Awards Night

So, Erin was lucky enough to win an award, so I (with some of her other friends) went to support her.
There were all sorts of awards.  Bobby, for example, won an award for an essay he wrote, though he wasn't there to receive any praise.  Another young woman I occasionally talk to won an award for an essay she wrote on Pacific Islander fiction, which I know nothing about.  I'm particularly proud of Bobby, because he once told me that I had a positive influence on him.  When I first met him, I didn't think anything like I'm going to positively influence this boy, but I guess that's the way life worked out. 
For prizes, in addition to money, they gave away seed packets, which I really liked.  It's almost it's own metaphor: at school, teachers and books plant ideas in you; now you have seeds to literally plant.   
I had classes in this particular building, and at one point, I heard the nearby bell tower chiming, and it reminded me of one class I had.  It was in the morning, and I remember how much I enjoyed the quiet walk there, and how I was usually the first one there.  It was so warm in this room, I would usually go over to the window and open it up, and somehow, this was unintentionally timed to correspond with just about the time that same bell tower would chime. 
Erin got an award for creative writing, and she read a short piece about herself.  It was about how she doesn't like to be touched.  (I need to write on this same topic, now that I'm thinking about it.)  She read really fast, and honestly, I don't think anyone in the audience really got all of it. 
Erin tends to write longer pieces, which aren't really conducive to the format.  (Other winners, including Lia, were reading poetry or performing small pieces from a longer play.)  Erin needs to pick shorter pieces and she seriously needs to slow down.
I did get to see the professor in charge of screenwriting.  Erin had complained, in passing, that he wasn't much of a creative writing teacher but more of a public relations/advertising kind of guy.  The moment I saw him, I whispered to Erin "Seriously?" which made her choke and laugh. 
After the ceremony, Erin revealed that her parents and uncle were in town.  And she hadn't invited them to the awards night.  This surprised me a little and then it made me sad.  I would give anything to have my parents come to something like this, but they wouldn't.  Not that I'm ever going to win an award, but I would never not tell my parents about something like this, especially given that they were here anyway. 
They were at the coffee shop across the street, so a group of us walked over there.  I had never met Erin's parents before, but some of the other friends in the group, like Liz and Jon, had. 
Erin has told me a lot of stories about her parents over the years, so I thought I would know them better than some of my other friend's parents.  And there wasn't anything about them that struck me as a lie on Erin's part, but I had always imagined them differently. 

For example, I had always imagined her Dad to be tall, almost entirely bald, and had little tuffs of white hair, which he wouldn't comb and would stick out all over the place.  I imagined he'd wear glasses.  And be overweight.  Basically, I imagined George Bluth, the Grandpa, from Arrested Development. 
Instead, he was shorter.  And his hair was sandy, and possibly he had a comb-over, because it looked strangely similar to Donald Trump.  His face was wider instead of longer.  He didn't wear glasses.  And there was something Hobbit like about him. 
The other thing about him was that I imagined he would speak like Erin spoke, which is to say, like me.  But he had a distinct accent, something I've heard people refer to as a Yooper accent.  Erin hates that term, and I can understand why.  I would describe his accent as sounding something similar to a Finnish American. 
I imagined her Mom would look almost exactly like her, only older, but she was shorter and very slim and her face was longer than I had imagined.  She actually looked similar in appearance to Erin's brother. 
And her Uncle looked a lot like her Dad, except he had long hair.  Come to think of it, he looked a lot like I imagined Erin's brother would look like, before I had met him.   
This is a good example of why I want to meet people's families.  I want to know everything I possibly can about my friends, and their families are an important part of their lives.  And because my imagination is clearly off. 
Erin introduced us, and her Dad clearly remembered Jon and Liz.  We spoke briefly.  There were some awkward pauses, which I guess I should of expected too, but there was something about having the quirkiness of Erin's family confirmed that made this funny to me.  Erin was right, they were different, but in ways that I hadn't considered.  They were looking for somewhere to eat, and someone suggested one of the local bar and restaurants, so we trooped over there.
It wasn't really that late yet, but the bar at this place was totally full.  We had a big group so we got a long table for ourselves.  I sat near Carrie, Erin's brother, and Erin's Mom.  I ordered a burger and some drinks. 
I tried to make conversation.  Carrie and I talked about future plans.  I tried to talk to Erin's brother about what he was studying and where he lived, since these were some of the few things I knew about him.  He was sort of hard to talk to, not because he was mean, but because he didn't offer much.  I was hoping maybe he would talk about his program, since I had friends who were part of the same thing.  I asked him if he liked where he lived, but he didn't have much to say on the subject. 
I racked my brain for other things to talk about, but I really couldn't come up with much.  I remembered Erin complaining about the Bart Stupak controversy last year, and remembering something she had mentioned about him, I asked her Mom about it.  This turned out to be a mistake because Erin's Mom did not have the same political views as Erin, which I thought she did, because of the way Erin talked about her family's politics. 

