Porphyrogene!

So I’m really not much of a writer.  I’m really much more of a consumer.

I can be a voracious reader, a glutton for the written word.  However, I’m not just talking books.  I’m talking about blogs, news articles, weird bulletins, interesting factoids, and art.  I don’t need everything I consume to be spooned up with some sugar - I have a dark side.  I can take my coffee black and savour the bitterness.

I was trying describe my rampant (non-material) consumerism to my husband the other day and I think I feel like a farmer.  I have all this land (the internet) to cultivate and devour.  It is not so easy to always find the best patches with the best soil and the tastiest crops, but when I do find them… I remember them, I keep track of them.  However - the glutton in me is driven to devour everything they have to offer till I suck them dry.  Then I move on and I try desperately to forget about that patch for as long as possible so it has time to grow back before I go back.

I’ve done this Borg-like pillaging to all of the following websites (and more):
http://www.damninteresting.com/
http://www.daringyoungmom.com/
http://www.cuteoverload.com/
http://outofcharacter.blogspot.com/
http://www.wouldashoulda.com/
http://haha.nu/
http://www.neatorama.com/
http://www.craftzine.com/
http://www.instructables.com/
http://www.notcot.com/
http://www.notcot.org/
http://www.questionablecontent.net/
http://www.phdcomics.com/comics.php
http://www.xkcd.com/

A few days ago, I ran out.  I went back to each of them, read the most recent entries/comics/creations until I arrived at entries I’d already read and by the time I was done, it was only 10:00 am.  When I can’t keep myself stimulated… I start panicking.  Then I get tired and bored.  And then I start going insane. 

The insanity had almost taken over when I found a new high.  It’s called postsecret. 

Have you heard of it? Obviously I’m one of a few avid internet readers who hasn’t because it was voted best Blog of 2007 by over 20,000 people.   It might not be your cup of tea, but it certainly is  mine. 

The premise is that you can home make a 4x6 postcard and snail mail it, anonymously, to their address.  They scan it in, and post it on their website.  People write their secrets on the post card.

"My father is a catholic priest.  I have been his secret for 21 years". 

or

"Dear Mom and Dad: I was going to commit suicide the day that you put me in rehab. You saved my life. I love you both."

Not all of the secrets are nice.  Not all of the secrets are kind.  Not all of the secrets are happy or sad.  Some of them disgust me… some of them make me reach out with my heart through time and space with as much will power and love as possible so maybe my compassion can ease one second of that person’s pain. I don’t like hearing about suicide or violence.  I don’t like hearing about people who hurt themselves with razors.  But these are things that exist - and if sending in a post card, and knowing that people will read it, eases their pain, how can I look away? It’s as though by reading it, I’m taking on a little of their burden… a speck of it… so that they can breathe easier.

Does it actually help others for me to read these?  Probably not in the way I wistfully think.  But perhaps it helps insofaras I can better understand other people.  With each postcard I read, a chink of my own emotional armor erodes and suddenly I am freer.  Maybe it is a completely selfish thing, me reading these postcards.  In fact, it definitely is.  But I also care. 

I love those people.  I love them for being able to articulate their pain.  I love them because of their foibles.  I wish I could laugh with the ones who supply decaf instead of caf, I wish I could hug the ones who need hugs.  I wish I could give strength to the ones who want to tell someone they love them, I wish I could call in help for those who don’t have the voice to do so for themselves.

Maybe someday I’ll send in a secret of my own. 

I’m really lucky.  Out of all the terrible things that have happened in this world, very few have truly touched me - I should be thankful.  I should be grateful that some of the hardest, most terrible things have been shouldered by others who are probably stronger than I am. 

For example, I can not comprehend losing a child.  I’m not even a parent yet, and losing a son or daughter is… unthinkable. 

About six months ago, I lost a friend.  Obviously he wasn’t just MY friend, and I wasn’t his closest friend either - I believe that particular distinction goes to two very cool, very pretty Amandas. It’s hard to think about it, the back of my throat closes up and still I’m grateful that my pain is less than that of so many other people, not the least of which includes his parents and sister. 

