, but, but...why am I not enough on my own? Why do I need some sort of external motivation in order to make the healthy choices that I should be making anyway? Why am I not reason enough, all by myself?

A Pooh Reason to Exercise

2006-03-18T18:44:00.000-05:00

We had our first blocking rehearsal last night, and oh. my. God. am I old. They've got me climbing up on stuff and jumping off and wrestling a hall tree and dancing and I am so far out of my comfort zone. And I don't mean just psyche-wise. I was achy and overheated when I got home--and we haven't even gotten to the part where I have to roll around on the ground to get dirty so that the bees will think I'm a little black rain cloud. Can you say out of shape? I knew you could. I am seriously going to have to get more exercise. I'm thinking biking. And pilates. Gotta stretch those muscles. A middle-aged woman playing Pooh? Pfft! Whoever heard of such a crazy thing?

On an unrelated note, I was doing some proofreading this morning and went downstairs to take a load of clothes out of the dryer. They seemed abnormally staticky, and I heard a voice in my head go, "Did I not PUT any fabric softener in there?" Whoa. Where did that tone of thought came from? And then I remembered. I'd just been reading about Bing cherries. Could I BE any more suggestible?

And explain this to me: In Blockbuster today there was a whole section for The Brothers Grimm, which got mediocre reviews, and all but one copy had been rented. But of Crash, winner of the Oscar for Best Picture, they had only two copies--and both of them were in. Oh, and? The Brothers Grimm? A two-day rental, while we can keep Crash until next Monday. Does that make any sense? Is the answer Heath Ledger? (If so, I'm not sure the question matters.)

La la la, I'm off to watch movies and eat banana split ice cream.

Piglet: I thought you were going on a diet.
Pooh: I am going on a diet. But not now.
Piglet: Why not?
Pooh: Because right now I'm hungry. That's not a good time to go on a diet.
Piglet: Oh. I suppose tomorrow--after a good night's rest?
Pooh: And a good breakfast.

Note to Self

2006-03-17T11:46:00.000-05:00

I found this in some miscellaneous papers yesterday. It's a note I wrote to myself when I thought I was on the verge of a manic* episode:

To Hannah, Who May Become Manic:

You can't do everything. If it's not already on the list (or not already promised), you can't do it.
There's a 24-hour moratorium on purchases over $20.
You are not a genius. JT is not an idiot.
Slow down. Breathe. Take time to do nothing.
Stay in bed even if you're not sleepy; your body needs the rest.
Lower the volume.
This shall pass, and when it does, remember that it was all chemical; it's not a sign of weakness or personal failure.
Drink lots of water.
Try to get some exercise.

*Okay, okay, it was just a hypomanic episode. As it turned out to be a false alarm, we'll never know whether this would have made the least bit of difference once the hormones took over.

They Like Me! They Really, Really Like Me!

2006-03-16T14:27:00.000-05:00

So I get this call yesterday. "Hannah, this is [published author and faculty member so-and-so] from Antioch University in LA, and I'm calling to say that we love your work and would love to have you join our program." Holy crap! I've been accepted to graduate school! I immediately called JT at work, said, "Listen to this," and played him the message. And then I cried.

Y'all may remember that I put off working on my application, then put on a big burst of speed and got it all done at the last minute? Totally worth it. Not the procrastination part, but the getting it done part. Because I, Hannah B. of the poor undergraduate showing and myriad self-doubts, has been accepted to graduate school.

And for those of you keeping track, I did not procrastinate on my second application, which is actually to my first-choice school. Their deadline is not until June 12, but I submitted it this morning. That's right: I got accepted to one school yesterday and applied to a different school today. It feels surreal, and more than a little ungrateful. I have this nagging urge to call Antioch and say, "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" Before they come to their senses and realize they made a mistake in accepting me, know what I mean?

But I'm too smart for 'em. I saved the message, so I've got proof. (No, I'm not kidding. Of course I saved the message!) Now they can't take it back. Mwwwaaaa-haaaaaaaaa!

Doing the Right Thing

2006-03-13T21:49:00.000-05:00

Yah know, taking care of business and doing what I should is pretty damn boring. Nothing to complain about. Nothing to write about. No way in hell I can be funny about finishing my creative submission for my second MFA application, let alone mildly amusing or even the slightest bit entertaining. Who wants to read about me changing sheets and litterboxes, emptying the trash or making good progress on a long proofreading project? Anyone? Anyone? Yeah, that's what I thought.

So, I'm reading this book, I Can't Believe She Did That! : Why Women Betray Other Women at Work. I don't know why I'm reading it; I don't even work. Not, as they say, "outside the home." This business of being self-employed is relatively new, however, and I'm gaining new insight about both a toxic work situation in my not-so-distant past and a personal relationship that unexpectedly blew up.

It's a good read, and the author, Nan Mooney, has a blog. Gotta love the title.

Where You From?

2006-03-12T20:05:00.000-05:00

The answer to that question often depends on context. If I'm at a conference and think that the questioner wants to know from where I traveled, I'll say that I'm from Des Moines. If they're asking where I was born, I say Detroit. If they want to know where I call home, the answer is Virginia. But if they say, "Where you from?" suspicion dripping from every word, I assume that they either want to know why I have a southern accent--or why I don't. And then I have to say that I was born in Detroit, but lived most of my life in the south. And that I consider myself a southerner--southern by inclination. Which is why I was pleased to score 78% Dixie on this test, which I found on Mrs. Moody's site.

