Matters of the Heart.

I hate sentimentality, such needless tears and drama. Because of this, I hate romantic comedies-the illegitimate emotional playing to the audience makes me want to eat my heart out, but for opposite reasons than the movies intend. This, in addition to the painfully obvious plot-lines that one could trace despite having no fingers, lost to frostbite after exposure to said comedies, makes the genre irritating.

But you know what's even more nauseating? The horrid truth that I become an insomniac, that my stomach tosses, that I worry till my eyes hurt because of sentimental, emotional responses to just about every damn thing that happens to me. I am, in a word, a girl. And I type this word, highlight it, and click "italics" with a fair amount of disdain.

I would say I wish I could figure my condition out, but the truth is, when I start poking around, it just gets worse. Instead of logical reasoning, I only find layers upon layers of soft mush that are mushing together in quite an unappetizing manner. So I'd rather not think about it, but then I can't forget it either. It's the mania in me, what can I say...that's why it's best to stay silent. And not snoop in dark corners.

The heart of the matter is that I am beginning to understand why I hate sentimentality so much. I am, apparently, exhibiting a very concerning reaction against what I am. This seems unhealthy and even more pathetic than a romantic comedy.

This all being said, a bit of an explanation is probably merited. There are too many tales of such moments in my history to relate in their entirety, but a handful is all we need...

Caldwell, Idaho, 1992: Anika the Child runs into her room, throws herself upon a flower-print comforter face up, and screams for five piercing seconds, out of unexplained frustration. She lies on her bed in the silence afterwards, thinking about the scream.

Elementary school, 1996: Anika the Prepubescent Adolescent cries in the bathroom stall after overhearing a piece of ridiculous gossip fabricated about her by people she doesn't like. She blames herself for their hate and keeps crying.

High school, 2000: Unrequited love and rejection in no way damper Anika the Tiny Teenager in her devotion to that Pimpled High School Boy and she looks for moments to be around him. She feels a sense of validation that makes her cheeks warm when he says she is cool and a good friend...just not a girlfriend.

College, 2005: Anika the Idealist dates a melancholy musician and believes she can save both of them from himself. She argues with her dad who says it will never work. She only realizes after seven dramatic months the fame that she could have claimed from actually crying a real river.

Current era: Anika the Adult is confused by how un-adult she can behave, how easily she bruises. Such unwarranted sensitivity strikes her as stupid and silly. It makes her want to go to sleep for a long, long time.

But she can't, trust me. Insomia...

It seems in matters of the heart, what matters is the heart. Expressions like this make me wish I was a jellyfish, which has no heart. It also has no brain and no bones. Perfect.

Note to Self:

There is something therapeutic about writing--I've always known this, as I inevitably turned to paper and now my laptop whenever in a melancholy mood. Lately, I've also felt the urge to write to stave away the fearful feeling that my life is futile, that I'm getting old. It's not my age that bothers me exactly--though the tentative beginnings of fine lines on my face does make me lean in for a closer look, then back away again because ignorance truly is bliss. Rather, it's the thought that I am getting older and there's a heck of a lot left on my "to-do" list, things I've always envisioned accomplishing while young--actually young, not just at heart. And so I write because, A) writing lets me "get it out," relatively painlessly and without judgement; B) I like writing and therefore feel a little happier having finished some little ditty that amuses me, and C) there are these secret hopes and desires that have been festering since I was a child--that I might write and publish some day, you know, just for fun. My writing also bleeds into the lyrical category, accompanied by music, sung by an oddly familiar voice.

With these things in mind, my 26 years seem to stretch out in front of me, languidly, but too much so, and I feel like giving them a nice quick kick, a proper scolding for being so relaxed. So what if I cry...

Because it's not just enough to have ideas--I know this. It seems my fatal flaw is a lagging volition--keeping my feet moving. Children's author and illustrator Tommy de Palo once wrote, "First one foot, now the other." This is the best kind of mantra for me. Swimming the English Channel takes some paddling along the way, stepping on the moon means miserably unrecognizable meals , and much as I would like to believe that for three easy payments of $19.95, my life can be changed, there's always the shipping and handling.