I was at work when I first read about the Virginia Tech shootings - the death count kept getting higher and while it was surreal and upsetting, I felt safe.  I wasn’t there, and I didn’t recall any friends who were.  We were okay.

My husband and I were playing host to two college friends who were in town for a conference.  They also happened to know Dan.  When I got home from work, we watched the news, awe-struck as bloody kids our age were carried from the buildings, and then one of our friends reminded me that Dan, after graduating from our Alma Mater, went on to Civil Engineering grad school at Virginia Tech.  And the shootings occurred in the engineering building.  

I’m not sure I’ll ever feel an adrenaline surge like that again, but it made me freeze, with every muscle tense.  I stared with renewed vigor at the TV, waiting for a hint about who was murdered and who was spared.  I tried to call mutual friends. I cried.

Kyle and I told each other that he had to be okay - I mean, what are the odds, seriously.  He might not have had class that day! Or he might have skipped class to go on a Dunkin’ Donuts run or a bike ride… even though he wasn’t really the skipping class type… Or he might have been on a different floor…  There were so many ways he could have been safe.  Kyle and I went to bed reassuring each other that our friend was okay. 

In the morning at around 8:30 a.m., we got a call from our friends who were in town at the conference.  They had just heard that Dan was killed. Shot to death.

Dan had been my husband’s roommate for a year and a half.  They were housemates when they went abroad to Belgium for 4 months.  They travelled all over Europe together.  Dan was Emcee-ing at the concert where Kyle proposed to me.  Dan came to our wedding. 

Over the last few years, Kyle has lost 3 friends his age.  One to a motorcycle accident, one to a car accident, and now, one to a senseless act of violence.  Dan had been in one of the smallest classrooms.  His story isn’t talked about much because there were no survivors in that room so there are no heartwarming stories of heroism or escape.

Kyle does not cry often.  I knew Dan was gone because while Kyle was on the phone - he started to weep.  We both stayed home from work that day.  Kyle needed me badly, and I needed him, and for the first day or so we just sat and held each other. 

Eventually, we were both filled with an intense desire to do SOMETHING, to do ANYTHING, even though there was nothing to do in addition to a fog of despairing lethargy penetrating our physical shells.  We settled on a trip to a Big Home Improvement store to purchase a tree.  We thought Dan would get a kick out of the funny little plums, so we picked a plum tree, took it home, named it Dan and planted it in our backyard.   We found and bought a fraggle - one of Dan’s favorite shows - and packaged it up and sent it to Dan’s Family.

I tried going in to work, but when my boss started to talk to me about what happened I started to cry and I couldn’t stop.  She sent me home.

Kyle and I made plans to go to the wake and funeral.  We drove 10+ hours to get there and I had one of the hardest experiences of my life and one of the best.

Walking into the high school gym where his wake was being held and having to walk past a coffin with pictures of Dan and his friends in high school and college in collages all around was tough.  Walking up to his mom and dad was tortuous.  I was trying so hard not to cry because geez - how selfish am I? My pain can’t be nearly as bad as theirs, and here are these broken parents standing next to their son’s coffin, hugging people as they walk past in a steady stream.  I get there and I’m just short of bawling and Dan’s mom gave me the sweetest little hug, held on to me and told me it would be okay.  SHE told ME it would be okay.  She also thanked me for the Fraggle… told me it was sitting on her mantle and that it makes her smile every time she sees it. 

I don’t have physical proof yet, but I think she’s some kind of wonder woman.