So, where y'all from?

Pooh Bear, Prison Bars and Unrequited Love

2006-03-09T12:49:00.000-05:00

And the last shall be first...

Yesterday I watched an episode of 7th Heaven that aired several weeks ago. Ruthie, the Camden's youngest daughter, is broken-hearted over hunky Martin, and her whole family not only knows, they comment on it. How sucky is that? On the other hand, they're concerned about her, and her father even holds her while she cries. And tells her she'll get through it. I can't even imagine what it would be like to have that kind of open family relationship. The only conversation I had with my mom about a boyfriend when something like this:

Mom: What's wrong with you?
Me: CK and I broke up.
Mom: Just as well. He was too young for you.
Me: (runs off in tears)

Thanks for the sympathy and understanding, Mom. Yeah, okay, CK was too young for me, and probably using me, but I was crazy about him, and the two months we were together were...heaven. I spent a very long time pining and yearning and crying and writing bad poetry and I did my best to keep my feelings to myself. I'd learned long before to keep everything inside.

According to Geneen Roth in When Food is Love:

Food and love. We begin eating compulsively because of reasons that have to do with the kind and amount of love that is in our lives or that is missing from our lives. If we haven't been loved well, recognized, understood, we arrange ourselves to fit the shape of our situations. We lower our expectations. We stop asking for what we need. We stop showing the places that hurt or need comfort. We stop expecting to be met. And we begin to rely on ourselves and only ourselves to provide sustenance, comfort, and pleasure. We begin to eat. And eat.

Which might be why I'm in the shape I'm in. A shape that, it appears, resembles a small, round bear named Winnie the Pooh. I've never seen myself as Pooh, so I think it must have been the lack of height and the profusion of belly that got me the lead role. The lead role! I'll get to be in the publicity photos. Looking all roly and poly. Lovely. That thing in my profile about "look good doing it"? A complete and total lie. Wonder if I can lose enough weight between now and opening night that some people might think that my roundness is due to padding?

And on a completely different note, I had orientation for prison volunteers the other night. It was mostly pretty boring. Three hours of lecture on the history of the prison, barely enlivened by a cheesy video called Lockup USA in which we learned, in great detail, the devious uses to which an inmate could put the handle from a soup ladle. "What they do, see, is they break off the ladle part, and then this handle here, they can sharpen it on the floor and then they'd have a weapon. This is good, sturdy metal right here, and you could just run this right through someone." Yeah, yeah, we get it: don't leave any soup ladles lying around.

The most exciting part of the evening was when we had to list what person we wanted the prison to contact should we be taken hostage. "Guess what, honey?" I said to JT when I got home. "If I should be taken hostage, the prison will call you. Actually, they'll send someone out to tell you in person." JT thought that was the least they could do.

I should be grateful for the training. Three hours, and then we're turned loose with the offenders. Staff members get 260 hours of training, and for the first three weeks on campus, they have an escort. They are not left alone with offenders. Volunteers get three hours and the knowledge that, should be taken hostage, "trained individuals will be working toward my safe release." As long as the hostage-takers don't want drugs, prisoner exchange, or release. In those cases, I'm out of luck.

With Apologies to Tommy Roe

2006-03-07T15:16:00.000-05:00

Busy, I'm so busy my head is spinning*
Like a whirwind it never ends
And it's adrenaline makin' it spin
It's all keepin' me busy...

In the last seven days, I have:

applied to graduate school
led 3 writing workshops (#4 is tonight)
proofread two magazines (and turned down three)
written a proposal for a writers group I'd like to start at the local women's prison
attended orientation at said prison
auditioned for Winnie the Pooh (no word yet, but I think I'd make a smashing Kanga)
been doped up on codeine and antibiotics and generally felt crappy but had to keep going because I had so freakin' much to do

As if that wasn't enough, I also felt the first stirrings of a manic episode. Which is seriously not a good thing, particularly when my physical reserves are already depleted.

I had my last--and only--episode a few years ago, and at the time, I had no idea what was going on. I just thought I was in a really great mood. Well, I also thought I was a creative genius. And that I'd finally become The Person I Was Meant To Be, a woman who had finally learned to speak her mind. Loudly. And, according to The Engineer, very, very fast. And funny, Lord, I was funny. (Everyone thought so.)

But then it all came to a crashing halt. What happened to my tremendous energy? What about all the amazing personal insights? My life-altering epiphanies? Gone. Lost in a crushing haze of depressive fog. Which, in comparison to the glitter and glee of the manic period, seemed even more oppressive than usual. I wasn't sure I would survive it.

Months later I was reading Jane Pauley's memoir and recognized my own behavior in her description of a hypomanic episode. What? Hypomania? Like in...bipolar? I'd had depression all my life, and mild mood swings, but nothing like the euphoria of mania or hypomania (mild mania). How could I, all of a sudden, be bipolar? Realizing that I'd had a hypomanic episode made me feel better about the depression that followed. It wasn't that I was a bad person. It wasn't that I couldn't hold on to all that wonderful progress. I was depressed. It was chemical.

