Stuck

Written back in March and never published, although I'm not sure why. Publishing now because all of this is still true, tragically, although I am getting better at embracing my bohemian lifestyle and ability to pay bills (most of them, anyway) with my freelance work.

I am stuck, once again, working for King V. Only now it's part-time, the pay is far less than when I was important full-time, one of our clients is irritating as fuck, and I don't get to complain because beggars don't get to be choosers. I expressed dissatisfaction about the neurotic client we're stuck working with and King V told me to suck it up. He claims I have a choice if I want to work with the client after his (King V's) contract expires this fall, but I don't see how it's true. King V insists I can do the work in the evenings and on the weekends and still maintain a full-time job during the day. He's desperate -- without entirely saying so -- for me to take over his business, which I don't want to do. I can understand that he doesn't want to see the business close, but there's something he's clearly not getting. I am stuck with phrases in my throat like It's time. You have to stop trying to control my life. Let go. Stop telling me what I can handle.

* * * * *

I am stuck in an apartment beneath people I literally had to yell at the other night because they were tap dancing at 9 p.m. The landlord doesn't care. King V thinks I need to sit them down -- two hyperactive Gen Yers who clearly don't care how many times I complain about noise -- and have a face-to-face discussion. Hopefully King V will be just as forthcoming with the advice when he's visiting me in prison.

* * * * *

I am stuck in a city with no IKEA. That's just cruel.

* * * * *

I am stuck between the urge to find a "real" job and the desire to stop looking because it's clearly not going to happen and if I continue to pray/talk to the Goddess in the way I do, maybe something like freelance editing will come through, or any kind of opportunity that wouldn't be too soul sucking and would allow me to pay the bills AND eat AND buy something from Etsy every once in a while oh please oh please oh please Goddess let it happen and happen soon. I am one tired little locomotive and it's getting harder and harder to fake steam.

Consumerism (and more)

Post originally scheduled for November 28

I want to own almost nothing, live in one room, and soak up the simplicity of life. I started feeling this way a couple years ago at least when I realized or accepted that my apartment is too big and the clutter I am exceedingly good at ignoring is threatening to suffocate me. I felt a little better when the coldest winds of winter struck and I moved my bed into the living room. I am away from a drafty window I never got around to insulating and feel a bit like I live in a studio, which I have thought a lot about doing once I move. The only drawback to studio living would be a close proximity to two cats and a litterbox. BLEARGH.

At the same time that I want to pare down and sell, give away, or burn most of the things I own, I want to go to Target or (and!) IKEA and have a retailgasm. I want to lose my mind buying sheets and towels and bathroom sets in patterns that complement the wall color in the boudoir. I want a stocked linen closet so I can open my guest room -- painted a pale shade of blue, bright white accessories, starring a conversation-starting duvet -- to friends passing through town and pull out a blanket, extra pillows, a towel and washcloth set without a moment's hesitation. I want to provide for the ones I love. I crave a security I do not and have not felt for close to eight years.

I overwhelmed by all the things in my apartment: Tote bags full of recycling that never make it to the bins at the park. Boxes of paper that need to be shredded. Old magazines I don't want to throw away because I might read them someday and if I'm not going to read them then shouldn't I make a very cool collage and ohmyGOD why am I not making more art and living my purpose and finishing that painting leaning against the wall and why haven't I cleaned up that mustard stain yet or recycled those pizza boxes or taken that lamp to Goodwill or bought some decent silverware I'm 40 goddamn years old I should own a set of silverware. And china. I should own some china. Because that's what people DO. And I should be married. Just think. If I get married, I can get stuff.

When I was 17, I saw Thelma and Louise in the theatre. In one of the scenes, a song called The Ballad of Lucy Jordan plays, whose chorus is "At the age of 37, she realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." The words impact me today almost as much as they did in 1991. While I'm not trapped in suburbia with a husband and kids, I feel like... I hate to say I'm too old to live out of a backpack and take the train across Europe, but my first thought (excuse) as to why I can't is "I have cats." If the cats are taken care of, then I worry about money. I don't feel like I can be carefree and get away from it all, but mostly because I don't know how to make it happen.

I know that if I gave up my apartment and sold/trashed/gifted what I didn't want to keep -- which isn't much, I realize, as I look around the living room alone -- a big weight would be lifted off my shoulders. My primary expense is rent and coming up with the money without a job and without unemployment insurance is proving more and more difficult. Most of my other expenses are related to living here. Once I have walls, I need heat (or cool) and light and of course I need the Internet.