Writing Workshop

Mark invited me to a writing workshop he was holding. I brought a poem because that was what I had written the day before, and I mentioned this to the other writers because I wasn’t totally sure about the poem in question (which is a good reason to ask people what needs to be changed.)
After I read my poem, Kean said “You wrote that yesterday?”
Er, yes. Actually, I probably wrote it in about a half hour, maybe forty minutes if you could fooling around with the line breaks. I usually write poems without regard for line breaks, and then experiment with them later.
Everyone was mostly supportive of the poem. Kean mentioned that it sort of spun off on a tangent fairly early on, and the more I look at it, the more right I realize he is. So, I’m cutting that bit.
Mark did give me a wonderful compliment though: he told me I have amazing catalogs in my poems. That made me feel wonderful. I must admit, I’m sort of obsessed with catalogs, so I was happy to hear that.

I Am a Failure at Surprises

One of my old professors was giving a poetry reading, and obviously I wanted to go.  She hadn't seen me in a while, so I decided I should try to surprise her. 
The problem with me trying to surprise someone is that it often gets ruined. 
I decided to go that afternoon to a study room to do some reading and writing.  I frequent this particular study room, and it's usually pretty quiet on weekday afternoons.  At most, I've seen one person in there at this time of day, and even then, it's usually someone who just looks in and then walks away. 
I went in and, for about an hour, worked.  And then Chelsea walked in. 

I hadn't seen Chelsea in a long time either.  I was trying to remember the last conversation I had with her.  I vaguely remembered talking to her about four years ago about a book series we both liked.  I remembered this conversation because I didn't really know a lot of people who read this series; my best friend had introduced me to them years previous to that, and I had only spoken about the series with a man in a library once who read The Dresden Files, which I was also familiar with and was similar.  I think during that conversation Chelsea also mentioned that she was really good at interviewing for jobs and that's why she was always employed.  At the time this had impressed me because I had always felt like my interviewing skills were terrible.  (I am happy to report now that I've learned better interviewing techniques and that I think I've even impressed some people.)
But Chelsea didn't really acknowledge me.  She just sat down and read something.  Oh, I thought.  She must not remember me. 
Not that she really should remember me.  We were really friends of friends and I mean, I'm sure there have been more important people out there. 
We sat in silence for another half hour, I continuing with my work.  Then she looked up at me. 

"Have you ever read Foucault?" she asked. 
I had, but it had been a long time ago.  And because I had found him frustratingly difficult in English, I had looked up a passage in the original French.  It had been easier to understand, but that was all I remembered. 
Chelsea talked to me about some of Foucault's ideas.  She mentioned being in a particular class, which Kristina was also in.  (And had mentioned I should come to just to see what it was like.) 
Chelsea, as a fellow feminist, was not so sure she liked the ideas of Foucault.  He said some problematic things about women. 
"I always interpreted Foucault to be saying simply what is and not how things should be.  I don't think his statements are meant to be interpreted as him endorsing that view, just observing it." 
She nodded her head, looking far away.  "That sounds like something Foucault would say."
I smiled.  Now that was a compliment.  Alex had liked Foucault.  It was one of the things we had talked about in the interview.  Alex had said how beautiful she found his writing. 
I suddenly realized that I had a question for Chelsea.  "Are you one of the people from that feminist organization that recently formed?"
"I'm not really part of it.  That's Bianca." 
That surprised me.  Bianca and I had been in a class together last year.  She had been relatively quiet.  Despite this, it had been obvious to me she was thoughtful and way cooler than I am (though, I would argue pretty much everyone is cooler than me.) 
I made a mental note, if I ran into Bianca anytime soon, that I should tell her how much I had admired her work.  Erin had told me all about it. 
"Are you going to the poetry reading tonight?"  So Chelsea must have known more about me than I anticipated, because she remembered that I worked with that professor. 
"I am, but she doesn't know I'm coming, so don't tell anyone I'm here.  It's a surprise." 
Seeing Chelsea was really nice, but I had to go over to Nate's to get some stuff and to have dinner, so I said goodbye and left.  I was turning the corner on the stairway, thinking merrily of how much I liked Chelsea and how I was going to get to see people tonight at this reading, when I was startled to see Stephanie, three steps down from me, staring up at me.  Her eyes went wide.
And this wasn't just Stephanie my friend.  She was also Stephanie, the assistant to this professor. 
She hadn't seen me in a long time either. 
Oh shit, I thought. 
"Don't tell her I'm here!" I said, slightly loud.  "I don't want her to know I'm coming tonight!  I'm trying to surprise her!"
See what I mean about surprises?  Hours before the surprise, I manage to run into two people who actually could blow it.  This was especially annoying considering how long I'd been planning this. 
Stephanie sort of laughed at me and was happy to see me.  She gave me this great big hug that made me feel great.  (Oh, to have a thousand friend hugs that I could store in a chest somewhere.)  She wanted to hear what I was up to, and we talked briefly before both of us had to be elsewhere. 
I went over to Nate's.  It had been his birthday recently, and he had all sorts of coupons for free food.  That night, he was taking me out for pizza. 