The rest of my night was, oddly, one of the best in my life.  Dan had three sets of friends, you see.  He had high school friends - a small group that he was extraordinarily close to; so close that they had matching t-shirts with nick names and a special hang out called "The Barn".  He had college friends - a group of Theatre dorks, a cappella singers, art society groupies and engineers.  And he had Virginia Tech grad school friends.  We went out to a casual sort of dinner all together at a local chinese food restaurant with 30 people or more after the wake.  And then we met up at "The Barn" which was a barn-like structure behind someone’s house.  We all went up to the second floor of the Barn in a big open space, sat down with guitars, played music, joked around, sang songs, and told stories.  It was extraordinarily precious.  The three separate groups of friends who had NOT met each other previously got along perfectly as though even without having this really cool guy in common, we could have all been the best of buddies.

Dan was a really good looking guy.  He was smart, and witty, and he could be obsessively passionate and quirky about all sorts of things.  He played the guitar very well, and he sang with a lot of heart — if not always in tune.  He could be moody sometimes - Kyle has more than one story about how down Dan could get on long Train rides across Europe or how negative his attitude could be when caught in a downpour.  But he could also be as light as feather and happy as a clam and usually it was either or. He didn’t really drink alcohol although he developed an appreciation for Belgian beer after his trip. 

After Kyle proposed to me, Dan’s first words on the mic were "So… uh… how ’bout that?"  

He had a funny giggle. His favorite fraggle was Wembley.  He auditioned for the A cappella groups on campus almost every year, but he never got in. 

He was a talented engineer, he did extremely well in his classes and he wanted to build bridges for a living.

And I miss him.

That night before his funeral where all three groups of his friends sat in one room and sang together to the tune of 3 or 4 guitars, loads of sadness, and a great deal of appreciation for the respect and support we were receiving from each other - we ALL smiled at the vision of Dan in the back our minds and how he would have acted had he also been physically present.  He would have been bouncing off the WALLS dude.  He would have been skipping from person to person.  He would have been playing the guitar and singing at the top of his lungs.  He would have been laughing till he cried tears of joy and hilarity.  He would have been ecstatic to have all of his friends together in one place.  It would have been perfect.   As it is, it was the closest to perfect we could get.

As found in this article on MSN… Everything that I have done in the last (little over a) year was wrong to do in the span of time I did it and will apparently lead to divorce or forever-debt. 

While graduating from College and finishing up an Honor’s Thesis, I planned my wedding.  My Husband-to-be also wrote an Honor’s Thesis, then we both graduated.  A month later, we got married, went on our honeymoon, closed on a house, and moved 4-6 hours away from our families to a city I had only visited once before so that he could enter a 5 year PhD program.   We moved in to a beat up old house that (of COURSE) had a lot of problems we hadn’t anticipated, with one car - stick shift - that I can’t drive, and no human support system.  Kyle started school - I stayed home… for months… looking for a job (No internet, No cable, No phone).  To speed through this saga — I got a temp job, and then a permanent position, Kyle decided to leave the PhD program.  Now I was working and he was home looking for a job.  He got a job a heartbeat after the ‘Nick of Time’ would have occurred and we had to temporarily borrow money to make ends meet.  At this point, we’ve recovered and we’re on our way to saving and paying off his student loans.

But it probably wouldn’t be fair to gloss over the 7 gas leaks, the broken refridgerator, the screw in Kyle’s leg, the bird in our ceiling, the demolition and reconstruction of our bathroom by us, and the despair that accompanied the loss of a good friend (one of Kyle’s roommate’s in College) on a cool April day while he was attending a Civil Engineering Grad School class at Virginia Tech.

I’ll probably address all these little topics in future entries.  But truly, I think the main point is that the only thing missing in our lives is me being pregnant.  In an ‘Ironic’, ‘I-feel-on-the-edge-with-my-eyes-rolling-back-to-show-too-much-white’ sort of way, it would just be ‘Perfect’ to find out something will be ‘Comin round the mountain’ in the next 9 months.

Heavenly Father, please do not take this as a Dare.

I had a great childhood.  My mom stayed home with my brother and I, at least till we went to school - and even then she only worked during school hours.  Through the hazy veil that is time, when I look back I remember good feelings, good times… However, when I examine the past more closely I start to have a minor panicky feeling -

Will I be as good a mother as my mom?