Without those bills, my shoulders could cease being ear rests. I don't know where I would live, what I would do for money, or what life would be like if I couldn't live with my cats, but something needs to give. I might never become a traveling poet who lives out of a suitcase, hoping my next gig will pay me enough to get to the next town, but stuff is weighing me down -- mental, emotional, and physical stuff -- and I have to get out from under it before I start singing Lucy's soft song.

Gratitude (All is well)

Post originally scheduled for November 27

I am grateful for so much.

I have a family I love.

I have friends who are smart, good, kind, and funny.

I have my writing and my art.

I have a new mattress, courtesy of King V and Queen S, which has made sleeping a joy again. I'd been sleeping on a bed that was almost 12 years old and had springs poking through its cover. I no longer wake up sore or have to dodge pokey things when I go to bed. (That's what she said -- hey o!)

I am grateful the mini-flood that happened in my folks' basement while they were out of town was contained by a floor drain and a fast-acting plumber. And me not losing my shit.

I'm grateful the plumber hit on me before he left because it made me feel pretty.

I am grateful my old car continues to run.

I am grateful, amazed, and thankful to King V, the Goddess, and the Universe that money shows up right when I need it most.

I am grateful for the years I was able to draw unemployment assistance. (I would be super mega squee-worthy bouncy happy happy joy chocolate joy surprise bunnies! grateful if that assistance would start up again. Bills don't stop and I'll be damned if I can't find my seeds to grow a money tree.)

I am grateful I no longer work in a terrible environment and that I feel a deep, calm happy most days, even if my serenity borders on boredom and coma. (I have plenty to do around the house. I just don't want to and there's no one to hold me accountable, so....)

I am grateful the one-year anniversary of leaving said bad job found me giddy instead of depressed.

I am extremely grateful depression hasn't reared its ugly head recently and that I haven't been spending my days feeling sad and trapped.

I am grateful Netflix exists and releases entire seasons of House of Cards all at once, even if I binged on season two in about a day-and-a-half and probably now have to wait a year for season three.

I am grateful the front porch hipsters are gone as often as they are and that I have earplugs for when they are home.

I am grateful I've cleared four hurdles in pursuit of a job with a organization that helps people. I will be especially grateful if they stick to their promise and contact me tomorrow about an in-person interview. I will be squishy pink unicorn biscuits and gravy grateful if they offer me the job. (Especially if that happens soon.)

I am grateful for Spotify.

I am grateful no one just saw me lip synching to an Aretha song.

I am grateful ice cream exists, even if I don't have any.

I am grateful a delivery driver from a local restaurant and, later, a blog reader inquired about my well-being after I hadn't been around in a while. It's nice to know people care, even if you don't really know them.

Family

Post originally scheduled for November 26

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I was thrilled to find out yesterday that my parents have only invited over my aunts and one uncle for Christmas dinner. The past few years have been a mishmash of relatives and my parents weird-ass friends. Last year, I was seated next to one of my dad's friends, a man who tragically resembles Charles Manson, and his loud girlfriend. I watched her graze on the paella Mack Daddy Smooth had prepared and wondering if I was ever going to be able to escape. If you never stop putting one large spoonful after another of food on your plate, we're never going to be able to move on to the next course and I will be stuck on this uncomfortable wooden chair all night and I don't know how I'm going to get out of here and before I literally started hyperventilating, I said I was too warm and went in the living room to calm down. King V followed me, unfortunately, and I tried to explain that I needed a minute. I don't think he understands introversion or anxiety or panic attacks, which makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed, and in the moment, I am too flustered to explain properly. We also have 'I don't understand your issue' history. Years ago when I worked for him, I called in sick for two days once because I had a migraine (and, on the second day, a kind of migraine hangover). When I returned to work, he told me he had decided one day, years ago, that he no longer wanted to have migraines and they just stopped. I had to leave the room because it was the closest I have ever come to actually wanting to stab someone.

Thankfully, this Christmas will be restricted to my parents, my brother, two aunts, and one of the aunt's husbands, which means we'll be able to sit at one table. I won't have to play nice with serial killers and chatterboxes of questionable sanity and talent. I won't be shoved in the corner (insert Dirty Dancing moment here) and I can just be with people I actually like and love. Also, there will be liquor. And pie.