I Just Want to Read Comics

Okay, I think now, after several false starts, I am ready to write you guys some of the things that have happened me in the last two (plus) months, after I stopped blogging regularly.  I'm really sorry about it, actually.  I hadn't meant to drop off on this for this long.  I honestly thought it was only going to happen for a couple of weeks, and well, that clearly backfired. 
Anyway, I was sitting reading comics waiting.  I have mixed feelings about talking to people randomly when sitting around waiting for something.  A lot of it depends on the other person.  Because I am a young woman, I generally don't like to talk to men, especially older men.  We live in a world where men take advantage of women all the time, and the people who seem to have the hardest time understanding this are men.  (Whenever I say these things to a woman, no matter what age, they get it.  Without fail.) 
Like I said, I was waiting around, and reading comic books, which is actually something I don't do much.  I like comic books, but I always have so much other stuff to read, that I usually don't read comics.  I was pretty much fine on my own, and didn't really want to talk to anyone. 
There was a nice older lady next to me for a while, and she did talk to me.  She sort of disapproved of comics, which is something I can and can't understand.  (Not all comics are good, but not all comics are bad either.)  I disregarded her disregard and just was nicely enthusiastic about what I was reading.  She was kind of boring, because there wasn't much she could really say. 
Maybe I really am one of my peers, because I am increasingly struggling to talk to people not in my general age group.  When I say talk, I mean really commune, really have a conversation about ideas and concepts.  I can still speak to other people, but there's nothing they say, generally, that interests me.  Most of what they do say disgusts me and makes me think about how disappointing they are as a human being. 
(It should probably be said that I still can't talk to everyone in my age group, but it feels like I can usually find something in common with them.  Sometimes something only in pop culture, but still, that seems like a better starting place for a conversation.) 
The old woman eventually left, and I went back to my comic books.  I was happily reading, and this man sat down.  He made a big display of sitting down.  And then he talked loudly on his cell phone to his wife and kid.  He complained to his wife about his kid.  He told his kid he wasn't coming to her soccer game.
And then he talked to me. 
Well, I wasn't terribly encouraging, though not outright rude, which probably confused him.  I just politely answered questions.  He felt the need to tell me about his job and about how he was waiting for a call from China.  He didn't say important, but that was the inclination. 
I wasn't probably all that much older than his daughter.  And my political beliefs are not too terribly keen on businessmen, so your suit and multinational contacts do not impress me.  At all.  You're the reason the city of Detroit is such a mess, and for that, dear Sir, I will never forgive you. 
So no, I'm not going to inflate your ego.  Want someone to do that for you?  Ask another woman.  Offer to pay.  It might help. 

Tripping Over Myself in Happiness

This afternoon, I was sitting on my computer, doing some writing.  Nina was in and out of the bathroom, doing various things. 
"I am going on a trip," she announced.  "I will arrive on Sunday." 
I paused for a moment.  It occurred to me this morning she might be going somewhere, just because a large bag appeared today at her desk, packed full of things, including her toiletries, which where on the top of the open bag. 
"Do you mean you'll be back here on Sunday?" I asked. 
"Yes."
Okay then, sounds good to me. 
Well, actually, it sounds better than good to me.  It sounds heavenly. 
The only sad thing is that it lands during Claire's birthday weekend.  We're all planning on going out tomorrow in celebration.  On a weekend like this, where I have guaranteed alone time, I would prefer to abuse it but staying in all weekend and enjoying the silence/lack. 
In any case, I'm very pleased with this turn of events. 

Dean's Mom's Younger Self

At work today I was reading when I had an idea for a poem, and then off I was, writing one instead of working on what I was meant to be doing.  This is becoming rather typical of me. 
It was mostly a work of nostalgia.  During the Superbowl a few days ago, I was thinking about when Dean and I went to a party together for it (this was back before I was a regular attendee at things at Casa Paul).  We had to walk on this giant sheet of ice to get there.  I remember slipping and sliding.  "Here Dear," Dean said, and he let me take his arm.  Dean says dear to me a lot, and it's one of those little things I like about him.  We had only recently become friends, but it was one of those friendships that immediately took off and it was like we knew each other. 
As we walked, I realized how much he sounded like another old friend, and it was strange, realizing that I was gravitating to the same types of people over and over again. 
And then I thought about when we were sitting in the cafeteria, talking about Doctor Who, when Dean turned suddenly and said "You look exactly like my Mom did when you were her age."  We were sitting with a bunch of other friends then, and Matt was all "Way to be creepy."  We decided as a group that Dean's current Mom had gone back in time to get her younger self, bring her younger self back to the present to watch Dean.  And, obviously, I was Dean's Mom's Younger Self. 
And then I thought about a dance I went to with that group of friends, and how much great music they played, especially techno.
So, basically, I was working off of nostalgia.  And not doing my real work. 

Write Psyche

Alexander had me working on some writing.  I got started, and I was chugging along.  Then he sent me this email with some guidelines ("Guidelines!?!!?," I thought.  "Why couldn't he say something about these before hand?") and they psyched me out.  When I can just write, I usually am fine, but when I have a word count, I really struggle.  I either write way too much or way too little, because the word count is itching at the back of my mind. 
I got it done, and Alexander actually would rather that I write more than less.  And I did.  And it'll probably be fine. 
I wish Alexander would give me some feedback.  Everyone around there treats me like I'm fragile, but honestly, I've had teachers try to make me cry when it comes to my writing; sending me an email with some miscellaneous thoughts wouldn't be a big deal. 