In case you're wondering, I did not engage in "risky behaviors" or buy a house (which is what Jane Pauley did). I did spend quite a bit at Office Depot, but I don' t think that's a sign of anything sinister. I can spend lots of money in there at any time, for any reason, and keep trying to convince The Engineer that a gift card would be a really cool gift. (I love office supplies! And notebook paper! And pens! And highlighters! And paperclips! And notebooks! And sorters! And! And! And!)

At any rate, if I was, in fact, feeling something more than what The Engineer calls "wound up," it seems to have passed. Either that or the codeine has drugged it into submission. All I'm feeling now is tired. Who knew I'd find that a relief?

*Yes, there is dizziness. And nausea. But so far none of that spinning and vomiting I was worried about.

Who Writes This Crap?

2006-03-04T07:16:00.000-05:00

Finally went to the doctor yesterday. Diagnosis? Bronchitis, an inflammation of the bronchial tubes. Well, yeah, since I've been coughing for six weeks, I'd say inflammation is pretty much a given. The doctor prescribed an antibiotic, which, let me just say, I don't tolerate well. That I'm willing to take it should pretty much tell you right there how sick and tired I am of, well, being sick and tired.

But apparently it's not just the new drug plan that is incomprehensibly convoluted. Stapled to the little white bag, so that I had to ask a child under the age of 8 to remove it before I could get to my medicine, was one of those Patient Advisory Leaflets, or PALs, as one pharmacy likes to call them. Like a good friend, they tell you how to take your medicine, and what to expect.

"IF YOUR COUGH CONTINUES for more than 7 days, or if you develop a high fever or persistent headache, check with your doctor." Uh, I've been coughing for six weeks. That's why I went to the doctor. Duh.

"CONTACT YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY if you experience swelling of your hands, legs, face, lips, eyes, throat, or tongue; difficulty swallowing or breathing; hoarseness; fever; chest pain or sore tongue." Hoarseness? Are you kidding me?! I'VE BEEN COUGHING FOR SIX WEEKS, of course I'm hoarse. Just reading about swelling of the face, lips, eyes and tongue scares the shit out of me. What kind of PAL gives you a pill that will do that?

[You're probably wondering what kind of friends I had in high school. The goody-goody kind. You wouldn't have liked me. Hell, you might not like me now, either.]

But this is my favorite part:

"SIDE EFFECTS that may occur while taking this medicine include nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dizziness, or constipation. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor." If they become bothersome? I'm dizzy and vomiting, I'm bothered. Particularly if that combination results in my vomiting in places not designed for easy disposal of said vomit. Add in constipation, and now I'm really bothered.

But I'm telling you right now: if I experience sudden weight loss, they'll have to pry these pills from my cold, dead, skinny hands.

How I Know That God is Not a Woman

2006-03-03T07:27:00.000-05:00

Pre-menopausal night sweats. Seriously.

One Potato, Two Potato, Couch Potato, Four

2006-03-01T10:32:00.000-05:00

I had a very few things that had to be done today, and with one exception, they're taken care of. I'm going to spend the rest of the day cocooned on the couch. The cat is pretty much in favor of people lying indolently about all day, but he's not a fan of all the preparations, and followed me from room to room, talking. I'm sure he was saying, "Will you just light somewhere already?" But it takes time to get things just right.

See, your basic nest has your blanket, your pillow, box of kleenex, maybe some water and cough drops and aspirin. But the deluxe models, popular with power nesters, is chock full of other attractive features: you got your computer for blogging and e-mail and checking 43Things; your remote control for watching bad daytime TV and taped prime-time offerings; books; a journal, pens and a lap desk; the telephone(s). I am here for the duration, y'all. Tomorrow I have places to go, people to see, but for today? Stick a fork in me. I'm done.

I'll Huff and I'll Puff

2006-03-01T07:22:00.000-05:00

And I'll get it all done. But y'all, that ain't no way to live. Trust me.

Part of the why I procrastinate is that, put off, some things just poof, disappear. They go away, they no longer seem important, someone else does them. Reinforcement for the bad habit. Another reason is that I have, time and time again, put on a big burst of speed right before the deadline, huffed and puffed and gotten it all done. I'm afraid of heights and can't imagine bungee jumping or, heaven forbid, jumping from an airplane that's not about to crash, so I get my adrenaline rush from procrastinating. I obviously get something out of procrastinating or I wouldn't keep doing it (wait--is procrastinating something you can do or only something you put off doing?), but like I said y'all, ain't no way to live. (Listen to me, being all "Do as I say, not as I do," like you're going to take my advice. Y'all don't even know me!)

Anyway, the first of two graduate school applications is on its way, signed, sealed and delivered, through the miracle of technology that is the Internet. I have spent the last few days doing little else, even though I felt crappy. (Again. *#$^ cold.)

But it's done and I can stop saying that I'm going to apply to graduate school "someday," as I am now officially An Applicant. The next deadline isn't until June 12, but I promise, I'm not letting this next one go down to the wire. I am taking today off, though. I'll work on it tomorrow.

To Know Me is to...What?

2006-02-28T09:59:00.000-05:00

Risk drawing back a nub, maybe. That's what someone who reads me on another site did. Draw back a nub, I mean. And all for the sin of being enthusiastic about my writing. One of the reasons I write is to be known through my words. And yet, when a Hannah Fan said, "Hey, I know you, and guess what, I like you," I sent a flip comment in response. It was "supposed" to be a joke, but after HF called me on it, I could see that the unmistakable underlying message was, "Back off, Jack." Why in the world would anyone like me? Clearly, if someone sees good in me, particularly on short (or no) acquaintance, there's something wrong with them.