Object(s) close to me

Post originally scheduled for November 24

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1. Water bottle, almost empty
2. Diet Coke can, empty
3. Orange patchouli lotion
4. Stuffed pony wearing a birthday hat
5. An envelope with almost $5 in dimes to be taken to the bank, rolled, and deposited
6. A check with my landlord's name scrawled next to PAY TO THE ORDER OF as though I was possessed by a drunk toddler. Note: Write out rent checks the night before, kids, or you're just going to have to start over.
7. Tweezers
8. A cap to a missing 20-ounce Dr. Pepper bottle
9. A headband
10. A plastic cup with packets of mild Taco Bell hot sauce
11. Napkins
12. Pens
13. My phone
14. Cordless mouse
15. Tortilla chips
16. Earrings
17. Cell phone adapter
18. Takeout menus
19. A straw
20. A bottle of hydrogen peroxide

That's not even all. My house is a mess.

Fences

Post originally scheduled for November 23

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Whenever I think of fences, I think of this relational psychology test. I've never been a fan of fences. They seem restrictive and unwelcoming. Certainly there are some very nice fence designs, but I think I'm drawn to those you can see through, like wrought iron. Maybe you can't move the bars, but you can see what's on the other side. I'm sure there's something deeply psychological about what I just said and whatever else I could say about fence design. I don't like chain link fences. They look cheap, flimsy, and awful. I lived inside a gated community when I left my parents' house for the last time and it was much more of a hassle than it was protective. Cars would bulk up at the entrance and scoot through in a clot when someone used their pass to trigger the sensor. There was nothing but waiting when you were in a hurry to get home or leave, which I pretty much always was. I didn't feel any safer there than I did living in 'open' complexes. If bad guys want to get in, they're going to find a way.

The fence around my parents' backyard looked nice when it was first installed, but the wood weathered to that flat, dirty grey years and years ago. If I ever own their house, I'm changing out the fence. Because the neighborhood is on the edge of sketchy, I'd prefer it be another fence you can't see through. But I also say that because I want to put in a pool where I can go skinny dipping.

Given that there's a Catholic church next door, I'll probably invest in a roof too.

Fuck

Fuck is easily my favorite swear word. It would also be my answer if I was ever on Inside the Actors' Studio and James Lipton asked me what my favorite word was. It's so versatile -- in fact, I just whispered it, made it into a drawl, and sang it. (I live alone. FREEDOM!!) It's just -- well, I just can't really say what it is I like about it. It's a tiny little word with a great big presence. It's simply fanfuckingtastic.

Please to enjoy the following video, "The F Word," which will be a special treat for English majors, writers, and linguaphiles everywhere.

Life lesson

I think it's appropriate that the topic on my 40th birthday is life lesson. Best lesson I probably ever learned? Don't settle. Don't settle for a shirt you ordered that doesn't quite fit, a sandwich at a restaurant that includes something you specifically said no to, or a relationship that isn't working for you. I've done all those things and more -- wore the shirt I was uncomfortable in, repeatedly taken the onions off a sandwich, and dated a woman whose claim to fame was keeping a jar of pickle juice in my fridge and her Law and Order DVDs strewn about my living room. I may have to try on a thousand shirts, switch restaurants, and be single for longer than I'd prefer, but I'm living life on my terms and taking the little steps that add up into one, big happy.

My favorite holiday

Hands down, my favorite holiday is Christmas. There are several reasons why this is true.

I still believe in Santa

I'm serious. Not like a wide-eyed, three-year-old kid believes in Santa. In a healthy, adult, electricity-still-feels-like-magic, it-could-happen way. It feels wrong to give up all hope that Santa exists, even though lots of killjoys like to post facts about how Santa would liquefy if he actually tried to deliver presents around the world in one night. Or his stomach would explode from eating all the cookies kids leave out. Whatever. What I'm holding onto -- more than sleighs, elves, and presents that magically appear -- is a feeling I had when I was a kid. Mack Daddy Smooth and I would get up WAY too early (it was ALWAYS dark when we slid out of bed) and creep to the living room to see if Santa had been by yet. I remember the wide-eyed wonder and gasping aloud at all the unwrapped presents waiting for us. I remember the year MDS received a bright yellow fireman's helmet complete with a light and siren. He flipped a switch and the living room lit up as red light bounced off the walls. The helmet's insanely loud bleating probably scared the shit out of our parents. I think it was 2:00 a.m., which means they'd probably been in bed for an hour. And yet they wonder why they aren't grandparents yet.