Now, my mom was not perfect - we certainly had our differences and our all out battles.  I know she made mistakes.  I know she stuck me with a pin when changing a diaper in church and she didn’t catch me when I rolled off the changing table - but I only know those things because she felt so guilty she just had to tell me about them in that joking yet serious "Please forgive me for being a horrible person - I feel so guilty about this I must confess all!" sort of way.  And in our fights I said some nasty things and she said some nasty things.  And I’m sure we still have our fair share of fights.

But I remember… The paper that ALWAYS covered the coffee table and the crayons that were ALWAYS available and the exciting moments when a piece of paper that had been worn thin by my genius scribblings would be stripped away and a new blank piece of beauty would be taped down.  I remember the big plastic box full of dresses - My mom’s old dresses - for dress up.  I remember the costumes she would sew me - a Unicorn, a princess.  I remember the window paint… and after covering the glass doors in the kitchen with a satisfying black, purple and orange smear resembling a pumpkin and a witch… watching her as she scraped it all away after halloween.  I remember dye-ing eggs.  I remember birthday parties.  They paid for me to go to camp, and to take flute lessons and piano lessons.  They bought me a dog "to help me through adolescence" [my reasoning].

I love kids and I intend to have a few, but I’m still a few years away from making the active decision to procreate.  So, if God doesn’t decide to play a practical joke, I’m still a few years away from finding out the answer to the above question.  But in the interest of striving to be the kind of mother that my future child will worry about topping - Here’s a list of things I will do.  This list is not meant to have practicality written all over it - it is meant to be seen through the rose-colored glasses of a woman on the edge of contemplating a baby.  I am distinctly blocking out any and all birth recovery time, the lack of sleep, the battles of will, the self-doubt, and the world-renowned guilt.

1) I will have a dress up box and henceforth I will save any and all sparkly clothes I own to put into it.
2) I will paint a mural on my child’s bedroom wall
3) I will make them play outside and I will join them - despite the icky bugs.
4) I will try not to pass on my fear and loathing of icky bugs
5) I will have extra cool bandaids available at all times (Princess? Pirate? Thomas the Train?)
6) I will try to make a significant number of toys rather than buy them.
7) I will make sure they can read music and play music
8) I will try to get them interested in a sport, but if they overly resist I will not force it.
9) I will not get angry when she cuts her own hair at age 3.
10) I will encourage her to paint my husband’s toenails
11) I will never be upset when he spends 90% of his allowance every week on books.
12) I will always let them do homework on the kitchen table if they want to.
13) I will let them wear whatever they want (except for extremely special occasions) so long as the proper body parts are covered.
14) I will resist the urge to set up posed photographs with my kids in matching outfits for Christmas Cards.
15) If I buy a puppy because of their pleading - I will blame no one but myself when I am outside, at 3:00 am, in the rain with a dog that won’t pee outdoors but will unleash it’s bladder of terror as soon as we step back into the warmth and comfort of the house.
16) I will bribe my child into potty training with dollar store items
17) I will make them halloween costumes rather than buy them
18) I will NOT make a habit of letting my children sleep with me.
19) I will sleep beside them on the floor whenever/if ever they are sick
20) I will pray everyday henceforth that they will NOT inherit my feet/tendons/ligaments/sciatica.
21) I will let them paint my windows for halloween.
22) I will make a tradition out of decorating for holidays.
23) I will decorate for holidays
24) I will not make them make their beds if they keep their rooms clean otherwise.
25) I will read to them. Alot. And I will savor their discovery of all the different literary escapes of my own childhood.
26) I will not freak out when they have imaginary friends.
27) I will not give them whatever they want whenever they want whatever they want. I will teach them patience at the cost of whining and screaming in present if need be.
28) I will not see my child as Infallible, but I will make sure they know I think they are perfect the way they are.
29) I will tell them I love them.
30) I will never turn down a hug

Smile and nod at my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed notions - correct them if you will. But don’t violently burst my bubble… okay?