It reminds me of a friend's daughter, who at three would beg, "Chase me, chase me," until someone took her up on it, when she would scream in real terror and hide behind one of her parents. Cute in a toddler, not so cute in a so-called grown-up. I invited comment, but when I got it, felt threatened and lashed out. Easy to say that "It's not you, it's me," but I'm not the one with virtual blood dripping from my hand.

Add this to my list of thing to work on--getting rid of behaviors and defenses that don't serve me. Or anyone else, for that matter. Maybe I need to re-think what I'm doing here, and about the information I share here and in other writing formats.

And, T, I truly am sorry.

(Word) Clouds in my Coffee

2006-02-26T07:18:00.000-05:00

How cool (or maybe vain) is this? SnapShirts puts the words from your very own blog on a word cloud tee shirt.

A word cloud is a visual depiction of content (words) used in a body of text. The word clouds we use at snapshirts.com are arranged alphabetically and depict more frequently used words in progressively larger fonts.

...The Custom line uses your own personal website to make word clouds. For Custom word clouds, our software analyzes your weblog and presents some of your most frequently used words. You can edit this list as much or as little as you like, it's completely customizable. If you have a weblog, click on Custom and give it a try.

Thanks to Kyle MacDonald of One Red Paperclip for the link. And speaking of cool, if you haven't seen One Red Paperclip, you need to. Right now. Go ahead, I'll wait.

[humming the Jeopardy! theme song while I wait... Da duh da duh da duh duuh, da duh da duh DUH!!... da duh duh duh duh...]

Now, is that cool or what? Not as cool, maybe, as the words from my blog on a tee shirt, but still. Kyle started with literally one red paperclip in July 2005, and has so far managed to trade his way up to a recording contract. His goal? A house. All by trading. So if you didn't check it out before (and I know you didn't), do it now. You'll be glad you did.

Feels Like Spring!

2006-02-24T17:36:00.000-05:00

It's 4:34 pm and it's 59 degrees. In Des Moines, Iowa. In February. Absitively amazing. I wish I could bottle the way I feel now. Eau de good mood. Something to guard against the dark days when I feel I'm in the "pitsth of despair." The sun is shining, it's warm, I've made real progress on my grad school applications and other procrastinatory items--life is good! On days like this, I feel capable and confident about what needs to be done, inspired and dare I say, happy. I love my life and don't get bogged down in what ifs. So if anyone would like to take on the task of inventing Eau de Good Mood, I'd be grateful. I can't offer any research money, but I'd be happy to look over your shoulder and murmur, "You go, girl!" at appropriate intervals.

Many thanks, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

And the Hits Just Keep On Coming

2006-02-23T14:27:00.000-05:00

Shortly after I posted my last entry, I got a call from Meredith about a proofreading job scheduled for today. Seems they wanted me to come in an hour earlier, that is, in an hour. I said sure, I could do that (I want them to keep calling me for jobs, so I try to be as accommodating as possible) but, crap--no shower yet. Or breakfast. Double crap. No time for both cleanliness and a full stomach: what to do about breakfast?

"Junk is always good ," I told myself, reaching for a Reese's Peanut Butter Egg. Then whapped myself upside the head with a metaphorical 2x4. Junk food? Junk food?! Seems that's all I eat, lately. How does that serve my goals of eating healthy and achieving a healthy weight (not to mention the one about eating breakfast every day)? Bad Hannah. Bad, bad, bad Hannah.

And that's when something else hit me. (Yeah, I know, my poor head. Don't you feel sorry for me?) Aha! I'm procrastinating about my grad school application and I feel guilty about that.

Procrastination + guilt = I'm a bad person.
Bad person + punishment = self-defeating eating behaviors (kinda catchy, no?)
Poor choices + guilt = I'm a bad person.

Which leads to more procrastination, and the whole damn cycle repeats. Endlessly. Or not. I just need to break the cycle. Must. Break. Cycle.

In case you're wondering, as I type this I'm eating lunch, a real one: a Subway roast beef sandwich with red wine vinaigrette rather than mayonnaise (6 grams of fat or less, according to Jared), baby carrots instead of chips, all accompanied by a lovely bottle of 2005 Dasani. See, I can do it.

Who's Afraid of the MFA, the MFA, the MFA?

2006-02-23T08:17:00.000-05:00

My friend Kate was reading my blog yesterday. Said that my rant about being who people think we are rather than who we think we are reminded her of something she learned in Sociology last year, called the Looking Glass Self:

"Looking Glass Self- the process of developing a self-image on the basis of the messages we get from others, as we understand them. There are three components to the looking glass self: 1.We imagine how we appear to others; 2. We imagine what their judgment of that appearance must be; 3. We develop some self-feeling, such as pride or mortification, as a result of our imagining others' judgment." [Definition courtesy of University of Colorado doctoral students.]

I wonder if some of us (namely, me--it's all about me, y'all. Deal with it) place more significance on the judgments of others? Or tend to imagine that the judgments will be harsh? Note that this is based on how we imagine we appear to others. And on "the messages we get from others, as we understand them." (Emphasis mine.) If our perception is faulty or skewed towards self-criticism/mortification, then it's easy to see how someone (again, me) might avoid taking risks for fear of appearing even more stupid.