I no longer work in retail

For years, I hated Christmas. HATED. The day I got to spend with my family didn't mean shit because I'd been at work the day before, would be in the store the next day, and had been dealing with the oncoming holiday since at least August. This was even in the '90s, long before stores started opening on Black Friday at 3:00 a.m. and before the Internet took over the entire world (or even existed if we're talking about my teen years). All I knew of Christmas was long lines, mean -- MEAN -- people, and numbly sliding boxes of toys and books into dark sacks so surprises wouldn't be ruined. I remember reading a manual when I was working in retail management that explained what days I would have to work in order to qualify for holiday pay. It was always December 24 and 26. No excuses. The instant I realized I was always going to always be screwed out of a decent holiday with my family, I knew I wasn't going to pursue managing my own store. No customer is worth that shiz.

Mack Daddy Smooth comes home

MDS has lived out of state since the end of the '90s, which barely seems possible. He might make it home twice a year, but usually it's only at Christmas. Several of my friends can attest to my excitement when December rolls around. You know how it is when you're apart from someone you love. You don't want to waste a second of their visit, but of course he needs to spend time with my parents and with his friends. Generally the 10 or so days he's home go by in a flash and then he's gone again and my heart is broken, but I hold onto the moments we get to chill in the kitchen while he cooks, or when we chat while I wrap his presents for him. (Otherwise my parents get presents that appear to have been wrapped by drunk toddlers.) It's weird to think of him as a man, but I guess he is. He'll be 38 next month, but of course he's always going to be the little brother I wrapped in a blanket and popped on the head with a pillow when we played Toothpaste, a short- and short-lived game we made up as kids. Yeah, we were kind of strange. Or maybe it was just me and he was gullible. Now he's a professional who lives halfway around the world, loves surfing, and talks about how he's starting to go bald. He'll be here in 29 days. I can't wait.

The house feels good

While MDS and my mom are in the kitchen cooking amazing things, King V and I tend to putter around the house decorating. Dad sets out the candle holders and creche scenes that our family has owned since I was a kid. I'm tasked with adding and lighting tea lights, and both parents gripe at me and MDS to help decorate the tree. I like the way the house feels: it's warm, it smells great, all the comforting memorabilia makes an appearance, and, if we're lucky, it's snowing outside. There's something so great about stomping up the walk in messy boots, laden with bags, and being welcomed into the house as though I'm a long-lost traveler. To make my mother happy, I tend to stay over on Christmas Eve, even though it means seriously uncomfortable sleeping. A few years ago, it was a foldout couch with the inevitable bar that dug into my back. After the couch was replaced, it was the new couch that's covered in a fabric I can only describe as some combination of glue and Velcro. Last year, it was a creaky twin bed I feared I would fall off during the night. It's okay that I don't sleep well or much. I'm waiting up for Santa anyway.

Sunday mornings

Start the day by sleeping in, however late that is. Amble towards a restaurant that serves a good, hearty breakfast. Dine with friends and laugh while drinking coffee doused in cream and perhaps sprinkled in sugar. Mosey towards a bookstore and browse. Sit in the stacks and flip through a picture book, or grab a chair near the window and talk memoirs as friends wander by with the books they're taking home. Hit up a coffeehouse and chat some more, or maybe do some writing. Share your words or save the file away for future review if friends have moved on to run errands at the hardware store, grocery, or that heady and exotic boutique that sells spices. Head home for an afternoon nap, curling into the softness of down, and sink deeply into dreams that will foster conversation at the dinner table. In the evening, please the palate with something made with patience and love. Enjoy a rich pasta with cream, a green salad dappled in vinaigrette, a wine touched with black cherry and oak. Nestle into an armchair in the living room as the conversation continues and the Cabernet gets polished off. Acknowledge the good weekend while preparing for the week ahead with planned outfits and easy-to-approach to-do lists. Know this day will come around again, perhaps looking very different. Church and croissants. Pancakes before painting. A quiet cup of tea in a delicate white mug before the greasy cloth and detective work of car repairs. Appreciate the slow day. Savor its significance as the second day of rest before the world starts up again.

Coffee

I really enjoy coffee, but don't drink it nearly as often as I would like. It's not that I lack a coffeemaker, a bean grinder, easy access to a Starbucks, or even a car to drive to the grocery store. It's just not something I think about often, even though I enjoy its rituals. I like the steps it takes to brew coffee, from the gush of water out of a weighty carafe to the smell of the grounds when I pop the lid off the coffee can. I'm bad about getting my coffee to water ratio correct, however, and tend to make the coffee too strong or too weak when I'm trying to make enough just for myself. Though it would be easier, I find something inherently sad in buying a machine that would only make one cup at a time. It's as though giving in to that purchase would be a needless reminder of being single, like buying single-serving frozen dinners and the sad music of taking one mug down from the kitchen cabinet.