There you have it, or rather, there I have it, since this is a "Note to Self." The shadows of my previous melancholy this week are in hiding for the moment under a splendidly sunny sky today. My skin is happy, my fingers warm. I will refer to these musings from October to March.

"First one foot, now the other." I'm on the pavement now, and I'm walking.

French Toast.

This morning I woke up before my alarm rang, but didn't get up because I didn't want to get up, even though I've always heard it is best to get up when you awake naturally the first time. Thursday is a day of rebellion for me, having fought through the week thus far with a smile, sometimes slung precariously on my face, but there all the same.

Thursday is a day when I am both tired and the most apathetic because I am tired and no longer care as much as I would under more healthy circumstances about being so unhealthy. In addition, with Friday around the corner, I feel invincible to any consequences my apathy will provoke. Such morbid musings are common on a Thursday and today is Thursday.

These were my preliminary thoughts this morning as I lay in bed, attempting to ignore, most rudely, my bedside clock. I then thought about wardrobe options for the day, but that proved too rigorous at that hour, and was saved for my shower, a time when I struggle to come up with all kinds of solutions to life's many difficulties while hot water beats on my head. Lately topics have ranged from balancing my budget, last minute lesson plans, whether or not I should shave, and today, what to wear. Success rate is ok, given my state of mind, but only if the water is quite hot.

Finally, face, hair, and clothing taken care of, I meandered out to the kitchen, drawn magnetically to the next station in my morning sequence: French Press Coffee Device, because morning will stay morning without it. As I listened to the kettle simmering and the faint hum of two overhead fluorescent tubes, toast began to sound delicious and that, possibly mixing subconsciously with the blessed title "Fresh Press" evoked a hell of a good idea: French Toast. I only eat French Toast about two times a year because I only think of it two times a year, and it always remains a randomly novel food choice that both excites me and makes me feel creative. A quick whipping of eggs, salt, and pepper, a dousing of sourdough in said mellow elixir, momentary sizzling in the pan, enter butter and maple syrup = happy me.

Strange how something so inconsequential should make me feel so tickled. All of Thursday's depressive density meant nothing. Apathetic again? Sure, about Thursday's nonsense. But oh so optimistic about my French Toast.

Yes, please, thank you.

Fetus.

While sitting on this Sunday morning, distant memories of a blog I once use to keep up meandered through my mind. Oh that one! Yes, this one, six months since. Today, my brain feels the biological bursting of six months of incubation. I'm a little worried about what I will find in here, but I'm going to investigate and figure it out...

Shorty Get Low...cause I'm collapsing on the dance floor.

The lights were low, giving everything a luminous glow, though I could see paint peeling on the walls, the bar chipping. Keeping things dim was a management move, apparently. Not that anyone would really notice anyway, in their revery.

While contemplating with some horror the way the DJ was mixing clashing beats as he changed songs, I saw them: the couple. The couple on the dance floor, gettin' down. Literally.

And though this may sound like it's about to become quite steamy, only in the sense of glazed, glazed with pain. Hip pain.

His shorty was doing her thing, swaying and dropping in slow motion, but as I watched, I began to sense a sort of disconnectedness between the couple. He was standing before her, seemingly enjoying the moment...but was he?

At first I thought the slight grimace on his face was the tough guy exterior popular among dancing dudes-the expression that says "Yeah, that's right, she's my girl, we got it going on" and "I am not homosexual," not that you would even mistake that part because he's much to tentative and off-rhythm. The grimace was definitely there and as I observed, with growing curiosity, it also grew. She was short and as she balanced below his chin and out of viewing range, he went ahead and closed both eyes tightly. This guy has a problem! I thought, is he ok?

Why no, actually. His fist was balled up tight on his right hip, near the socket--he had injured himself in some sort of mishap and any sort of movement was eliciting a painful response. So ok, the guy was hurting, his girl was clueless (completely absorbed in "her thing"), so why was he attempting to dance along with her? Honestly, she seemed quite fine with solo work, but he was also moving in an awkwardly stiff sway-from the hips no less, well, hip, since only one was working properly. It was a slow rock back and forth, leg braced and sticking out. I realized I was grimacing too.

