Wednesday, July 30, 2008

BB Fanboy Post

I am a week and a half late on this prompt because I have not been able to think of something that I'm obsessed with. The problem isn't that I'm not obsessed with anything. To the contrary, actually. I feel like I'm always saying, "Ohmigod I'm obsessed with this," likely because I have a fear that if I go around saying I love everything -- I love these shoes I love that car I love this risotto -- then I will cease to remember what it means to actually love. Love will then just turn into another qualifier, another way to express beauty or desire or, yes, obsession. But claiming that I'm obsessed with something isn't that much better, now is it? It may even be worse, to go around claiming I am so entirely and inclusively wrapped up in one thing that everything else just falls away and I can only care about that one thing which consumes all my brain power. Dude. Kinda effed up.

I'll tell you what I'm obsessed with right now (and this is not what my post is going to be about): I'm obsessed with my eye twitching. I'm prone to eye twitches, and supposedly they are hereditary, or might be, so my dad can sympathize. But this is the worst one I've ever had. It started, like... 6 weeks ago or something? It started one day and then was fairly relentless for a month; in the beginning, I had some breaks. Then it turned into a constant irritation. I got so fed up that I called the first optometrist's office that popped up on the list of Maksin-covered doctors and cried to the receptionist that this was interfering with my life. So I went to get glasses and my doctor (who wore glasses and a white lab coat) told me everything I already knew -- that this is caused by stress or anxiety, fatigue, and too much caffeine -- and wrote me a prescription for the most mild pair of glasses ever.

Except they help me, and now I am obsessed with them. (Except this isn't what this post is going to be about, either.)

Last week, the eye twitching stopped. All together. I had one whole week of no twitching. THEN. On Saturday, it started again. I was up super early for the farmer's market and while in the bathroom I felt it coming. One little twitch at a time. And then, all day, relentless. Until it stopped, of course, after I went to the gym.

Now I'm home, in Vancouver, and it won't stop. Maybe I'm stressed about Mallory's wedding. Likely, it's a combination of things (whole otha' post that ain't even ever gonna get written), but it's started again, full swing. It's worse now that it was before: it's not so much a pounding, but more like a vibration on my eyelid. Before, I just started dealing with it. Ignoring it. It had become a part of me. I was Lauren with the Eye Twitch. Now, it was all I could do to not seriously hurt myself last night by, like, trying to take my eyeball out of my head. And with my luck, I would then just be out one eye and my lid would continue to twitch. HA.

I didn't want to do anything yesterday but wallow in my annoyance. I didn't call Drea till, like, 6:30, when I should have called her much earlier, because it turned out that the best part of my day was going to Portland and talking with her for hours over (pretty fucking large) glasses of red wine. Then, when I came home and my dad was still awake, we talked for almost two hours and it was one of those talks where you're reminded that there are people in the world that see you as you want to see yourself. There are people that think you are the goddamn bee's knees -- the smartest, the most beautiful, the most fulfilling person for them. Sometimes I need to be reminded of the things other people see in me (especially people like my dad, because he basically loves me more than anyone and he makes it plain-as-day obvious and I love him for it) because otherwise, I end up festering in my own self-hatred. Okay, not really, but I always see the bad shit in myself. I always focus on the self-esteem (lack thereof), and the fears, and the idiotic notions that I have about how other people think of me behind my back. (Can you think something behind someone's back?? I guess what I mean is, how people really feel about me, not just what they say to my face.) So, anyway, sometimes it's nice to be reminded that there is at least one person out there that loves you unconditionally and only, only, only wants you to be happy, at whatever price to themselves.

SO. ANYWAY. My dad was like, "You have to think of your eye twitch as like a friend." I looked at him cockeyed. He said that whenever his shoulder starts hurting, he thinks, there it is again. It's just a part of him. Like this twitch in my eye has become a part of me. It's like, my quirk. My buddy. I can't make it go away, so all I can do is accept it. Luckily, I know it won't last forever.

God, this post is windy as hell. Good thing, like, two people read my blog. And they already know that I have a tendency to blather on and on and on...

So, that is my current obsession. So, of what am I a fanboy?! There are so many things I could put here: my dog, for instance. Oh my God, I adore him. I always forget about it, too, until I come home just how much I love that little dog. This morning, I sat down by his bed to scratch behind his ears, and he looked at me kind of sleepily, stuck his tongue out a bit as if to say, "If I had more energy right now, I'd lick your hand with affection," and then rested his head against my arm. Right now, my dad is getting ready to take him for a walk, so Jack's bounding around the house after him while he throws garbage away, puts stuff in the garage, washes his hands, unwraps a cigar. In fact, as I sit here right now, in the living room with my Macbook on my lap, my dad tossed a pair of shoes onto the wood flooring in front of the door and said sympathetically, "Boy, it sure does take a long time to get ready, huh, Mr. Dog?" And Jack just kept staring at him, as if to say, "I will follow you around this house until you put that leash on me. Then it's on." They just left. He's a happy pup.