I love drinking from large mugs I can wrap my hands around. The independent coffeehouse near my house serves a nice cuppa in a deep purple mug, which I have actually requested before, even though it made the barista look at me strangely before he admitted he too had a favorite mug. I like nibbling on something sweet with coffee, trading sips and bites while I browse Facebook or answer email. There's something sacred in going out for coffee, which is perhaps the best reason I don't make it at home. I don't care for overly sweetened varieties that are more dessert than coffee. I like a simple cup of regular, saying yes to 'Leave room for cream?,' and making my way to a table in the corner where I can people watch and chill. I may be enjoying my cup alone, but I'm surrounded by people with similar tastes on their tongues. It is in this unspoken camaraderie that I find myself at home.

Comfort

Every year for the past several years, I've attended a gay film festival with several friends near the end of January. It's generally a great time, full of laughter, excellent food, and life-affirming GLBT films. It's pretty nice to be somewhere for a long weekend and be able to be fully out and surrounded by like-minded folks and feel pretty darn okay about myself.

The film fest that took place at the beginning of this year was a little different, unfortunately. It was the weekend before I decided to leave the job I referenced in this post and I was a wreck. I was going to skip the festival and stay at home to wallow, I guess, but ended up going to the festival and hanging out with my friends. I was terribly out of sorts and fielding phone calls from my parents and lawyers (seriously) because of how bad things were and didn't get to fully enjoy the weekend, BUT I do remember the sleep I got at my friend's house the night I arrived.

My sweet friend Em lets me sleep in her bed when I visit. She beds down elsewhere with her partner and I'm treated to a luxuriously soft bed with scoonchy sheets (trust; it's a compliment) and several blankets that are great for warmth but also a kind of safe smothering, if that makes sense. I recently heard about people on the autism spectrum who use weighted blankets to help them keep calm, and it makes complete sense to me.

I like best being able to cocoon when I sleep and I desperately needed rest when I arrived at Em's house. I remember burrowing beneath the layers and letting out a sigh of relief. I got the kind of comfort I am missing at home with my wonderful, albeit solo, comforter on a mattress years past its expiration date.

I aspire to have soft pink sheets, thick blankets, quilts with history, the weight of warmth and safety, a haven from the outside world even when things are going all right. These things are currently labeled someday, but will eventually become my everyday comfort.

My favorite person

I am lucky that this prompt makes me think of a lot of people I know.

Today, it was my mom when we chatted about appliances (seriously) while drinking chai tea infused with milk.

A couple weeks ago, it was my brother when we chatted on Skype and he took his laptop out on the balcony to show me downtown Waikiki.

This afternoon, it was my dad when I looked at his grey-and-white hair and realized I still think of him as having brown hair.

Last week, it was my friend Luckdragon and her blog posts that are delicious, fun, and a glimpse into a life I wouldn't mind living.

Years ago, long before he passed away, my favorite person was my paternal grandfather, whose whiskers I can still feel 'burn' my cheek from kissing him hello and goodbye.

It was my paternal grandmother and her handwritten letters that started with phrases like Tuesday morning instead of the date. Years before she too passed away, we lost her to dementia. I'm glad to have some of her authentic self saved in a box with other written correspondence I have long cherished.

A couple days ago, it was my friend Schwa who reminded me how much I love Ze Frank's "True Facts" videos. We chatted for more than four hours and that night I went to bed with sore stomach muscles because I'd laughed so much.

The night before that, it was a friend for whom I have long felt a deep love who told me that visual art may be my passion, but writing is my calling.

I'm a lucky grrl, no?

First love

My first love was a boy. A beautiful boy named Chris who was kind to me.

I'd had crushes on boys and girls before I met Chris when I was around 18. I could easily identify the crushes on boys since, you know, girls were 'supposed' to like boys. The girls I liked? I just had a desire to form, as a friend of mine puts it, an intense friendship with them. But they were crushes.

Until I got to college, boys had never really been that nice to me. I was a shy kid who gained weight seemingly exponentially, so I was always the fat girl. Hence, target. I got into a lot of fights on the playground in elementary school, often grabbing a boy by the shirt collar and hurling him to the ground in a rage. In junior high, the guy I sat next to in band class for two years made booming sounds as I walked across the classroom. In high school, I chased boys down the hall and cornered them in classrooms for whatever unkindness they'd extended my way.