On a related note, I got a call last night from the Chair of the MFA in Creative Writing Program at one of the schools I'm applying to. He asked if there was anything he could help me with and I actually, so help me God, said, "I don't suppose you can help me finish my application?" Then we laughed, ha ha ha, and I had to confess that I'd done the easy parts and was procrastinating on the hard parts, the dialogue/statement of purpose and the creative sample. You know, the parts that really count? The ones that help them decide if an applicant deserves one of the seven nonfiction writing slots available? Why not just write in my dialogue, in big bold letters: "I HAVE TROUBLE MANAGING MY TIME AND TEND TO PROCRASTINATE AND THEN DO A HALF-ASSED JOB AT THE LAST MINUTE"? Yeah, I can put that in the section where they want me to provide evidence that I can work independently. Yeah, that's it. I'm sure he put a big black mark next to my name: "Hannah B., not a serious contender. Not as committed as those who have sent their applications in well before the March 1 deadline." Crap, crap, crap.

But I was thinking about it later, and asking myself why I was having so much trouble making myself finish the application: fear of failure? Fear of success? Do I not really want to go? And it hit me. (Almost literally. I was brushing my teeth at the time and nearly bonked my head on the door to the medicine cabinet.) I'm not afraid they'll reject me. I'm afraid they'll accept me, and then I'll have to actually go. Do. Be an actual graduate student. And that's what I think I'm not capable of. I think I can fool them into thinking I'd be a good candidate, but that I wouldn't actually be able to do the work required, and then, then I'd be exposed for the imposter that I really am.

Ah, but if I put things off until the last minute (which is rapidly approaching) and do a half-assed job (something I'm very good at, by the way, having decades of practice), why, then they'll be forced to reject me and I won't have to go! Brilliant! La la la--I'm off to finish my application!

A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking

2006-02-21T09:43:00.000-05:00

Actually it was more like ten white chicks and two white guys sitting around talking in my Strategies for Creating a New Life Class. And that's all we did, for two hours. Where were the strategies? What about setting goals? Nope. We just talked about the book and whether we were or were not like the description in the book. Most said not. Or that they were on the borderline between one temperament and another. The facilitator listened to this for awhile and then said, "You know, I've had other people tell me the same thing." What? And you're still using this crappy thing? "But then they go back and re-read the book and re-take the test, and then they come to me and say, 'I never knew that about myself.' " Right.

Which all tends to support the idea that we're who other people think we are rather than who we think we are, doesn't it? And that just pisses me off.

But I still want a life coach. Someone to keep me on track, give me a kick in the pants when I need it and call me on my crap. Sort of a personal trainer for my psyche. I auditioned for Starting Over. I did. I, Hannah B., actually auditioned for a reality show. But they didn't want me. Too short, too old, too fat, too lacking in "coachable goals," whatever the hell that means. I haven't given up, though. Ilanya would make a kick-ass coach. In no time at all I'd be following my dreams, living without fear, loving myself and losing weight.

Back Away from the Claws, Dirtbag!

2006-02-20T13:04:00.000-05:00

I was playing around on 43 Things when (ahem) I should have been working on my graduate school application and came across a buncha people who want to make people understand that declawing a cat is a painful unnecessary surgery and there are better ways to deal with cat's scratching. Whoa! Now that is a goal I can get behind!

Procrastinatress says:

First of all, the term “declawing” is an inaccurate description of the process. It’s not the “claw” or “toenail” that is removed, but rather the entire first digit of the cat’s toe. Please don’t confuse a “declawing” with a permanent toenail trim… it’s an amputation, plain and clear.

Now that this is said I think the obvious question would be, why would someone amputate part of their cat’s limb without medical necessity?

The most commonly heard explanation is “the cat scratches the furniture.” I’m sure we all know that any type of surgery brings with it certain inherent risks, including infection and hemorrhage. In addition there is pain and (sometimes lifelong) discomfort. I don’t think a scratched sofa is worse than potentially causing lifelong pain to your cat! Read on...

...for information on the the pain and discomfort caused by declawing, as well as tips on training your cat to leave the furniture alone. It's a great post. Cheers to Procrastinatress.

Come on, people. Cats will be cats and they have claws for a reason. If you're not willing to accept that, or to take the time to train your cat, don't get one.

Who Am I Anyway?

2006-02-19T17:05:00.000-05:00

So, I'm reading People Patterns by Dr. Stephen Montgomery. Assigned reading for my Strategies for Creating a New Life Class.

For tomorrow we're supposed to take the "Montgomery Shorter Sorter," Dr. Montgomery's version of the Keirsey Temperament Sorter-II. (Which is sorta like the Myers-Briggs, but more simple. Or maybe more complicated. Who can tell?) Knowing my temperament is supposed to help me set goals and change my life. Whatever. I already know I'm an INFJ, but hey. Despite my desire to be Hannah B. Snarky, at heart I'm really Hannah B. A Good Girl.

So, I take the Montgomery Shorter Sorter, which is indeed short; only 38 questions. Fill in the more-complicated-than-it-needs-to-be answer sheet, and bingo, just as I thought, INFJ. Ah, but that's not good enough for this good little Girl Scout. Following directions, I ask The Engineer for "help." "Honey, which of these sounds more like me?" You know, just to see if our answers matched. Sheesh. And then, if that wasn't bad enough...no, wait. I'm not sure I can even bring myself to type the next part. It's too humiliating. Okay--no, wait. I can't... Maybe...Oh, hell, here goes: after getting The Engineer's input, I went back and changed my answers.

