sex bomb

Meeeee-ow! Grrrrr.

Go on, girl.

nerdery!!!

Ok, so we were in an online communications training section, and there was some Latin text on the screen (the placeholder text, like lorem ipsum is on a lot of other pages).

The text looked awfully familiar...

"Dixitque Deus: Ecce dede vobis omnem herbam afferentem semen super terram..."

Yes, in the middle of a CMS training, I had noticed that the placeholder text was from the Vulgate, the original 5th century translation of the Bible into Latin. Thank you, St. Jerome.

"Stop it, you freak!" -- Lauren, after finding out.

swift

There's a tiny problem in my bedroom. A tiny, skittish, browny-grey problem.

"Hello! I am a tiny problem!"

Yes, it is true -- I have a house mouse in my room.

Most people would be grossed out by this, but honestly, I think it's cute. According to Chinese astrology, I was born in the Year of the Rat, so maybe that explains my affinity for the little bugger. The only overwhelming feeling I have about the mouse is shame, because it makes me feel like I live in a trash pit -- which is only partially true; honestly, 90% of my mess is dirty laundry, so it's not like I have bits of old food laying around.

Unfortunately, when night comes, this tiny problem becomes a big problem. The house mouse, with an average life cycle of nine months, loves to chew. It gnaws on whatever it can get its tiny paws on, and in a dark room at midnight the noise it can make is surprisingly loud.

CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP skitter skitter CHOMP CHOMP pause...CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP slide across some plastic pause...

repeat ad infinitum.

So today when I get home from work I'm going to put out the traps, which makes me kind of sad. The mouse isn't really hurting anyone, it's just aggravating me. It's kind of a shame it has to give its life so I don't have to listen to it bite stuff all night long.

But it is my house. It is my room. I pay rent. The mouse does not.

Last night at five in the morning, I woke up to blaring fire sirens instead of mouse pitterpatter. But I'm so used to mouse disturbances in the middle of the night that I thought to myself,

"Oh God, the mice have discovered fire."

And so, in honor of a field mouse and flame, here is the Billy Collins classic "The Country."

The Country
by Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

perfect

I had such a spectacular day today. Such a perfect little jewel of a day.

The best days of my life have never been full of big, all-consuming events. They have always been normal, regular days, but full of tiny blessings in almost every hour. There were so many good things that happened that I'm not sure I can remember them all...

• big belly laughs with work friends all day long
• eating a bag of Cheetos and drinking a can of Coke (the "Britney Spears Breakfast," as I like to call it)
• finding out that a very concerning medical issue is actually not a big deal to fix
• getting my cell phone fixed and then playing around with it
• scratching at the start of a nice theological conversation with an old friend
  
• walking a mile through cool rain that's not too cold
• talking to my mother on the phone
• having homemade chili, biscuits, and pumpkin pie with wonderful friends
• nerding out with my favorite episode of a very dorky show
  
• standing on the roof deck and looking at the fog and the light through the fog
• getting a ride home so I didn't have to walk
• sitting upstairs with a friend and playing music for one another
• falling asleep in a comfy sweatshirt (coming up next!)

I think, and this is going to sound really morbid, but I think that if somehow I get to choose my last day on Earth -- the very last day before I die -- I want it to be like this. Full of small joys. A day where nothing is remarkable but everything makes me happy.

oh snap

In my constant struggle to better myself (well, at least, to make things easier for myself), I'm trying to stop cracking my neck. Kind of a weird choice, seeing as I do a whole lot more self-destructive things -- but something like "stop being so hard on yourself" or "stop falling in love with ideas instead of people" is a little bit harder to see through from start to finish.

So this is day three of the great neck cracking experiment and, actually, I already feel a lot better. This may be because I've already found a lot of ways to cheat. (For instance, I'm still allowing myself to crack my neck by twisting my head upwards, like regular folk do -- but the big elbows-up head-twisting is verboten.) The first day I tried to get myself down to five good cracks, and ended up with seven; yesterday I only did big cracks three or four times.