The grand finale of this side-show was his "drop down." While she was waving serpentine, he began to drop lower and lower in front of her, until his hip kind of gave out and he resorted to "embracing" her knees--out of "adoration," and mind-blowing system failure. At this point, I could no longer contain myself and laughed out loud, loudly under the cover of the fat beats booming from the speakers-thank you Mr. Bad DJ for at least the disguise of distraction. I have no idea how he pulled it off, but Bad Hip Boyfriend managed to wrangle his way back up, with the aid of her waist I think (though I'm sure he was cursing her for twisting it so much in his time of need). He actually kept at it for a surprisingly long time, until they walked out, shorty bouncing toward the door, battle-beaten boyfriend dragging along after her.

His leg was the last to exit the building.

How now...

Are you an educator?

Are you tired?

Are you sick?

Are these three strangely synonymous?

Does the "sick and tired" persist on your off-duty?

As Lucille Ball once asked so eloquently, do you "pop out at parties and feel unpoopular?"

Thank goodness there are little breaks here and there to save us from utter decomposition, but in the mean times, endurance is of the essence. In those wearisome class periods, end-of-the-quarters, and semester finals, the following ideas may come in handy.

Survival Tip #3: Multifaceted to Fit.

1. Use solid-colored drink containers for whatever beverage makes you happy.

2. Bulk up on snacks, I mean, bring lots of snacks on which to bulk up on...never mind.

3. For fielding those inevitable futile questions, use the "Five Finger Sign," a simple open hand up in the face of the curious terrorist.

Regular forms of said futility:

• "Can I have more time on this assignment? I was sick, my internet mysteriously broke, my grandma died, and then my goldfish too."

• "Can I turn in these assignments from last semester? Last school year? Cause the same class is offered this year too-I'm just not in it, but I was."

• "Can you arbitrarily change my grade even though I've done nothing to merit this senseless act? How about if my mother comes in and threatens you and says things that make no sense? Do higher authorities have veto-rights over your gradebook?"

Sometimes "No" just doesn't work; the "Five Finger" is a little more believable. Plus, it saves

on the voice and gives you time to ponder things like, "I veto YOU."

4. The Grand Finale, the "Go-to"

Sick and tired? Clearly, you need to lie down and just go to sleep. Right now. No veto.

How-To: The Continuing Story

Survival Tip #2

The Meeting Position

Bored of the routine? Try the Meeting Position.

Meetings are those little get-togethers always foretold of as "short affairs," and yet. You know how it goes.

And keeps going.

Ooohhhh.

Reliable? Every Wednesday.

Rigid? Often.

Romantic? Probably not.

Restless? Pick me.

Ok, so include "Resourcefulness," category "Rescue Devices," and see what happens:

1. "The Notebook," welcomed for notes of the meeting, of course, and with endless possibilities. Consider:

• Connect-the-Dot creations: anything goes...is that a lampshade of so and so's face?
• Gestural Drawing: a particularly ingenious option as the object is to draw nearby people without looking at one's paper. Oddly placed facial features make this gratifying every time.
• Flip books using the corner of the notebook pages. Perhaps wait to flip them gleefully in all of their animated glory till after the meeting.
• Ongoing games of M.A.S.H. Remember all the ways you learned to manipulate the game as a 4th grader, and the ones you perfected last meeting.
• Grocery lists for the pragmatic, weary, and hungry.
• Doodles that allow release of all those pent up "work emotions," everything from boredom (lazy leafy patterns) to rage (hangman gone very apathetic).
• As I said, the possibilities are hard to expire. Have at it...

2. Secret signs and symbols: For best results, share collective agreement on interpretations.

Unless confusion and chaos is desired, as it very well might be.

• Hand-motions: colloquial and common, everything from thumb's up to slashing movements across important arteries work.
• Eye brows: wriggles, skips, waves, culminating in the classical cocked stance. Generally, this codes for "Oh my g...STRANGE."
• Mouth: pursed, mobile corners (imagine they are hooking with thread and pull on the strings), or open abyss/yawn when things get especially windy.
• Various twitches, ticks, shrugs, stretches, and bone-cracking techniques when you just have to MOVE and hear something besides so and so...
• Mimes: "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame," "Moby Dick," and the "Birth of Shiva."