Oh yes I did. And the few places where we differed were enough to change me from an INFJ to an ISFJ. WTF?? And more importantly, I lost my place in Gryffindor house! Dr. Montgomery compares Keirsey's four temperament types to the four houses at Hogwarts, and changing my answers took me from Gryffindor to Hufflepuff. (He also compares his "Shorter Sorter" to the Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony.) I don't think so. I changed 'em back.

Which raises the question: who am I anyway? Am I who I think I am? Or am I who The Engineer thinks I am? And if I need to make changes in order to create a wonderful new self-loving life, do I need to change behaviors or perceptions of behaviors? I don't know about you, but this makes my head hurt.

Why BabbleFish?

2006-02-19T07:42:00.000-05:00

BabbleFish is a blend of babble, one of my normal speech settings, and the Babel Fish.

According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:

"The Babel fish is a fictional species of fish in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. A Babel fish is a highly improbable biological universal translator. It appears as a 'small, yellow and leechlike' fish. When a Babel fish is inserted into the ear canal it allows the wearer to 'instantly understand anything said... in any form of language.' "

And according to Dictionary.com, to translate is:

"To be changed or transformed in effect."

Which is what I'm hoping for: transformation, deeper understanding and acceptance of self. But I yam what I yam, and there will also be a fair amount of babbling (see: all previous posts).

And besides, BabbleFish is just more fun to say.

God Bless the Internet (aka Hambone, Hambone)

2006-02-18T12:11:00.000-05:00

It's true: you really can find anything online, including corroboration of family lore.

For some reason (do not ask me to explain; if my life depended on it I could not), while sitting at my computer (read: fooling around rather than cleaning), I thought of an old family story, which goes something like this: Once upon a time, when I was small, my little brother (LB), who was even smaller, took an inexplicable fancy to a white, bowl-shaped, ladies hat. He wore it everywhere. Said hat reminding the 'rents and older siblings of a TV character from the early '60s, they took to calling LB by the character's name: Hambone.

Now, although I have pictures showing LB in The Hat (which also features prominently in a First Haircut story), I have no memory of said TV character or show. Or, by the way, of The Hat. The whole mystical Hambone-hat connection was just one of those many items of family mythology that I had to take on faith. Until today.

Today I typed "Hambone" into my trusty Google search page, and what do you know, The Hambone Gallery1 was the very first entry. And there was Hambone, in all his goofy glory. And a white pith helmet.

Which yes, if you squint, does sortakinda resemble the hat LB is wearing. (Are we or are we not two of the cutest children you have ever seen in your life?)

So the Hambone hat story, at least, is true. God, I love the Internet.

For added enjoyment, check out The Hambone Song. Photos and musical link courtesy of Christopher Gross's Sandy Becker's page.

Well, I'll Be...

2006-02-17T11:01:00.000-05:00

...a Neo Pagan. Apparently. Or so says SelectSmart.com's Belief System Selector, and we all know that online quizzes never lie. But, a Neo-Pagan? Huh. Now, New Age (a 98% match) I can see, but Neo-Paganism as my only 100% match? I'm a bit surprised. You might even say that you could have blown me over with a Pan pipe

My top 5 matches:

1. Neo-Pagan (100%)
Browse Neo-Pagan related books. Click here for info

2. New Age (98%)
Browse New Age related books. Click here for info

3. New Thought (97%)
Browse New Thought related books. Click here for info

4. Unitarian Universalism (97%)
Browse Unitarian Universalism related books. Click here for info

5. Liberal Quakers (86%)
Browse Liberal Quakers related books. Click here for info

Is it just me, or does #5 sound like a contradiction in terms?

You know, this is way more than anyone in cyberspace needs to know about me.

I Want My Week Back

2006-02-16T13:22:00.000-05:00

Things I missed out on/had to cancel:

1. The first session of my "Strategies for Building a New Life" class. Crap. I really need that class, too. And there's homework! Which I don't have. The instructor said I could come by long enough to pick up my workbook and then go home. I thought about it. I'd have had to get dressed and shower and shit. Yeah, no.

2. My Tuesday night writing group. Which I lead. And which meets in this House of Pestilence. It so did not happen.

3. Lunch with a friend, which was also a planning session for a writing group we hope to set up at a local prison. Bummer.

4. Babysitting PK's kids. And it was the first time she'd asked. "Sure, I'll babysit, call me anytime," I'm always saying. Only, you know, I can't do it now, when you need me.

5. Celebrating Valentine's Day late at a fancy-schmantzy restaurant.

6. Writers Night at a local college. (Okay, I wasn't going to go to that one, anyway. But still.)

And now that I can actually take a halfway decent breath without coughing up a lung and peeing my pants, all I want to do is sleep. I'm a tough mother to love, yes I am.