Church was okay.  The choir had a lot of unity among their sections, but as a whole, not so much.  There were parts where they were just off.  I tried to control my face so people wouldn't show my disapproval. 
One of the reasons I was excited to go to midnight mass was because this would mean there wouldn't be any children.  Which of course means that they only people who did bring a toddler sat right behind my Mom and me.  After the choir finished its first song, the little girl screamed "YAY!" and it echoed.  I was getting a headache.  Great. 
The little girl continued to scream during the service.  When the priest first ascended to the altar, she started screaming about Santa.  I considered turning around and telling her that Santa doesn't come to little girls who scream in church, because I could have sworn that my Mom told me that when I was a child. 
I guess what really annoys me about the screaming little girl is that you'd have to be stupid to drag your two-year-old out to a mass that starts at midnight.  And the church has a cry-room, and tonight it was totally empty. 
The priest gave a sermon on the historical background of Jesus's birth, talking about the Roman Empire.  I found myself thinking about Machiavelli's Monarchy, which is this eccentric argument about how monarchy is God's form of government because Jesus was born at the time of Augustus.  (Oh I know: where to even begin taking an argument like that apart.  I suspect this is why I've never come across anyone who's tried.  It's such a terrible argument no one even needs to refute it.)
People think history is boring, and no one in church was really that interested in Luke and titles, even though I thought it was interesting, but I took Roman history from a secular perspective, not a Christian one.
Right as we were going through the ritual for the Eucharist, the little girl behind me finally stopped screaming, but now she was sobbing.  That it took that long was shocking to me.  I didn't turn around to shake hands with these people because I was afraid my face would be all screwed up in disgust.
My Mom felt the need to give me a commentary of what was going on in the choir.  There's a new music director, and I hate to admit I find him very attractive in a vaguely Alan Cumming sort of way.  He was using an Ipad to play music off of, which I've never seen before, but I guess that's an application I had never considered for a device like that.
After mass I was able to avoid talking to some neighbors.  My family likes them but I honestly don't like most of them, and like I said before, I'm trying to avoid people I went to school with once because of the judginess of everyone.  I'm doing okay, and I'm grateful, but to some degree, people will always find fault with you.
We went home, and I was disappointed to realize church hadn't cheered me up the way it usually does.  I suspect that this is one of those things were I like church with friends or alone, and I found myself missing Paul again.
At home, my sister and Dad were making slushies with some new device my sister got for Christmas.  (She decided to open a gift early.)  She offered to make me one, but I honestly didn't feel like one.  I spiked some egg nog with spiced rum and that was okay.

My Dad went to bed and my Mom and sister went to watch a movie.  I saw that Invader Zim and Doctor Who were both on, so I went into another room to watch those.  And then ended up watching more of my hottness on Criminal Minds.  Which was fine with me.  I watched tv and did some creative nonfiction writing. 
Finally, around 3:30 in the morning, I went to bed. 
My Mom woke me up to open presents by texting me.  (I don't know why but my family has taken to texting me even when I am in the same building.)  And then Robert texted me "Merry Christmas!" 
I went downstairs to open presents because my sister was going to see her boyfriend later in the day. 
We opened presents.  I got some books, movies and music.  My sister liked the t-shirt I bought for her.  I'm still disappointed in myself for not getting her a purse like I wanted, but maybe that was for the best, since she got two purses for Christmas as was.  My sister ironically enough also got me a t-shirt, with a big cross on it. 
I went back to bed.  I didn't really sleep much because Jennifer, Ashley and Philip all texted me Merry Christmas messages.  I was surprised to hear from Philip, but happily so.  I've really missed him lately too. 
I gave up on getting more sleep and got up.  I went downstairs and started working some more on my writing.  My Mom came in and turned on the tv to a Christmas movie of some kind I had never heard of before. 
I thought about going with my Mom to the hospital to see my Grandma.  My Mom is afraid, in addition to all are other fears about her, is afraid that maybe she's lost her Medicare.  I really hope not, but this just seems like one more problem to deal with and we already have so many problems concerning her as it is. 
I offered to go, but my Mom told me to stay home because she wanted to stay all day and didn't want to come home early because of me.  So I guessed I was staying home. 
I took some notes on some ideas for romance novels. 
I tried to get some lunch.  My sister was doing some last minute baking, and it's kind of hard to get to stuff in the kitchen when someone's working on a food project.  When she was finally done, I tried to find something to eat.  I was going to make nachos (the only thing I've been really wanting to eat lately) but the cheese was gone and my chips were all broken up into small pieces anyway.  I decided not to bother.
Which is how I ended up spending my time in front of the tv.