3. Borrowing...Thieving

• Waterbottles
• Pens
• Other people's precious notebooks
• Computers
• Bags
• Money
• Wallets
• Social Security Cards

*These items will be kept only until the owner notices, which could be for a very long time depending on execution, and if the item belongs to the group "absent minded professor."

4. The Meeting Position. Ah yes, here it is.

Ambiguous, yet effective in nearly all situations.

Throw down this moves when all else fails, or just for pure pleasure.

Meeting attendee should:

• assume a position of interest, even of intense fascination in what is being discussed.
• slowly, almost imperceptibly, this position should melt, slowly.
• most logically be lying on the floor in the end, the puddle stage. Eyes closed.
• maintain this position for at least three minutes for maximum effect.
• enter a meditative state, which is what's been desired all day. Delightful.

Best of luck and do let me know how it goes.

The How-To.

Surviving the Workplace...

and other applicable scenarios.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Sick day. And sick of it. Today reports of rumors, rigors, and other unreasonables causes me to say, "Rubbish."

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Circumstances sometimes stink. This is a given. Unfortunately. More variable is how we handle the stench. Will we, for example, rationalize everything so that it's really "nothing?" Or if it does resemble "something," clearly indicate it certainly isn't our fault? Conversely, will we allow for a little expansion of the issues at hand?...making them into epic episodes, heady with good gossip material and emotional trauma, and still, not our fault?

There's really no easy fix. Humans just tend to make depressing matters all the more well, depressing most of the time. Even so, some coping skills may help alleviate the pain. Beginning today, a series of "Survival Tips" will be available to those in need. Though some are specific to certain situations, please feel free to adapt any and all that catch your feverish fancy.

And so, in the face of madness,

Survival Tip #1:

Act according to the "Rosa Parks Model."

Whatever you do, DO NOT give up that bus seat, aka remain steadfast.

From now on, at work whenever you're asked to do anything extra, a firm attitude must be implemented: "Oh...I'm sorry...I'm not gonna be able to do that." This is said slowly, while shaking your head, presumably out of deep regret.

When faced with an unattractive task, pull a "Rosa:"

The photocopier says, "No more copies for you!"

You say, "No more copies for anyone."

The reimbursement form says, "Enumerate all expenses, both real and imagined, that is, prospective."

You say, "Sounds too nebulous for me. I can't do this in good conscience."

You are asked to sub for someone too stressed to show up for work.

You slowly lie down on the floor and close your eyes.

Etc. and best of luck...

Espresso, Yoga, and Really Small Dogs.

Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe

Lyrics from "Across the Universe" (the Beatles) sift through air laden with espresso and artificial sweetener--I am distracted by a GIANT creature lumbering past the window. It is a Great Dane in blotches of brown and white, accompanied by a woman and stroller, both of which could probably ride this dog instead of jaunting along beside it. They are just one of the many such ensembles dotting the sidewalks in downtown Kirkland on any given morning--woman and beast, endeavoring to do that great deed which they have done every day, "the walk," except for when at the salon getting the hair done (yes, even the dog), possibly with tomorrow's walk in mind.

In the lowlights of dawn, I grope for black dress pants, a black shirt, black flats, and for good measure, a brightly patterned scarf. Contrasts, you know.

My mind drifts, perhaps not across the universe, but at least across the I-405 overpass, down to the waterfront apartments. I have not made a habit of peeping into rich condominium windows, but if I were to, I know Women A, B, C, and D would also be reaching for black pants. Yoga pants. Short socks, tennis shoes with new performance insoles placed carefully inside, sports bra and sport shirt of sweat-resistant synthetics, light jackets (insert name brand of choice) = ready to go. They are dressed for a Half-Marathon Challenge at the least, but a walk along Lake Washington will do.

Well, not quite ready to go, actually. The warrior companions, as the ancient Anglo-Saxon tribes called their kinsmen, must be readied as well. Women A, B, C, and D are going to walk their dogs. Not the yo-yo trick. Real dogs. Real, yet unlike the great beast I just saw outside my window, really small. Really small dogs.