*#@! Cold

2006-02-15T15:34:00.000-05:00

First trip out of the house since Friday. Had to return some already-overdue library books and pick up more OTC meds at the drugstore. Came home with, I kid you not: Ricola Natural Honey Lemon with Echinacea Throat Drops, SudaCare Nighttime Vapor-Plug, SudaCare Shower Soothers (vaporizing shower tablets) and Robitussin Cough, Cold and Flu, for which I had to show a picture ID and sign on the dotted line (apparently neither my raspy mouth-breathing nor my doubled-over-leaning-on-the-counter coughing made me appear sufficiently sickly) . The Engineer, bless his heart, brought me some Congestion formula Robitussin the other day. Takes care of chest congestion and stuffy nose. All well and good, but what about all my other symptoms? Body aches, runny nose, headache? I think he forgot which one of us he was buying medicine for. I do not subscribe to the less is more school of anything.

Oh, goody. Time for another dose. Then it's back to bed with a book and the Vapor-Plug.

(Curlers in Your Hair) Shame on You!

2006-02-11T12:49:00.000-05:00

Apparently there's a connection between shame and feeling like an imposter. Found this quiz when doing a google search on the imposter syndrome. It includes questions like:

The thing I've done (or do) that makes me feel most awful about myself is...
If people knew what I was really like they would see that I am...

and

Deep down, I believe what's true about me is...

I guess we have to face false beliefs about ourselves in order to change them. Don't even ask. I'm not posting my answers.

Show Me the Money!

2006-02-10T16:27:00.000-05:00

FAFSA filed. Cross that off my list of things to do. One thing down, 287 to go. Okay, slight exaggeration. Slight. I should get my Student Aid Report in a few weeks, which will tell me what I already know: no federal funds available for graduate students, but oh lookee, here's a list of lenders anxious to "help" finance my education. The confirmation page listed a frighteningly high amount for my EFC (estimated family contribution). Think they know something I don't? Guess I could ask if they think I'm going to inherit a fortune from a hitherto-unknown relative, but I don't think the government has much of a sense of humor. Here's a direct quote from the submission page: "If you purposely give false or misleading information you may be fined $20,000, sent to prison, or both." Purposely give false or misleading information? Yeah, that's not likely; I'm so anal I called to clarify a teensy little detail that won't affect aid anyway. Besides, if we had $20,000 just lying around, I wouldn't need financial aid, would I?

Pretty Hair

2006-02-09T06:21:00.000-05:00

Got my hair cut yesterday. Well, trimmed. Trying to grow it out. Again. Story of my hair life: When it's long, I want it short. Short, long. Permed, straight. You get the idea. I've always thought that what I needed was a big ol' knob in my back, like my old Tressy doll. Push a button in her stomach, turn the knob on her back (and turn and turn and turn) and she had a kicky shoulder length 'do. Push the button, turn the knob, grab that hank of hair and pull and, just like magic: a luxurious mane that tickled the back of her knees.

[For any purists out there who might be saying, probably out loud, "That was Chrissie!," no, I had a Tressy doll, Chrissie's friend. Tressy had black hair, Chrissie red, and Velvet was a blonde. My Tressy wore a stylish orange Indian-print mini-dress with a matching headband on her black, black hair. Alas, she met a tragic end. Not at my hands, though I did place her, unwittingly, in harm's way. It was very sad.]

But as I, a mere human, have no magic knob, I'm growing my hair the old-fashioned way. As soon as I manage that (or perhaps even before), I will decide I can't stand it and cut it short again. Story of my hair life. When it's long, I want it short--Oh, wait, I already said that. Moving on. I do not possess the blow-dry gene. Or the hairspray gene. Or the anything-having-to-do-with-hair gene. My hair designer (yes, that's her title), being a paid professional and possessing the added advantage of having two eyes and two hands in the back of my head, can perform the kind of magic that I didn't dream my hair was even capable of. (I used to say my hair had a mind of its own: it did what it wanted, and I tried not to mind.)

I left her studio (yes, that's what it's called) with big, pouffy hair. Too pouffy, I thought. But as the day progressed my hair settled into an acceptable level of pouf, with the still-shorter layers flipping up in a most fetching way that I can never manage to replicate. I was so taken with my pretty hair that it seemed a shame to sleep on it. I wished I could set it on the nightstand out of harm's way for the night. Which would be, you know, a wig. Still. It didn't occur to me until this morning that I could have tried my mother's fresh-from-the-hairdresser trick. She used to swathe her new curls and swirls in toilet paper and then cover the whole mess with a hair net. Quite attractive, really. And at least a moderate success.

Too late, alas. This morning my pretty, pretty hair has assumed the chaos and pathos of every other morning: mashed flat in places, standing straight up like Ed Grimley's in others. Really, it makes the toilet paper/hairnet combo look positively delightful.

You notice that Patricia Lynn Reilly's book is called Imagine a Woman in Love with Herself and not Imagine a Woman in Love with Her Hair. And with good reason. It would never sell. Women would take one look at the title and collapse into helpless, hysterical laughter that would quickly degenerate into tears and accusatory shouts until the poor things would have to be carried out of Barnes and Noble on stretchers. Probably under the influence of oxygen and no doubt heavily medicated.

If I Only Had the Nerve

2006-02-08T11:56:00.000-05:00

I'm quivering. Shaking in my boots. Or I would be, were I wearing boots rather than glorified slippers. (The benefits of being self-employed.) Anxiety? More like terror. Why? I just made my first graduate school-related phone call, a seemingly simple request for more information before hitting ENTER and sending my online FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid) careening through cyberspace.