But that's not what I was going to talk about! HAH. Get to the damn point, Laur.

I decided to write my post about being a fanboy of being happy. I freely admit that I am obsessed with being happy. I know what will make me happy, too; it's just a matter of time, and money, before I get there. Here is my happy-making list, in no particular order.

I need:
  1. A house that I own, where I can paint the walls in every room a different color. The house will be old, lived in, but not run down. It will have personality, and beauty radiating out of the window sills. The ceilings will be low, the carpet will be plush and the wood will be stained a perfect shade of deep, deep cherry. When you walk into my house, you will feel an overwhelming sense of joy, as if the house said to you, "Welcome. Please make yourself at home in me. I want you to be happy here." (This is gonna take a lot of work, and not just physical labor, either.)
  2. A dog. A doggy of my own. A little pup that I bring home, nurture the fear away, and then turn into a kind dog, who loves and adores and listens to commands like "stay." That's an important one.
  3. A job that I love. This may take a while, too, but luckily I have many interests and (I think?) many different skills and I am also generally happy doing whatever pays the bills, so to speak. However, I will hold out for that that job. You know. The one that feels like it was created just for you. Problem is, I don't really know what that job is yet. Or maybe that's not a problem. Maybe that's a very good sign.
  4. Love. Everywhere. At home with me, in that house, with the colored walls and the puppy. Love outside those walls and beyond the front yard, living in the homes of my friends. Love across the state, or across the country, or across the world, in the homes of my family. Love love love love love... gimme it.
Aaaaand that's it. I think. It almost seems too easy, huh? "That's all you want, Lauren?" Yeah, I guess so. I suppose if I had to add one more thing to the list, it would be money. But not the money that buys you summer homes and private jets and Olympic-sized pools. Just the kind of money that lets you buy your little multi-colored house, and dog food (as well as people food), and helps you with car payments, and maybe saves up enough one day for a boat. That's all I really want. A bit of money to be comfortable. Not lavish. Because those things aren't important to me. I'm not a show-off, and I feel like I'm learning this more and more with each passing day of my life.

So, there you have it. I'm a fanboy of my own happiness. (Selfish? Maybe, but it's a lot easier to be altruistic and helpful and kind when you're happy yourself, so maybe happiness in one's own life just helps perpetuate an overarching worldly feeling of warmness, charitableness, and love.)

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

BB Number Nine

Write about the most dangerous place you have been. Feel free to interpret this broadly. For example, this dangerous place may have been a geographic location or maybe it was a state of mind. Or, maybe, it is a place you have never been but one you nevertheless fear.

I was on my way to work yesterday, cutting through the lawn in front of my complex, zipping up my sweatshirt against the surprisingly brisk air. It was almost 8:00. As I picked my way through the grass, trying to step in the sunny spots so as to avoid dampening my shoes with morning dew, I saw a tiny robin hopping in front of me. I let my eyes create the path I assumed the robin was taking and followed the invisible line over to a tree. It was under the tree that I then saw a squirrel flicking his tail back and forth and a bunny, standing very still except for a quivering nose. The bird, bun, and squirrel were positioned in a triangle shape in the grass, mere feet away from each other, just in front of my apartment complex. I instantly fell in love with every one of the cuddly little animals. And I realized how much I love Pullman.

I bitch about Pullman a lot. I never did before I started grad school, either. When I was an undergrad at WSU, I would practically skip up to campus, whether I was trekking to the CUE in January for Digital Diversity with Patty, or headed into Avery in April to sit with Kristin and my fellow rhetoric students. (God, I really should call them Dr. Ericsson and Dr. Arola, but they are both so much more than just professors to me.) I LOVED Digital Technology & Culture. After bouncing through architecture and majors that were way too sciencey for me, I was so thrilled to find DTC, find Patty, and find awesome people who were just as nerdy as me. Of course, I had (what I thought) was a lot of work to do, but I always did it in earnest.

When I started grad school, though, I started to resent Pullman. No longer was it the quaint, warm college town I had grown to love over the past four years. Pullman now felt like a mistress, whipping me with a composition notebook, screaming at me to lesson-plan for my students and start reading more for my seminar papers. I felt like I was drowning, like I was in over my head. So I started bitching about Pullman all the time, talking about how sick of the place I was.