Saturday Night Prograstination

I realize most people my age go out to party on a Saturday night, but I'm mostly stuck inside, writing. 
I have some papers due and I have been working on them on and off, but I've been also typing up some poems I wrote Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon.  (Again, I wrote poems at work.  I am going to probably get caught, so I try desperately not to.)  The first poem I typed up this night is rather silly and possibly terrible, but since I share my writing with people so infrequently anyway, it doesn't seem like a big deal. 
Then I tried to get back to editing a shorter essay.  And then I got an idea for something I wanted to write, so I stopped to write down the draft of a poem.  (I know!  Another one.) 
After I had gotten that out of my system, I sat down again to edit another one of the essays.  I realized I had made a note to myself to look up something in Wide Sargasso Sea, which I was referencing in the essay.  Of course I've left the book at home.  I went last night to the library, couldn't find it.  So I tried online, just because I just need one tiny reference.  No luck, there's no online edition either.  I could probably leave it, since it's too big of a deal, but I wanted to check that I was remembering a set of allusions correctly. 
Then I started preparing a little to go home.  I still have a little less than a week to pack but I'm so busy that I'm afraid I'm not going to have enough time. 
And, it must be said, I always struggle when it comes to what I should pack and what I shouldn't.  I decided to take home my comics and some books and leave them there.  I have more books than I know what to do with here, and they're just so heavy.  In addition to writing here, I do keep a diary.  I finished one of my diaries up while here, so I'm taking that home and leaving it.  I'm probably going to take the current one I'm writing in home to so I can write in it.  I have a third diary that someone left on our community donation table.  It looks like the front set of pages was torn out and there's a small red stain on the side of the pages, but it's otherwise useable and the leather is very soft.  I am going to leave that here so I can write in it when I come back.  I have some postcards and letters I was meant to send that I'll just take home with me and post when I get back there. 
I did make the decision to leave some of my study materials here.  On the off chance I do get enough time to do some studying, I made myself a very long list of things I want to read up on, all of them English-centric, a good deal of them obscure ancient Greek mythology that I probably once knew but no longer remember.
At the very end of the night I chatted with Madison (who was working on a paper) about what the plans were for Christmas.  So far it's unclear if we're exchanging gifts or if someone is having a party, etc. 

Poetry Problems

Last week, I got up in the night to write a poem.  This in itself is not unusual because writing poems in the night is pretty common for me.  (Also common: the shower.  Why I cannot write poems when I have nothing else to do and am already sitting at my computer I don't know.  It always has to happen when I am busy.)
I realized a sentence in that this poem was meant for someone.  Actually two someones, but one of them is dead, so really, there's only one someone I can give the poem to.
I don't give people poems.  I realize that was Emily Dickinson's big thing, but I never have found myself thinking "I should give this poem to him/her."
Which is not to say I don't write poems about hims and hers, I most certainly do.  But they are almost never nice poems, and even when most readers would call them "nice" there is usually something less than kind lurking there in the text.  I have love poems that imply all sorts of nasty things, although mostly people read them and go "Wow.  That's gorgeous."  No one ever asks me if that last line is meant to imply that some is a coward or a liar or a jerk.  No, no one ever asks me that. 
I am in a pickle with this poem.  I'm going to give it to him, but only if I think he'll interpret it as good.  It's not actually a love poem, but a poem about something he's been involved with for awhile.
The problem is I have mixed feelings about this something but I'm not sure if the poem is doing that.  On one hand, he could see the poem as a tribute, one that puts his something in line with some very brave, loyal, admirable sort of work.  Or he could see it as a condemnation, a critique, even a depiction of posturing.  The worse bit of all of this is I'm not even sure what it is.  I still can't figure my feelings out at the moment, which was the point of writing the poem. 
Maybe to be on the safe side I shouldn't give it to him? 
It's times like these I wish I wrote modern-updates-of-romantic-dribble in the style of Mary Oliver.  Something on nature, something without a sliver of criticism or darkness, something bland enough to be difficult to hate.  Unless you are me and bored to tears with another ode to sunshine and wish someone would be more interesting and critical in their writing. 

First Drafts

Shared some newer poems with Robert yesterday.  He says that he really liked them and then named two as the most interesting.  Also, he liked the imagery.  (Robert always gives unspecific comments on poems.)  I still feel like I have work to do on them, but I'm happily in that mode where I'm writing a lot of first drafts.
I feel like I've been making leaps and bounds in my writing the past few years, and I think I recently had another breakthrough.  I feel like my first drafts are significantly better than they were even six months ago.  I'm also getting better and letting those things I get attached toin the writing process go.