When I woke up today, it was amazing -- I didn't feel like my entire neck was out of joint, with all the vertebrae all crookedy-like. I didn't even have to do my usual neck-cracking morning routine, which is big crack lying down in bed, shower, big crack lying down again. I just popped it standing up before I left for work (but then I had to lie down when I got to work, 'cause it hadn't cracked enough).

I can feel the muscles tightening up already, which is so cool. My body wants to fix itself; I just have to leave it alone long enough to let it.

liars

I just finished the most incredible book -- Jesus Land, by Julia Scheere. It's her memoir of growing up in a strict Christian family, and then traveling to reform school in the Dominican Republic, with a mixed race family. Her parents had adopted two African-American boys when they couldn't get a white baby, looking at the offer of black children as a "test of faith."

I couldn't put the book down. I read it all today, and it is not a slim book. It affected me in a very personal way, and the reactions I had to it kept changing as the book continued.

Read this book if you need to learn why the Religious Right is wrong. The kids were physically and emotionally abused, first by their parents and then by their "teachers" at the reform school. I've never read such a brutal first-hand account of someone using faith to marginalize and dehumanize someone. And not that such behavior is ever acceptable, but they were children...

Last Sunday, Rob preached on the dangers of fideism: "any belief system holding that reason is irrelevant to religion or faith." And this plays true in Jesus Land, too. The truth is constructed by those in charge and rained down on upon those with no power; the word of God is used to torture, to maim. At one point, a burly adult finds it not only acceptable but necessary, according to God's will, to punch a teenager in the face until the boy falls to the ground, bloody and unconscious. People believe these things.

The stories in Jesus Land horrified me. But at the same time, they made me feel guilty about myself, about my own faith. Next to these Bible-bangin', Scripture-memorizing, soul-scouring believers, I look like a dilettante. Before the book got really terrifying, I started to feel really bad about myself as a spiritual person. Had I dedicated myself enough to my faith? Wasn't I really just taking part in that "cafeteria Christianity," the pick-n-choose of today's religious liberal? (Not that I'm even a Christian anymore -- I'm that far gone from The Lamb or whatever.)

This is what I find scariest about fideism, about conservative Christianity, about Jesus Land. The old phrase "speaking truth to power" is a beautiful thing, but it's just as easy -- in fact, even more so -- to speak lies to power. And when the lies go on for so long that even the liars begin to believe? Well, then you've got elected officials who believe, wholeheartedly, that God wants to firebomb an entire nation.

I'm really unsettled after reading the book, but I'm so glad I did.

placeholder

This is a placeholder to remind me that I want to do a reflection on "Evening on the Ground" when I get home. Sadly, I do not have time to do it now...

something fishy

Wanna see me lead a sardonic service for a fine little fishy? Thanks to MJ, the funeral's now on YouTube.

zen

"Restorative: All levels. Active, therapeutic relaxation, relieving weak joints and tired backs while reducing stress."

It sounds amazing. I'm such a twitchy, visibly agitated person, and I love the stillness that comes with yoga. As a rule, I'm not particularly active -- low stamina, low blood sugar, low motivation -- but I love the deep breathing of yoga, the way I can feel my muscles tense and then release themselves.

If I'm lucky, the teacher is a hippy-dippy sort who comes around and spritzes us all with lavender, or softly touches us on our temples after the session's done. But even if this doesn't happen, yoga always ends with a moment of meditation. To be there on my little rubber mat after an hour of yoga, to be relaxed and full of endorphins, is one of my favorite sensations.

I love that. I love that we take a minute to just be silent with one another, grateful for what we've accomplished, reveling in what our bodies can do. It is when I feel most proud of myself as a physical being.

Today, my yoga schedule told me I could go to the "restorative" class -- and since I am a bundle of tired joints and stress, it was perfect. But of course I fooled around all day long, and all of a sudden it was 3:45, and yoga started (down on U & 14th) in less than an hour.

Hadn't showered in two days. Still smelled like last night's crowded bar. Had to get my ass in gear.