I spent nearly 20 years working in administration at various institutions of higher education. I know how to ask appropriate questions, what information to have at my fingertips. I speak the lingo, as it were. After years working in Admissions, deans offices, records offices, those at the other end of the phone are My People. Calling to ask for a tiny clarification should not be A Big Deal. And yet. And yet.

What if I sound stupid? I babble when I'm nervous. Will sounding incompetent on the phone create a permanent blot on my as-yet-unfiled application for admission? Will saying the words out loud make this all too, too real? "Hello, my name is Hannah B., and I'm applying for your low-residency MFA in writing..." Yikes. So I dialed the phone. My second-choice school, the one with the earliest deadline, is in LA. Offices on the west coast not open yet. Call my first-choice school, in New England. The financial aid coordinator is out of the office until tomorrow. Nuts. All that angst for nothing. God help me when it's time to submit a creative sample of a personal statement.

Let Pharoh Go

2006-02-06T21:19:00.000-05:00

My husband, The Engineer, brings home church bulletins every Sunday. I may not want to go to church, but I like to know what's going on. After I rolled out of bed around 3:30 yesterday afternoon, I wandered downstairs to ask him about the sermon, which was intriguingly titled, "Let Pharoh Go." I thought I knew what it meant, but I wanted to know more.

Well, The Engineer said, you know that came to Moses, right? Yes, yes, I went to Sunday School when I was a kid. And, he continued, God said that Moses must go to Pharoh and tell him, "Let my people go. They have responsibilities to me." After many days and many threats [major paraphrasing here], Pharoh let the Israelites go but that's not where the story ends. The former slaves, instead of appreciating their freedom, complained to Moses about the tough conditions in the wilderness. They thought they were better off under Pharoh's rule, and even asked, "What? Are all the graves in Egypt full, that you had to bring us out here to die?" They had to let go of Pharoh, so that they could instead serve God.

The point? We have to get rid of whatever's in our way, whatever it is that keeps us from God, or, in more secular terms, from becoming the person we were always meant to be. Sometimes, nothing is holding us back but our own doubts and fears.

Ah, I said, when The Engineer finished his tale. And did the good reverend tell you how to let go of Pharoh, I asked. The Engineer thought. No, he finally said, he didn't.

No, they never do, do they? Imagine a woman in love with herself. Imagine a woman in love with herself. Imagine a woman...

I'm Not Who You Think I Am

2006-02-05T20:35:00.000-05:00

I was reading a novel the other day, and on page 66 came across the following passage:

...what Vera lacked, it seemed, was the guts. Sometimes, had it not been a physical impossibility, she would have given herself a sharp swift kick in the pants. When she'd discussed this impulse with Simone, Simone, sagely refraining from delivering it herself, had referred Vera to a scholarly work on the "Imposter Syndrome." Which, Vera had said after a cursory glance, couldn't possibly apply to her, because she was an imposter.
(Jenefer Shute, User I.D. New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2005.)

And I knew, even before I raced to the 'net to look it up, that I would be a textbook case. Imposter Syndrome is described as:

...a collection of feelings of inadequacy that persist even in
face of information that indicates that the opposite is true. It is
experienced internally as chronic self-doubt, and feelings of
intellectual fraudulence.

Read entire article here.

I took an online quiz, and scored something like 93 out of a possible 100 points. Do I feel like an imposter? Hell, yeah. Finally, a name to put with the feelings. If I can name it I can tame it, right?

What's in YOUR fridge?

2006-02-04T07:07:00.000-05:00

Getting up should not have anything to do with food. "There's no good junk food in the house? Think I'll stay in/go back to bed."

Food as fuel, ha. What a concept.

Testing, Testing...

2006-02-03T19:51:00.000-05:00

From the department of WTF was I thinking:

Today I had my annual tests, back to back. You know, those tests. Yeah, nothing says I love myself like scooting down and putting my feet up in stirrups. Unless, you know, it's having my breasts crunched between cold metal plates while holding my breath and trying. Not. To. Squirm. Or flinch. Or anything at all that might require a do-over. Thank heavens for efficient and speedy technicians.

On the plus side, signed up today for a 5-week adult education course:

STRATEGIES FOR BUILDING A NEW LIFE, 10 hr
Looking for a life coach approach to kick-start a new life for
yourself? Learn tools, methods and behaviors for moving in
an upward and positive direction. Personality tests will help
identify characteristics, talents and hidden strengths that
may open doors and opportunities in your life. Learn ways
to effectively deal with current life issues and turn them
into opportunities for positive growth. This class is meant
to be fun, lively and results-oriented, enhanced by a life
coach with personal experience in achieving change and growth.

A kick start, just what I need. Or maybe just a kick. The sooner the better: I got some grad school applications that need fillin'.

Imagine a Woman...

2006-02-03T00:57:00.000-05:00

PK and I had dinner together last night. Cheesecake Factory, yum. Discussed husbands, writing, fear of success that interfered with writing, general sense of being undeserving of the good life, how much we'd like to go on Starting Over or, failing that, find a life coach. Ordered cheesecake to go, wandered around Barnes and Noble. Picked up a book, Imagine a Woman in Love with Herself (Patricia Lynn Reilly). Opened it at random to the following:

Imagine a woman who follows her creative impulses.

A woman who produces original creations.

Who refuses to color inside someone else's lines.

PK snerled up her lip when I showed it to her. Still, it seemed like a sign, so she bought two copies, one for me. (I bought dinner.) Now I have to read it. Do the work. Crap.