Work Report

Work yesterday was fine.  (Yes, I managed to remember my makeup this time.)  I had the worst craving for chips.  I've been a very good girl about eating healthy as of the past few months, at least in terms of what I eat.  I only have desert at dinner, and that's usually a cake or pie, though sometimes if I am lucky a lemon tart.  But I've also been eating a lot, just because it seems like I get large helpings at the caf.  So I was so disappointed in myself for wanting chips because I've haven't eaten that kind of crap for weeks.  Ugh. 
Around ten days ago I had to send something to a prisoner in the mail.  Which was fine, but I was warned by the boss not to include staples or paper clips in the package because then they would reject the package.  So I got the package back today with a note saying it didn't like that I had put a sticker on it.  It was one of those stickers that contain our address, so someone can send it back.  When I showed it to the boss, she said that prisons will do anything to send mail back.  No kidding, I thought.  So when I go into work next week, that's the first thing that's going to be on my list of things to do.  I can hand write an address, I just wish someone would have said something to me first. 
The rest of the day was spent doing some research.  I consider myself pretty good at research, but the person I was trying to find information on seems to be as close to a nonentity as one can be these days.  One of the other employees mentioned she's been in the news a lot lately, but if Google News hasn't been able to find her, I don't think that it's true. 
The problem I have when I'm doing research is that I tend to get sidetracked by interesting information that isn't pertinent to what I'm doing.  I ended up reading this philosophical discussion of a moral dilemma.  I don't really know much about philosophy; it's one of those areas I'd like to read up on or take a class on, though I never have.  Anyway, the author basically said that there are three options to a moral dilemma: do something bad but effective to achieving your goal, do something bad and ineffective or walk away.  I recently had a moral dilemma and took the second option, then after that didn't work, picked the third.  But according to this author, the best move was the third, at least in the context they were speaking about. 
Walking away is such a hard thing for me.  So hard.  I always want to fight for whatever.  And maybe this author was wrong about the moral dilemma thing, but the idea of always choosing to walk away (and then, assumably, taking a deep breath and getting over it), seems so unsatisfying.  And I suspect that approach will drive me half-crazy because then I'll always wonder "what if" about those circumstances. 
See what I mean about getting completely sidetracked at work?  I do it all the time. 
I got sidetracked in other ways yesterday.  I came up with an idea for a memoir a few days back, and I found myself considering titles and structure for this yet-unstarted project. 
And then I found myself contemplating why serial killers exist and why are they always white and almost always male.  I have a theory involving a lot of complicated globalization and dominance and the word hegemony, but I wasn't meant to be thinking about serial killers at all. 
And then later I was thinking about the novel Desert Blood, which I read a few years ago.  The book is about the Mexican/U.S. border and a series of murders taking place there.  Apparently there was a real case of a U.S. Border Agent who raped women when he caught these women crossing the border, and because they were illegal it took ages before one of them called him on it.  I was wondering if certain details of the novel were based on those horrific incidents.  (Certain things in the book are based on a series of real crimes that are related, though not quite the same.)
I then came across a reference to how people get notices to stick to brick buildings: something called wheat paste.  I'm assuming it's some kind of paste involving wheat as a major ingredient but I found myself thinking how I had never considered how people did that or that it was something relatively simple and easy.  So, if nothing else, all this research seems to be good for me in terms of learning trivia. 
I even wrote a poem at work a few days ago.  I know, I know: I'm not supposed to do that.  But I've got one of those fickle Muses that comes and goes without a lot of warning.  And if I don't write an idea down right as I'm having it, I always kick myself later when it doesn't work as well. 
I've actually been looking at that poem today, and I think it needs work, but I feel better about it than I was expecting to.  I have been writing longer poetry as of late, and this one is rather short. 
Sadly, sometimes I think I get more done than they expect me to.  Which makes me wonder what in God's name everyone else is doing.  I dawdle enough as it is; how to people dawdle anymore than I do?  I get my work done out of sheer boredom since there's nothing else to do. 
There's also been an ongoing drama over a crashed hard drive.  Not, thankfully, with anyone I work with, but across the hallway I can hear a fair amount of yelling and whatnot over it.  Mostly I've ignored it, but sometimes it's hard to.  The woman at the center of this ongoing saga is very loud and, I suspect, the head of that group of workers.  She has ordered various people around about it.  And she has complained loudly on the phone.  And then went into a rant about how computer people are stupid and lazy.  Maybe I've just had better interactions or maybe she has a particularly useless IT person, but I've always had good to great interactions with computer people.  They've always solved my problems and even have been good at calming me down.  (Computer problems stress me out disproportionately.)  Jimmy, Dean, even Daniel are all computer people and I know if I went to them with a problem, they would never dare tell me they wouldn't help me or give me a hard time.  They all love me, they would all do their best to save me from my own mistakes.  Especially Dean.  Dean has been particularly good to me about these kinds of issues. 
Not that I would want to inflict that women on those three.  All three are relatively calm people, and out of the three of them, only Dean would complain about her.  (Though only in private.) 
Also, I don't know if something happened while I wasn't here or maybe in another part of the office, but I noticed sexual harassment posters suddenly went up all over the office.  Was there an incident?  I'm really curious, even though I know it's not really my business.  Part of me wants to know so that I can avoid the harasser like the plague. 
I did a little report writing and sent it to the boss before the end of my shift. 