So I flew into a frenzy -- flinging off clothes, flinging on towels, running to the bathroom, brushing my teeth as the shower water warmed. I jumped into the shower. I threw shower products in the general vicinity of my body.

And then I realized, oh God, I have to shave my legs. There is no way I can be blissful and serene with legs that look like they belong on my eighteen-year-old brother. So I planted my foot on the bathtub, picked up the razor, and fell flat on my ass.

I feel that last phrase bears repeating. I fell flat on my ass in the shower.

And it was not a graceful fall, no. There was a thunk and a splash and a groan and a skittering away of razor blade, loofah, suds. I had the kind of fall that I imagine that old grandmothers have, or drunks who can't steady themselves long enough to get clean. My knees were chafed, my hip bruised deeply, my lower vertebrae thrown all out of whack.

What could I do? I kept shaving my legs (stubbornly!) and went back to my room.

By this time, it was 4:15. There was literally no way to make it to yoga on time -- even if I took a cab, I'd still have to go to the ATM for money first, and by the time that little errand was done it'd still be past 4:30. So I went on the website to see if they had another yoga class later that day, and of course, it turns out that the class had started at 4:00 anyway. Even if I'd made it to the studio, I'd have been half an hour late.

So here I am, in my yoga clothes, clean and shiny and smooth, with skinned knees and a pain in my side, all because I freaked out so much about yoga. How ridiculous! My brain had said, "I MUST HURRY! I CANNOT BE TARDY FOR MY RELAXATION." It had said, "I WILL NOT BE SERENE IF PEOPLE CAN SEE MY HAIRY LEGS." In the end, I just managed to get more out of whack than I had been when I started.

There will be more yoga classes tomorrow, and every day. For today, I'll lick my wounds, and maybe take a moment to enjoy how I feel in this moment. I may not be lying on a mat, blissed out and bendy, but it's still a lovely thing to be clean and comfortable on a warm day.

r.i.p. naomi

Service of Funeral for Naomi
Communications Department Betta Fish
10-19-07

1. Welcome and gratitude for attendance
2. Remarks from Molly -- Kim's eulogy, Jennifer's postcard
3. Readings from The Tempest, the Bible, Elton John
4. Kaddish
5. Comments from the crowd
6. First verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

Rest in peace, little fishy. Sorry I killed you. :(

(Note: I got internet ordained for this.)

writing!

I want to write. I want to write!

Friends kept telling me to write every day, that the urge to write would come back. Now, my friends are wonderful people, but they do not understand the deep, intense, etc., torture that I live with as a writer every day. They do not know the ebb and flow of inspiration, the crashing and sucking waves.

Of course, I am an idiot, and they were right, and it only took about a week.

I want to write about our bread-eating mice. I want to write about being a murderess of fish. I want to write about my friends, and my family, and my very useless fear that I won't be able to publish anything about them until they're dead, because then they would know how I really felt about them all. I don't yet want to write my big essay for the MFA application, but I know what it'll be about -- and I'm ready to start thinking about writing it.

I want to be like Anne Lamott, faithful and snarky, writing about how bad and good everything is, and how to make the bad stuff good by changing your heart. I want to figure out how to change my heart.

But for now I'll just make a point to get this written down -- I want to write again.

not a pretty girl

And God help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room

Yeah, it's Ani. So what? I can be a stereotype. Anyway, it sets the stage.

I've been thinking a lot about beauty. (Still.) What it means. What I look like, really, and how that compares to other people. How I feel about my physical appearance.

As Ani also said, "I am not a pretty girl" -- and I am not a pretty girl. I never have been. I was a cute kid, with some interesting features (long legs, big eyes, lots of good thick hair). I went through an awkward period of about ten years, where I had braces and glasses and headgear and acne and a general off-putting-ness that really didn't win me any fans. Nobody ever wanted to date me in high school; since I was, obviously, not into boys, that didn't bother me much.