It took me almost a year to realize that Pullman hadn't done anything to me. I was the one making myself so stressed out amidst the corridors of Avery Hall. Pullman was the same as it has always been. It was my outlook that had changed.

I then let myself fall back in love with Pullman, remembering my favorite stores, my favorite spots to lounge with a book. I reminded myself that I am the one who always wanted to get a Master's, that I was the one who worked hard to get here, that there was a reason I applied only to WSU and (fortunately, IMHO) got in, and those reasons were that I loved Pullman, WSU, and the English Department. (Or, at least, the parts of it I had been exposed to.)

And now, as a traditionally-aged student who is now two years old than all the traditionally-aged undergraduates, I feel a sense of belonging and security in Pullman. Not to mention, I straddle the line between continuing my role as a student, sitting in Avery 110 and trying to keep up with seminar discussions, versus standing at the front of a classroom telling 26 freshmen about rhetoric. I have a place here. I am needed. I feel important. (If not vastly out of my league, more often than not.)

When I start Fall semester, I will be starting my last year in Pullman. (I'm not staying here for a PhD, but that's another post entirely.) It's really starting to sink in that in just a little over a month, I will be participating in my last Pullman Fall semester. Then my last Christmas Break. Then my last Spring semester. This is the last summer I'll spend in Pullman, panting in the heat, waiting for the school year to commence yet again. This is a very odd feeling, because I've made Pullman my home. I took to Pullman like a fish to water the moment I came here in 2003, and that affinity for this town has remained. But by next May, I have to get out. My time at WSU will expire and I'll have to move on (IhopeIhopeIhope to the West Side), get a job, start a 401k, buy a house, travel, go to weddings and baby showers and funerals, retire. You know; do what people do.

I'm scared, though. I'm not scared of growing up, or getting wrinkles, or being poor, or going through hard times. I'm scared of moving. I'm scared of leaving this little haven of a town and having to enter The Real World in a new city. I feel like I belong in Pullman. I don't feel that way about any other place.

Sure, I love Seattle. But I feel like if I told Seattle I loved her, she's swish her long, shiny hair behind her shoulder and exclaim, "You and everyone else, sweetheart."

And every time I go home to Vancouver, I feel like it greets me with a weak half-hug and asks, "So, what are you up to? Are you engaged yet?!? Ohmigod I'm getting married in like two months! He's sooo good with my kid, too. Can you believe my little baby is almost five years old?! I know, right? Wait, you're still in school? Ohmigod, why? Ew."

I'm worried I won't ever be able to find a place that embraces me like Pullman has. Pullman is like my friend; I can tell Pullman my problems, and she sits with me, looking into my eyes, and she always brings me a cup of tea. Right now, I feel like I am vacillating, ready to move on and create my adult life and simultaneously afraid that I will never feel at home in another place. I feel like no matter where I go after I graduate in May, I'll be taking a risk. But maybe that's the point. I mean, this is life. If I play it safe from here on out, I'm not really living, right? Part of life is jumping into something unknown. And I've done it before. I did it with a relationship I thought I would have to bid farewell to mere months after it began. I did it by coming to Pullman in the first place. I mean, before I got out of high school, Vancouver was my home. Then Pullman became my home. The next city I move to will undoubtedly become my home as well -- where I'll find favorite restaurants and favorite shops and favorite second-hand stores -- even if it takes me a while to grow that love. I just want a city that I can call my own, that I can identify with, that I feel needs me. I want a bigger, badder, more intense version of Pullman. I want a house, and a car I picked out, and a floppy puppy who springs around on the floor with his tongue lolling, asking for table scraps. I want love to permeate the walls. Maybe I will paint my kitchen red, with hardwood flooring and rich cabinetry, so that I feel like it's hugging me every time I walk in. Hello, Lauren. I love you. What are we cooking this evening?

I often feel like from right now up to May of 2009 is the most dangerous place I've ever been. I'm scared, and worried I'll fail, and apprehensive about finding a new place to put all my shit. My mental health, my confidence, my security are in danger. But I know, logically, that it's all in my head. I know that this will dissipate, then vanish, and I'll laugh at myself for ever thinking that I would never belong anywhere but Pullman. I just need to prepare to thank Pullman for all it's given me, and keep my heart set on that red kitchen and the smiling puppy, sitting at my ankle, waiting for a sauteed carrot or a rogue bite of chicken to tumble from its place on top of the stove.

Monday, July 7, 2008

delicate.