Lefty Loosey

A young girl and a mother came in.  They asked if I had anything with just Taylor Lautner and not the rest of the Twilight cast.  "No, we don't," I answered.  And then the young girl and I talked about how cute Lautner is.
This actually happens a lot.  Someone will come in asking for something, and it'll occur to me that "Oh, hey, we should sell that." 
I also broke one of the rules about work and called Dan.  Dan hates texting, which I really don't understand.  I don't text people I know who can't get texts or have to pay for them, but neither of these is true with Dan.
"I didn't think you were going to call my bluff," he said on the phone. 
"Yeah, well, I'm not suppose to be doing this.  If I have to put this down for a moment, that's why." 
Dan went into one of rants about why texting is a terrible medium for communication.  He carried on for a bit, complaining about how you can't get the timber of someone's voice. 
He brought up some good points, but the thing that hung in the back of my mind as he was talking was how much of my communication is written.  I'm a writer, so, duh, of course my communication often takes place in written form.  But even disregarding that, I spend a lot of time writing to people.  Obviously, I write on this blog.  I write emails and keep correspondences up with several friends (Ashley, Robert, Josie, Caryn and Jennifer as of right now.)  I even use instant messaging to talk to people, particularly Christine.  And then I texted about twenty-five people within the last week.  If I could only use my voice to communicate, I'd be cut off from a lot more people.  And I would miss them.  (And in some cases, would have trouble getting things done, since some of those communications are work-related and not just making small chat about lip piercings, made-up words, and homework.)  I didn't really get to making this argument back to him. 
A couple of customers kept asking me questions (which I didn't mind, because that's what I'm there for, dur.)  This ticked Dan off, and he hung up on me, which of course ticked me off.
I know that I explained where I was and how I was breaking the rules for him, I thought to myself.  But then I decided to carry on.  I can't let this kind of stuff bother me.  I've clearly got a full plate of drama.
Later on in the evening, a woman was asking me about a particular model we had out for people to try out.  It runs on batteries, and I noticed a small amount of liquid around that area.  My breath sort of held.  It looked like pop, but maybe I was wrong.  I told her it just needed new batteries. 
It took me a few minutes to take off the lid, just because it didn't adhere to the whole "righty tighty, lefty loosey" concept.  But even as I was trying to work it off, more liquid was coming out and all I could think was "Eww."
Midway through my battery incident, I turned around, an older woman was standing there.  I had one of those scare moments, but she just had a question. 
I finally opened it up, and indeed, there was a nasty oil over everything.  Great.  Someone had left these batteries in here so long they leaked out.  I picked them each out and discovered only one of them was spilling out, which I guess I should have been grateful for.  I picked up the two good ones and threw them into the recycling batteries bin.  I went to the back to get papertowel and lifted the bad, leaky battery.  And then used more paper towel to clean the rest of the mess up. 
Then I nearly face palmed over how stupid I was.  I was treating this like what happened when batteries exploded with white Manganese.  This wasn't that, and maybe I was doing something unsafe or unsanitary. 
I wasn't sure what to do then.  Who among my friends would possibly know what to do?  And then I realized the only answer: Dan. 
So I texted Dan, even though I know he hates texting.  I asked him what to do.  And then I waited.  About a half and hour later he texted me back, recommending baking soda.  Oh, bloody hell, I thought.  We can't even get enough room for our stock.  I sure as hell don't have baking soda, and of course, I'm working alone, so I can't even leave to try to find some nearby.
Maybe this is like one of those things where I can substitute something, like in baking.  So I texted him back asking if there was something else I could use.  He told me no.  Frak. 
So I ended up just doing what I had done and then leaving the model out for an extra half an hour to make sure it dried out.  And then I put new batteries in it and it worked, no problem. 
Speaking of batteries, this woman came in and demanded that I sell her batteries.  We don't sell batteries, but we use them in our models.  And we have gone weeks without them, because the boss hasn't purchased any.  So I didn't sell her any, and boy, did she let me know how much she disapproved of that.  A part of me felt like I should just sell her the batteries for an ungodly sum and pocket the money, but that would be dishonest. 
I've been closing a lot at work lately.  I think I would prefer to open, just because it involves less work.  I also wonder if my brain's just too tired to make things work, because after a shift of six or seven hours, it feels like I'm moving really slowly and in that sluggish way that signifies nothing good.  
It's also so cold where I work.  We're suppose to have the door open, and I try to keep it open for as long as possible.  Even after I put on a sweater I find myself shivering.  The good and bad thing about shutting the door is I think it makes some people think we're closed even though the lights are clearly on.  

Working Women

At work two days ago, a man came in looking for a product that my Grandfather used to love.  My Grandfather has been dead for many years now, and hearing this man talk about, who was also almost certainly a Grandfather himself, made me strangely sad. 
I don't think about my Grandfather too often, and usually when I do, it's not in a way that affects my mood. 
It makes me so happy when people in the store are happy or nice to me.  Yesterday, a woman named Jenny came in who gushed over our stuff, telling me how much she liked it.  She talked my ear off about her life, telling me about her sons in their late twenties and what they like to drink and mentioning that her husband has cancer.  She told me all sorts of things that I never knew. 
I'm not sure why, but I relate well to random older women.  Everyone talks about age gaps and generational differences, and I'm sure there are some, but the only people I consistently feel that with are my parents.  Otherwise, I've had plenty of opportunities over the years to do things like giggle over how much we like Keeping Up Appearances or beans on toast or chatting about creative writing.  I like old ladies, which makes me confident that one day I'm going to be a great old lady. 
I told Jenny she should considering working there, since we're hiring.  At first she was like "Oh, no," and then I could see the idea forming in the back of her mind, like watching a flower bloom in real time.  I suspect she probably will consider it, and if she does work there, I'll be happy for the coworker.  
In other work news, I came in yesterday to find Ashley at the counter (which we're not suppose to do unless we're doing something that specifically has to be done behind the counter) reading a book (which I've never heard anyone say we couldn't do, but I've never heard anyone say we could.)  I decided not to comment on the book situation, because it's not my business and because I probably wouldn't want Ashley telling me how to do my job. 
Right before she left, Ashley turned to me.  "Don't you have a book?"
I did, actually, in my purse, but that's because I try not to go anywhere now without carrying some reading material along.  But I didn't want to get it out and I sort of skirted around it. 
"There's nothing else to do," she commented.  "We can't clean anymore and all the stock's out."
That was true, though I managed to find stuff to do.  I flipped over a puzzle and made in upside down, which was challenging, but I managed to muddle through it after two hours.  And then, after that, I worked on replacing a few extra things sitting in back by putting them on the shelves.  It didn't even occur to me to get a book. 

Editing

Have been editing a short story today.  I wrote it at the end of last week, and asked my friend Caryn to look at it.  She said she liked it, which I guess is better than her not liking it.  Most of her corrections were little things, like where words were placed within a sentence. 