And then I went to college...and then I graduated college...and while I feel like I'm getting more attractive as I get older, I am still not a pretty girl. For a long time I believed that being thin was exactly equivalent to being beautiful, and so the thinner I got the more attractive I felt. But I no longer believe this to be true.

I saw myself on a video the other day, and the thought I had -- the thought I articulated to people -- was, "My God, what a bony, greasy little monkey I am."

What brought on this thought was coming into work today. I work with one woman who is not just pretty or attractive, but she is actually beautiful in a kind of way that makes people stop for a second. Most people I find truly beautiful I find beautiful because I love them so deeply that I cannot see them any other way. While I'm really fond of this girl, I don't *love* her or anything, and it doesn't change the fact that she's absolutely stunning.

She was even lovelier than usual today, and I asked her, "Why are you all dressed up, lady?" As if it were obvious, she answered, "Because we're going OUT tonight!" And I realized that I was going to be spending the evening with this lovely person and our mutual, all attractive, friends -- and I was going to be the ugly girl.

I am going to be the ugly girl!

Is it the lesbian thing? Is it the gangly thing, the pale thing, the no makeup thing? What about me makes me so much less attractive than these other women?

Whenever I'm around them I feel like nothing but crooked teeth, greasy skin, knobbly knees, chubby cheeks...

I've never felt like this before.

coexist

I'm just so in love with this picture. Amazing. And yay for the Unitarian chalice.

So lately I've been doing this really weird, self-indulgent thing. At least once a day I go on Craigslist missed connections to see if anyone's looking for me. If anyone saw me on the bus, on the street, in the Whole Foods, and thought -- she's beautiful. I wish I knew her.

It started, I think, when I got my hair dyed red. I am ridiculous enough to think that, well, golly, people are bound to notice me now! So I scoured the missed connections, searching for "red," searching for "ginger" (in case they were British, I guess).

People in my house have had great success with missed connections. Every once in a while, one of my roommates has her missed connection over to the house and they have irritatingly loud sex. That's a success story, right?

But thus far, no missed connection. I just don't catch people's eyes, I suppose.

There is a word I can't remember -- I don't think it's jolie laide, but I could be wrong -- but it describes a woman who is not beautiful because of any physical characteristics, but by sheer force of personality. Someone who strongarms others into believing she's beautiful. That's what I feel like, sometimes. Not a pretty girl, but a force.

spectacular quote!

I stumbled upon this phenomenal quote. It's apparently part of a controversy with Starbucks -- this is part of their quotes-on-cups series, and it doesn't make people too happy. Who knows why? Anyway, enjoy.

It's tragic that extremists co-opt the notion of God, and that hipsters and artists reject spirituality out of hand. I don't have a fixed idea of God. But I feel that it's us – the messed-up, the half-crazy, the burning, the questing – that need God, a lot more than the goody-two-shoes do. -- Mike Doughty, musician.

panic

A panic attack has a particular taste.

I always forget that part. Thinking back on them, I remember the fluttering of a pulse, the shallow and labored breathing, the brightness of colors, the pushing pushing pushing ahead. How hard it is to keep walking. But I always forget about the taste of a panic attack.

Like wine, the flavor of a panic attack is hard to define concretely. It tastes like your dry tongue after you've slept with your mouth open. It tastes like the very beginning of a hot pepper, the first spiciness you know will only grow. It's acrid. It stings.

What am I going to do about this panic disorder? Obviously, the meds are not enough. I wouldn't be too worried, but winter's coming, and the lack of sunlight makes everything worse.

One of the weird synchronicities in my life is that every time I start to feel really bad for myself, like woe-is-me bad, I always see someone who's much worse off than I am. God as I know God has a sick sense of humor, and thus always sends some sort of hemiplegic or quadruple amputee to cross my path.

Walking back to the office after lunch, I actually wondered where my cripple was. God was slacking off. But of course, there in the lobby -- the back of a wheelchair, a slumped-sideways figure.