I guess I expected more of the same when I got to college, but things took a different turn. Boys were after a different kind of attention and I attracted a few miscreants, surprised and pleased to have boys paying attention to me. All the while, I was deeply into Chris. He had short, dark brown hair, wore a leather jacket, smoked, and smelled like Drakkar. Hey, it was 1992.

I can't go into a lot of specifics because I can't remember most of them. I remember being drunk at some college party and Chris sitting next to me on my friend's couch and making me laugh. I remember being elated when we were euchre partners for the many games of cards I played during my first 18 months of college. I remember kissing him one New Year's Eve in my dad's brand-new car that is now my beloved, old-ass hoopty.

Sadly, about a year after we met, Chris and I had a fight. I liked him too much, I guess, and had called him one too many times at his dorm. I remember him yelling and calling me a psycho bitch, which hurt and embarrassed me for a long time. There's not much I can do with that now. It was the last time we talked and there was little reason to try and contact him anymore. By the time it felt safe to reach out to him again, he probably would've been in a different dorm, different college, or even graduated. Of course, it wouldn't have taken long for him to become a different boy, just as I became a different girl.

Chris and I are both around 40 now, which seemed an impossibility when 20 hadn't even happened yet. I'm sure he's married with a bunch of kids. Maybe he remembers our friendship, or maybe he only remembers slamming the phone down after our last conversation. I was just starting the process of coming out back then, liking Chris at the same time that I began to call myself bi-curious, bisexual, and, eventually, lesbian. Regardless of who I prefer to date now, I'll always remember the night Chris and I were driving somewhere -- a friend's house, probably -- and I absentmindedly put a cigarette in my mouth before looking for my lighter. Suddenly, but not so much that it startled me from paying attention to the road, a flame appeared from his Zippo, and I was caught in the heady scent of lighter fluid, leather jacket, Drakkar, and the cigarette's first burst of smoke. A slow smile broke across my face in the dark car and no moment ever seemed more perfect.

Hey, it was 1992.

Safety

One of the best presents I ever received was a goose down comforter in a soothing sage green. It has big, puffy squares that I squish around myself when I get in bed, which usually prompts me to stage whisper, "Poof poof!" I know it's just a blanket, but there's something meaningful in the comfort and safety I feel when I'm all wrapped up like a burrito. If my mood is dark and I'm spending too much time in bed, the comforter is armor against the world. I pull it over my head and play ostrich. Go away. Come back some other time. If it's cold in my room, I burrow, relishing the heat my body creates, lasting as long as I can until I feel claustrophobic and have to poke my face out for air. When it's time for a nap, there is no better feeling than the cool material as it crosses my skin, especially if it's the weekend and I have no obligations. I hit the bliss trifecta if it's raining when I lie down.

When I was a kid, I had a baby blanket that I kept until I was about 12. It was white and had puffy squares similar to my green comforter, albeit a denser material like a quilt. I loved that cover and called it Covey. It was my comfort until I was about 10, the same year my maternal grandmother visited my family and teased me for being too old to still have a baby blanket. The following year, I remember folding Covey in a panic and shoving it (her?) on a high shelf in the closet so I wouldn't be teased again by whomever was visiting. A year or so later, my family had moved to the Midwest. I guess I deemed myself too old to be seeking safety from a piece of fabric, even though I was still playing with Barbies after school. I cut Covey into pieces and, using a stencil-and-paint kit I had, decorated a square with a big, sloppy red heart pierced by an arrow. Even though Covey was ripped from years of use and was probably going to be tossed out by one of my well-meaning parents before too much longer, I still regret that decision.

Stealing

I am never more cognizant of the concept of stealing than when I'm in the dollar store behind my house. It's not that I've stolen from the store. Even at my poorest, larceny has not and will not be an option. What gets me is the automated message that plays when a customer enters the store. It's something along the lines of All activities are being monitored and recorded, coupled with a gentleman's dulcet reminder that loss prevention is everyone's responsibility. Additionally, a security person in a hidden office will check in with the cashier, a message I originally thought was recorded because it sounded so scripted. The first time I heard a cashier reply and the ceiling said thank you, however, I understood everyone was under surveillance. Too bad it was far more creepy than comforting.

The store is certainly not in a good neighborhood. It's tucked at the back of a parking lot praying for the salvation of fresh asphalt, across the street from a competing dollar store that took over a gutted grocery store, and catty corner from an always-hopping liquor store. Just a few blocks away, police hide and wait for prostitutes to get out of their johns' cars. The neighborhood to the immediate north was going through a rapid gentrification project a few years ago, but then the economy tanked and the development dollars clearly dried up.