Woman A nearly cries herself after stepping on Princess's delicate paw with her new New Balance Performance Runners. Such an unearthly noise to come from such a tiny, irresistibly cute body. Princess is the size of a NFL game ball. Woman A quickly snatched up Princess, coos in her face, and tenderly wraps her little self in a sport sweater, just Princess's size, to keep her warm on this morning's excursion.

Princess will only be able to last about two blocks though, hurt paw, you know. Woman A will again swoop up the dog and carry her for the last two blocks.

Woman B brushes her Fredrick's fluffy hair until evenly full of static electricity. Fredrick sparks over to the door dutifully, waits for his studded collar, so he matches with Mommy's watch. Fredrick feels proud of himself, so much so that he begins to quiver all over. He is surprised to feel himself pee right on the front-door rug.

Woman C awakens to something cold on her hand. She groans. She knows it is George. George is hungry, as usual. It has been a long time since he hoovered up the last kernels of kibble from his dish some two hours ago. George must nudge Woman C's hand from the floor because the very thought of heaving his stubby frame onto the bed makes him even more famished and would require levitation. For now, his paws have a ring of thick skin ruffling them; his breathing is labored.

Woman C groans again. She predicts her nearly daily trek to Starbucks for her morning hot chocolate, whole milk and whip, yes please, will seem extra far this morning. She hopes some passing BMW will at least appreciate her triathlete attire. After all, dedication should count for something. It's only been four days since she walked to Starbucks and only one day since she drove there.

Woman D breaks the stillness in her room with a scream: "Arieeeeeeeeeellll!" She noticed her absence while applying moisturizing bronzer spf 15. Where was Ariel? Not in her cushy bed, not under the plush pillow with dog-bone print, not under the silk bedskirt. Where was Ariel? Had she been taken? Crooks these days look for any opportunity. Ridiculous ransoms, power games. Goodness, there might be an intruder right now!

Woman D tries to stifle the panic quickly tightening in her throat. She picks up a wire hanger and creeps out her door, into the quiet hallway. The sitting room and entry way are dim, gauzy light from the curtained windows making the scene hazy and eerie. She carefully tip-toes down the stairway--"oh no!" she's forgotten her iphone upstairs, too scared to go back. Bare feet on the cold stone landing make her shiver. All seems quiet...

"Argh!!!!!" Piercing scream, a sudden movement by the door. Woman D's purse is moving. Moving. Two pointy ears pop out--Ariel is ready for their walk early in her trusty portable and fashionable "carrier."

..."don't you be so bad..." Espresso and sweetener and music drift back into my revery.

...Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe...

I slip across I-405.

I don't own Yoga pants.

I don't own a small dog.

I just drink coffee and smirk at the combination of the two.

Stress Factories.

Ever just feel frustrated? Ever just want to throw something or say what you really want to say?

Perhaps more significant, ever done it?

So many things can cause that little feeling, the one that begins in the perimeter of your neurons, tickling up tubes in tides of hypersensitive electrodes. Nudging and niggling their way into the hipocampus, collecting most persistently and inconveniently in a reservoir of irritation. It bubbles and brews, belching steaming aggression into your nose like sulphur from my grandparent's shower head. Before you know it, it's evidently steamed up your vision because suddenly you become inexplicably blind to anything or anyone around you. You and your feelings are all that exist. The really terrible thing is those feelings are not friendly or forthcoming at all. It'll be at least an hour until they even start to make sense and in the meantime, sense is teetering toward extinction. You open your mouth as wave after wave of electrodes fill your facial cavities--you are going to electrocute someone. Soon.

Ah, stress....

Note to self, avoid these things in light of your currently limbo-like, subtly unstable mood.

You won't have any friends, any more.

I googled "Things that cause stress" and pages of websites popped up, all boasting the "Top 10s," "Top 7's," and so on, each listing the usual, predictable issues: finances, work, family, relationships, worries, etc.

One site listed everything categorically-like, perhaps some organization will help the problem. Interestingly enough, that relationships stuff topped the charts for "stressful events:" divorce, separation, marriage, and engagement. Hmm. Telling chronology.

Environmental changes can apparently add to the whole nasty business as well: too much heat, too cold, too much work, too noisy. "Too" being the quantifier of choice.