We rode the elevator together. I don't know where he was going, or what disease he had. He was old to have survived something that would have afflicted him since birth, but he seemed too distant from the norm to be a stroke victim. I held the elevator door for him and he thanked me.

The whole way up to the office -- gasp, release. Gasp, release. Labored, rhythmic breathing.

Sometimes God says, even if your pulse is approaching 150, be thankful that it beats strongly through all your pretty little limbs.

run away with me

(note the time. Red Bull is a demon, Red Bull is a whore.)

A series of paragraphs, each for someone different.

Run away with me.

Run away with me to London. I've never been there -- you can show me the town. We'll rent Sylvia Plath's old flat, the one where she put her head in the oven. We'll turn the oven into a shrine. Let's work at pubs, get our doctorates in literature, be Zelda and Scott. I'll let you run away when you need to and I'll wait for you to come back.

Run away with me to Key West. It'll be decadent and gaudy. We'll be the most beautiful couple on the island. Whenever we need money, we'll make out in bars for cash. This will not make us whores. I'll never miss your phone calls again, because whenever you need me, you'll blow a conch shell. Let's get curvy on seafood and Coronas, and wear parrot earrings. Let's eat coconuts straight from the trees.

Run away with me to Georgetown. We'll buy a little rowhouse and cover it with ivy. Leave your old life and start a new one with me, please. Every room in the house will have a bookshelf, even the bathrooms. Even the guest bathroom. We'll have dinner parties with too much wine and vegetables from our garden. I'll perform bawdy poetry for you when you're sad and I'll never get tired of holding your hand.

Run away with me to New York. It's not your favorite city, but it's home for oddballs, which you and I both are. We'll find a walkup in an old brownstone and bitch every time we climb the stairs. We'll fill the apartment with misshapen pottery and lurid paintings. Our bookshelves will be equal parts philosophy and trashy 60s gay pulp. We'll never, ever, ever sleep together, because that would be weird and gross.

a treatise on stalking, internet-wise

Today was an all-day diversity training (other people learned from it, I wrote a naughty song about it) and one of our most senior officers started talking about a boy she'd almost adopted when she was 26. He'd been in 16 foster homes before the age of five -- she used to take him home on the weekends.

Her story was so poignant, and I am picky about the things that touch me. He was shuffled around from home to home because he hid food in his bed. He hid food in his bed because, even at five, he knew what it was to be hungry in a way that made him strategic. When my colleague would have him for the weekends and he'd be upset, he'd pretend he was Frosty the Snowman and hide under her desk. "Go away, I'm melting!" he'd say.

But to get to the stalking. I asked my coworker if she'd Googled the boy; he'd be 30 now, she'd said, so it seems like there'd be something on the internet about him. "No, I hadn't thought of that," she said to me, and gave me a sideways glance I've seen before -- the slight befuddlement and slight wariness of one who does not understand the art of internet peoplefinding.

This is not a new thing for me. In every job I've ever had, I've always been the Google girl, the one who can dredge the endless waters of the the Internet and come up with information about a person, a place, a thing. People love me for doing this when they need the address to something or a movie time...but the second they find out I've been doing it to people, finding out about people, it's just too creepy to bear.

Honestly, I have trouble understanding this. I mean, it's not like I'm rooting through anyone's medicine cabinet (which I LOVE to do -- if I have been to your house, sorry, I've done it) or sorting through their dirty hampers (which not even I, in my infinite nosiness, would do). There is information about people on the Internet because, in the vast majority of cases, the persons themselves choose to put it on there.

If I can find someone's MySpace, I don't feel guilty about it -- the person MADE a MySpace, and oftentimes all it takes to find someone is simply plugging their name into a search engine. Likewise, if I find out a new friend went to a certain university, or an intern applicant worked at a nonprofit last summer, I don't see why I shouldn't be allowed to. That information's available to everyone -- I'm just taking advantage of what's already out there.

I don't have any incantations I recite or secret search engines. I don't smear chicken blood on my monitor to control Internet-searching demons. I just use Google. And Facebook. And MySpace.

Ain't nothin' wrong with that.