Yesterday I rode the bus home.  I’ve been forced to solicit public transportation for the past couple of weeks because my husband and I only have one car, it is manual, he drives it to work, and he doesn’t get home [these days] till 8:30 p.m.   Unless I want to spend 13 hours a day in the office, I must succumb to the Pittsburgh Bus system.

Taking public transportation - and busses in particular - makes me anxious.  In fact, the whole idea of taking a bus makes me so antsy that, while riding home yesterday - standing, clinging to a pole that who KNOWS how many people have touched with who KNOWS what on their hands -  I considered the notion that I might have a complex about it.

Intrigued, I tried to recall when this anxiety started… while attempting to studiously ignore the undergraduate business major standing across from me who was trying to make dreaded eye contact. 
I think it may have started very early - 3rd grade is the earliest I can remember a date associated with a bus ride.  I remember it distinctly for two reasons: 1) It was the first day of school. 2) A pre-school aged girl who lived down the street from me punched me in the face.

I think that is the moment that any and all fondess I ever had for riding on busses leaked out of me with my tears of indignation and pain.

From then on I think I was always anxious about riding on busses - my mother was horrified at the idea that her daughter was punched in the face, and forever after decided to drive me to and from school.  If I ever did have to take a school bus home, I always had what felt like mutant carnivorous butterflies in my stomach the whole time.  I walked to school in high school, and I went to a small college with a small campus - no busses necessary.

Flash forward - Now they are necessary; necessary to my being able to get home, heat up some left over pizza, change into sweatpants in front of my voyeuristic cats, and fight the loneliness with yet another viewing of Gilmore Girls.

My bus comes at 5:26 p.m.  I head out to the stop at 5:10 and wait the 20 minutes just to be sure that I don’t miss the bus should it come 20 minutes early… which it never has.  Now, I’m a people person - I like to meet new people, I like to talk to new people, I like to make friends, and I consider myself fairly confidant.  However - there are times when I just want to reside in a personal bubble and standing at the bus stop, fighting back the feeling of mutant butterflies and nausea, is one of those times.  Then again, standing alone, staring down the street, willing the bus to come sooner makes me awkwardly conscious of the fact that I’m talking to no one, making no eye contact, and just generally being anti-social.  No one is making me feel guilty for not addressing them, it’s just a talent I seem to have for evoking self-addressed guilt.  However, on Tuesdays I’m verbally assaulted by a friendly, well-meaning, male, undergraduate business major who will NOT let our one-sided conversations drop.

Him: So… where are you from?
Me: Northern New Jersey
*awkward pause*
Him: So… do you go to school here?
Me: No
*awkward pause*
Him: Do you… work here?
Me: Yes
*ap*
Him: worked here for long?
Me: 7 months.
*ap*
Him: so not that long, huh?
Me: Nope.

This continues till the bus comes, and I rush on, and he follows (because of course he takes the same bus I do) and then I studiously avoid eye contact with him the whole way to my stop.  After relaying this conversation to friends, I’ve been told I’m too friendly - too nice.  I’ve been encouraged to give a "death stare" or pretend to be involved in a cell phone conversation, even if the cell phone is dead because I’ve forgotten to charge it for the last week, or listen to my ipod even if the ipod is dead because I’ve forgotten to charge it for the last week.  However, I can’t bring myself to be outright rude to this kid - afterall he’s not hurting anyone and I’m not exactly wearing a flashing neon sign that says "Bugger off! I’m tired. I’m grumpy. I just want to go home. And besides, I’m married so I’m freaking UNAVAILABLE. Go talk to that girl with the thong sticking out of the back of her pants." So I’m nice to him with my brilliant, engaging, one to two word answers. 

 So if you see a young woman with awkwardly short bangs standing a bit away from the crowd at the bus stop - don’t try to engage her in conversation. 

 
It’s not you, it’s me.
I just don’t like riding the bus.