And not to be neglected, not that they'll let you, PEOPLE. Guess who?

Hard Bosses, Noisy Children, People Who Annoy You, and People Who Remind You of Something Unpleasant. This list especially intrigues me.

Just for fun, I decided to see what happened when I grouped some of these stressors together...Kind of a catharthis type of exercise, maybe we'll all feel better when we see we don't have it this bad...

1. I'm engaged to the man of my dreams, though I wish he would stop that little habit of gargling his soup, but while I'm fantasizing about that, I mean about being engaged, I get 23 calls from work reminding me of 23 inconsequential and innocuous things I've left undone and I realize tomorrow will be a great opportunity to leave at least 23 more such loose ends lying around just to trip up and annoy all these brownosers who really annoy me.

2. I'm getting married today and the only thing that could ruin it would be seeing my bipolar boss stealing my gifts at the reception or menstrating. Me that is, my boss is male. And I'm not. Oh...my...dear.

3. After all of that, or maybe because of all of that, I'm getting a divorce and I'm sweating...not because of the divorce, but because it's too flipping hot outside. I feel like punching some noisy children in the face.

But back to that list of PEOPLE FACTORS. These are really quite entertaining because we've all dealt with emphatic employers, crying or cussing children (airplanes are the notoriously haunted areas), annoying awkward people, and yes, even those who remind us of what we really don't like. At all.

And let's be honest, doesn't it just sound exhilarating to walk calmly up to someone, I mean right up to them, face them directly, giving them a winning smile, wait for their expectant, though more hesitant one in return, and say confidently, "You really remind me of something unpleasant." *Sigh*

Life seems to hold few control factors--with so many variables, the art of keeping one's cool is one to truly master, against all odds. I'm still in kindergarden. I just hope I don't look too silly squeezing into that toddler regalia when the time to move up finally comes. Till then, let us be careful in our circumstantial and community combinations--it's hard to evacuate a planet.

Resolutely Resolved...or something akin.

New Year's Resolutions!

Oh that fateful phrase. Oh those high in the sky like a pie expectations. Oh the places you'll go and the things you'll do...or at least those you imagine you will this January 1, 2010. 2010? How in the world did we get here? Isn't the world suppose to end in 2012? Should I plan my resolutions on a two year plan basis?

One thing's for sure: Out with the old, in with the new.

The majority of Americans list exercise plans and better health, aka loose that fat, in their top five resolutions. This recurring theme shows up every new year actually, since everyone has failed miserably and feels empowered by the changing calendar. It's a new opportunity to burn the old one and pretend that "nothing" never happened. Also, it's a definite must as a way to cope with the extra stuffing taken on (in?) during the holidays:

"Let's just have a little sweet something-after all tis' the season! I'll just have like one...or twelve,"

"Ooo, See's candy...see me eat the candy,"

"This is the only time of year I can order my peppermint-gingerbread-egg nog latte. Yes, I want all three flavors in one drink. Make it non-fat. Whip cream? YES."

"My aunt makes this GREAT dessert using all of the fatty ingredients you can find in your fridge and you just throw em' all together with sugar and a buttery cookie crumble crust in a greased pan. Leave that for Santa and you'll be getting whatever the heck you want."

Ok, that's enough. It's just too bad we didn't get around to this realization during the frosty feasting fetish.

Thus, dieting is a communal rite, added to that are managing money and get a better job, which brings us to reducing stress.

Is it just me, or do all of these carry undertones of "I am completely out of control?"

Because let's face it, since the fall of man and the beginning of human havoc-hindered history, we've been grasping for something solid every since. Sometimes I just want to let myself go, unbrushed teeth, unwashed face, and not even put on my contacts for a day so that I may bumble in blurry bliss and forget things like image, prosperity, or the fate of my offspring.

So what if no one recognizes me because I will definitely not recognize them.

The point is, while we promise ourselves we will be slim and trim, savor financing instead of food, dash to our dream jobs every day, while deeply inhaling air undiluted with distress this 2010, what are we doing to actually bring this about?

"Let your yes be yes and your no be no." Leave a little space for real conviction and we just might find 12:01 AM, January 1st, 2011 a time of resolve rewarded rather than renewed remorse upon review.