An Indulgence

I've been indulging in a little creative writing today.  It's always indulging to me, because most people would probably argue that I should be doing more constructive things.  What kinds of constructive things? I always wonder.  So few things have grabbed me so fiercely and have refused to let go since. 
I'm actually editing, which is not as fun for me as writing a first draft.  When I first write something, I'm exhilarated, I want to get the words out now, now, now.  There's something close to relief once I finish a rough draft.  Honestly, it often feels like I'll never have to revisit those thoughts or ideas again, because, thank God, they're out.  They're over.  They're in the near past, and I'm continuing on with life, sans a toxic lover that I care for but know I'm better without. 
I'm editing a set of poems right now.
One of the poems I'm editing right now is a strange set of surreal prose poems.  I sat in on a rehearsal for plays which escape my memory over a year ago, and I just started writing down all the nouns people were using.  It was an impressive cornucopia.  I decided I'd write some poems with it.  And I did.  Now I'm editing them, and it's tough because so much of the poem isn't about the words themselves but what they do together.  It's like a machine.  If you throw one cog off, the machine can't run; it'll just make puffy sounds.
Another poem is a rewriting of the myth of Arachne.  When I was fifteen, I was so sick of Greek mythology, because that was the sixth year in a row we had studied it in school, and I desperately wanted something different.  But it's stayed with me, all these years later, because I find that I write poems based on it and find references in pop culture to it.
One of the things that's really annoying is that my word processor started doing that thing where every time you add something it erases the space right after it.  I can work around it, but I wish I could figure out why that happened first.  Might be helpful.  

Women's Writing Book Shopping

I'm off on another round of book shopping online.  This time I'm looking into lesser-known "classic" works.  Things that look good, so far:
The Enchanted April About four women who don't know each other but rent a villa together.  I'm wondering how much of this book will be like all these modern works with four female characters interacting with each other (The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Sex and the City, etc.)
Belinda It's a feminist book that makes fun of the upper crust of England.  That's really all I needed to hear. 

Silas Marner  About some old man who finds redemption in raising a child.  I'm interested in it because it has such a silly name and because it's by George Eliot. 
Captivity and Restoration The authoress chronicles her time being captured by Native Americans.  This could be used in a both a historical or literary interpretation. 

A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains  Again, a woman talking about her experience that is both historical and literary.  The only problem with this one is that I can only find it via Kindle, which I don't have. 
The Circular Staircase Another Kindle-only one that I'm going to have to try to scout out elsewhere.  I'm interested in this one because it's plot is similar to The Turn of the Screw.  I'd like to write a comparison of them. 

Selected Stories of Katherine Mansfield Because I haven't got short story collections on this list yet. 
The Upas Tree One of the many things I look for with books is the possibility to write about them academically, and this book, about a (almost certainly white) man who experiences the magic of an African tree.  Probably an easy book to consider race under.  

The Life of Charlotte Bronte  I actually don't like Jane Eyre strictly as a reader, but I like it as a work to analyze.  I've heard that this Bronte was particularly interesting, so I want to read about her. 
Wuthering Heights  Saw a film version of it, thought it was trash-licious.  Want to read, again, because I'm a feminist. 
Ruth Hall About a woman who loses her husband and is forced to write to support herself.
Night and Day I've read A Room of One's Own a couple of times now.  I like what she says, but I've never been impressed by her writing.  Maybe trying another book will change my mind?  Also, look at the cover of the book on the link.  That is the most ridiculous cover I've ever seen for a Woolf book.  Someone had no idea what they were doing when they designed that. 

The Laughing Cavalier It's by a Hungarian woman.  So it's a must read for me. 
The Slyph  I had no idea that the Duchess of Devonshire was also a writer.  I'm curious now to see how good of a writer she was. 

Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl See above explanations about literature and history and non-white characters. 
Curse you Amazon, curse you Internet for making it so easy for me to see that yes, there are even more books out there that I want to read.  Because God knows I don't have a huge pile in my room right now.  

Blood, Brain, Jelly

I'm feeling pretty satisfied with myself right now, since I just finished doing some creative writing. 
Although the piece I have produced and worked on over the last three days is only a little over ten pages long, I feel really good about.  It's a solid first draft.  Hell, it's the kind of first draft that looks better than most people's final versions. 
It's fiction, which I haven't had time to write since March, so I'm feeling happy that I wrote something other than poetry.
And I decided to try something new and split the piece up into sections.  One of the sections was titled "Blood, Brain, Jelly," in reference to the things someone had on their shirt.  It's a great title.  
(The stories has two mysteries in it, so it's not that strange of a title.  Just a little quirky.) 

Murder Mystery Dream

I'm wondering if my dreams are so strange because I love to indulge in creative writing. Maybe my dreams can't help but feel like movies.
This time, a preacher's wife had been murdered. I knew the preacher, knew he had murdered his wife, and had no way to prove it. Kristina comes to see me in the back of a bar, bringing along "pot brownies." It actually looked like chocolate cake and smelled very strongly, and, as always, I refused. Then, as she was getting high and drunk and I was drinking, I realized how I could get him to confess on national television. And I did it.
The terribly sad thing is that this doesn't sound that far off from some tv shows I've been known to watch.