I fear I look suspicious if I get out of my car and lower the sleeves of my jeans jacket before I walk inside the store, even though I am only reacting to the chilly air. I feel guilty when I hear the ceiling cops start talking to the cashiers, as though I am holding my frozen pizza too close to my body, or I've ducked too quickly down an aisle after hoisting a giant bag of cat food into my cart. I'm thankful I don't carry a purse or any other kind of bag that can be searched, not that my pockets would be exempt were I feeling a little light fingered. I wonder what happens to people who enter the store, hear the various warnings, and ignore them, either out of spite or because they're too desperate to care about the consequences of being caught.

Cleaning house

Tomorrow. I'm going to clean tomorrow.

I can take those bags of recycling to the drop site outside the overpriced grocery store. The newspapers too. When I get back, I'll spend 10 minutes in the kitchen. I can get that one counter taken care of. Scratch that. I'll spend 15 minutes. I'll reward my productivity with 15 minutes of Netflix. Better yet, I'll spend an hour in the kitchen and then watch Netflix for an hour. I'll make myself a Spotify playlist that lasts an hour. When the music stops, so can I.

Tomorrow, I'll move that bookshelf from the living room to the den and redo my altar. First, I have to move the ironing board. Then I can clean it off. It's just holding stacks of artwork and dry-clean-only pants that no longer fit. Maybe I'll hang up some art I've done. Something above the fireplace, something above the stereo, something that says I've lived here seven years and should at least pretend I belong. I don't want to get too comfortable, though. I keep intending to move. I should sell that goddess-y wall hanging and jump start the purging process that accompanies moving. It's time for it, like me, to be in a new space. Dear Craigslist: For sale, one black goddess scarf with velvety texture, purchased in Ann Arbor, 2007. Tiny holes in corners from being hung on nails by safety pins. Probably dusty. Two-cat home.

Crap. I forgot that broken TV stand is in the closet and I can't put the ironing board in there, even if I could figure out how to collapse it. Where'd all this dust come from? Oh, great. A chunk of ceiling fell in and I need to sweep it up. I think I'll just close this door for now. But I'll stand here for a minute first and toe the dust that's still visible. Maybe I'll just go ahead and leave the light off in this room.

I'm going to move the bed tomorrow. I'll wash the bedding and make that one shelf into a bedside table. I'll pull its twin from the living room, remove all the stuff that doesn't belong there. A bottle of ibuprofen with only two tablets left. A bottle of adobe seasoning that's essentially just colored salt. Takeout menus in triplicate. I'll find a lamp that works but leave it unplugged since no one's on the other side of the bed anyway. It'll match, be cute. Maybe I'll put my yellow sheets back on the bed. Mental note: Buy lightbulbs. Tomorrow.

Bleeding

In this story, mentions of internal bleeding are not literal. Welcome to the world of metaphor! And hazy details.

The job was bad for me. I didn't know that right away. If I'd known, maybe I wouldn't have gone for it. Maybe I would have. I really needed a job.

It started out as a temp gig. I had been working part time for another company and had begun researching how to apply for food stamps because $9/hour wasn't cutting it. Even though it was temporary, the new job was full time and paid a little more, so I leaped.

The first sign of trouble was when my new bosses didn't really know what to do with me and the other employees they'd hired. It was like they had bought a cruise ship and wanted us to row it.

Work came our way and our ragtag group of misfits started getting to know each other. At first the work was a lot of research and data entry, but I didn't complain much. Full time. Occasional free lunches. Regular paychecks. Relief.

Near the end of the temp assignment, management decided who they wanted to keep and who they wanted to cut. Sadly, the folks whose contracts weren't being extended were pulled out of work one afternoon and unceremoniously dumped. Follow me into this room. Line up against the wall. Blood stains? No, those are -- bang.

I hardly thought the HR department was going to wheel a big cake into the room and make champagne toasts at the end of the first phase of the assignment, but one minute my coworkers had been working and the next, they were quietly packing up their things and leaving the room while the HR rep monitored them.

Hmm. This little red flag. Where did that come from?

Fast forward a bit and I was sitting in a final interview with the HR rep who let me know I was being hired permanently, but that new hires were on 30-day reviews. If I failed to deliver, my "relationship with the company would be reevaluated."

It is no understatement when I say I never relaxed at that job.

Over the next 18 months or so, select employees would be marched into conference rooms or manager offices and put on probation, "invited" to resign, or outright fired. Rumor had it these people always knew the end was coming, but it happened so often I had a hard time believing so many useless people worked for one company. The whole drama played out like an abusive relationship. From the front, big smiles and bigger sunglasses. From the side, visible bruises behind the shades.

Work piled up, which wasn't surprising considering the workforce kept getting reduced. The office became the land of unrealistic expectations. Employees were made to feel guilty for taking time for themselves on the weekends. Something was wrong with you if you didn't elect to work on your days off.

I became progressively unhappier and took my emotions out on food. I vented to others who were fighting the same battle. I thought we were all in the same boat. I should not have been surprised the day I found out I was on a sinking vessel and all the life jackets had silently been distributed.

As you might guess, the death march eventually came for me. I held on at first, clinging to the side of the ship even though pirates were on board and there was nothing left to save. Fearing shark-infested waters, I did not want to let go. A few days into the fight, I had to surrender. I was not going to be allowed to win. Even if I swam faster, the water level was going to continue to rise.

At first, I was absolutely destroyed. I was mired in the societal definition of success. When employed, I meant something. Having resigned, I felt meaningless, unwanted, unimportant. The truth was in the word, was it not? Resignation. I had given up. Slipped under the water and faded away without a sound.

Now, however, some nine months later, I understand so many things I could not see then. I know, much like some character on Grey's Anatomy, that I had presented with no external injuries but I was quietly bleeding internally.

I would remark to coworkers and friends outside the company that I was dying inside, but I always laughed it off as the darkest form of sarcasm-rich hyperbole. Really, though, I understood my life force was ebbing. Actual death may not have been imminent, but an emotional and mental end was nigh.

For two-and-a-half months, I couldn't do much more than rage and take my emotional damage with me on interviews. Not surprisingly, none of the jobs I applied for at the very beginning went anywhere.

One night, though -- and I can no longer remember the impetus -- I got my art back. The urge to create, the same the job had all but squashed out of me, came back. I stayed up all night drawing. It was early spring. The weather was glorious, the windows were open, and at 3:00 a.m., there was little else besides me, my art, and Spotify in my headphones. I felt almost unnaturally good. Night after night, I drew for hours, losing time in details and color matching.

My inner critic was good at reminding me I had no business being happy. If I stayed up all night creating, it was still my responsibility to get up after a few hours' sleep and start applying for "real jobs." I did, but the louder message I kept hearing was that everything was going to work out.

The past nine months have been a time of incredible upheaval. Creating art has brought me the most incredible joy. I have also spent considerable time lingering in my own darkness, letting fear and worry consume me. The good, though, has been shinier and brighter and useful for beating back anxiety and all my shoulds.

Art healed me. Beginning to pursue the path I want to walk -- the path I am meant to walk -- stemmed the flow of blood I didn't want to believe was spilling away. I knew I was down, that I was unhappy, that I needed to make a change, but seeing around fear was difficult. Leaping meant imminent death instead of the realization that I could actually fly, that I had known how to fly all along. I listened to my critic instead of my heart. I put stock in mantras I didn't actually believe in, like buzzwords, jargon, and the unspoken rule that success would come if I just had enough Twitter followers.

I am still figuring out how to make everything work out. I have my days when I dwell on the past year and let a rush of anger flood my face, but I have so much more to take away from this time than one bad experience. I have my freedom, knowledge, and my art, none of which can be destroyed by any number of marauders. Above all, I have the unshakable feeling that things are going to work out. The excitement is in swimming away from a sinking ship and seeing only clear blue water.

Sunny days

Sapphic Scorpio seeks love with artistic flair

Francophile girlfriend, long dark hair

Loquacious lady, erudite femme

Hello, darling, say this love is no whim

Rainy days

dancing in the rain is cliche, really

the kind of thing movies like the notebook are probably about

two people with some kind of connection

lovers

best friends

good girls and bad boys

find themselves playing in puddles

kicking up the waterfallen sky

running in circles, laughing

and without warning

the serious moment arrives

the one novelists write about

plumping up the scene with sparks, magic, electricity

the barefoot good girl spins toward

the bad boy with celebrity blue eyes

and knows without knowing

this boy with whom she shares a bed but no romance

wants to kiss her

perhaps like the breeze of butterfly wings changing the world

leaning in for that silver screen kiss would've altered the path of the universe

perhaps not

probably not

somehow it's better

the not knowing

instead of awkward or afters

what ifs or what was that

the memories that linger

are laughter

a long skirt
a shared towel
and an energy that rolled through
like the low rumble of thunder