I am not a delicate person. I don't even know how you classify someone as being delicate, but I assume you use adjectives which do not describe me.
Instead, I'm little, and my legs are passed directly from my mother, whose father was German. I have a huge mouth. My hair often takes a life of its own and if I don't mold it with an ever-changing and expanding list of products, I look depressingly horrific. Moreover, my fingers are short and my nails break easily and it's basically impossible for me to find pants with the proper inseam unless they are classified as "petite" or "short." Which I guess classifies me, too, but I often still cannot wear petite or short pants with flats. These are not qualities that I imagine when I hear the word "delicate." Instead, I imagine words like "cute," "tiny," "adorable." "Small." (Appropriate, since Tony's most common nickname for me is Small, or Smally, as well as many variations.)

Tony called my lithe, once. It was in the beginning. I was lying on my bed, my arm bent at the elbow, fingertips brushing my clavicle. My head was turned toward him, chin tilted up. This was when we were still in love with our mutual love of words. Lithe. I remember it like it was yesterday.

But there is just one time in my life when I felt delicate. It was when I was dancing. For about three years, while dancing (relatively) consistently, I felt like the very definition of delicate. I know a lot of people feel awkward and bumbling while dancing, but I was good at it. Maybe it's because I had to wear heels. Maybe it's because I understand that you can't look down, that your arms and your neck affect your form as much as do your legs. This is probably why I never really took to swing -- too much bouncing and arm wavering for me -- even though I was really good at East Coast, too. (I've only danced West Coast once, with a friend of mine at a date dash, and I was really drunk. But he said I did well. I think it's just because I'm great at following.)

As everyone knows. Tango is my favorite. I can tango circles around anyone. (Okay, not really. And that statement is probably less true now that I'm out of practice.) I was really, really good at Tango. I love the drama of Tango, the sensuality, the pace. I worked hard to make Tango alluring and surreptitiously sexy while dancing it. I perfected the Tango Face. Sometimes, when I'd think about how awesome I must have looked, I'd have to fight back a smile. Because you don't smile in Tango. Only passion. (Again, not really true. But this is just how I am.)

And the waltz. God, how I love to waltz. I'd smile my ass off while waltzing, close-mouthed, of course. I'd look at my partner with a glance that said, "Aren't we the most fabulous dancers on this floor?" And I'd look to everyone in the room, asking for their agreement with my serene smile. I was always a cocky dancer, but I didn't care, because I loved it so much. I'd get carried around the room, twirling and contra-checking or promenading, and I'd feel like the most exquisite woman in the room.

Now, though, I sit in my apartment and watch So You Think You Can Dance with Toria and go crazy whenever anyone waltzes or tangos. And when I'm disappointed by the performance, I always think to myself, I could do it better. Even though I KNOW I couldn't. I used to dream that I'd end up on those ballroom competition shows that always air on public broadcast channels, cha-chaing and and salsaing and swinging and foxtrotting around the room, but everyone would gape when the Tango began. And then, when my partner (who was always incredibly good-looking in my dreams) and I would waltz, the crowd would erupt in cheers and make bets as to how soon it would take for us to be the most popular and famous dancers in the world.

And sometimes I still dream.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

BB Number Six

Palm reading: One of those new-agey things I'm not really sure I buy into. Our hands are always changing, right? Sure, our fingerprints remain the same throughout our lives, but our palms grow and stretch and the skin comes together in different patterns... right? Or maybe I'M the fruit loop. But, regardless, I am choosing to do the hand prompt because, my skepticism aside, I still find this palm reading very interesting: I mean, why would anyone come up with the idea that if your heart line begins below the index finger, you are content with your love life? Crackpots! Heh.

Here we go. A reading of Lauren's left palm. (Because I am a woman and because it's my non-dominant hand, so therefore it sheds more light on my natural persona. Supposedly.)

The Heart Line
begins in the middle - falls in love easily.
(HAH.)
circle on the line - depression
(... whatever.)
smaller lines crossing through heart line - emotional trauma
(It also says this for "broken line," so, WTF?)

The Head Line
curved, sloping line - creativity
(of course!)
separated from life line - adventure, enthusiasm for life.
(v. true.)
wavy line - short attention span
(I don't know how wavy my line actually is...)
deep, long line - thinking is clear and focused
(I'm tempted to disagree with this, but I can't argue with the hand.)

The Life Line
curvy - plenty of energy
(Not today! But yes, generally speaking, I'd agree.)
short and shallow - manipulated by others
(Yikes. Um, in what ways, precisely?)
swoops around in a semicircle - strength and enthusiasm.
(HOLLA!)

The Fate Line
Okay, so, I am basically convinced that I don't have a fate line. I had Toria look at my palm and she traced a line with her index finger, saying my fate line was "right here," but I only saw the very faintest of lines that I wouldn't classify as a major palm-reading line. The only criterium she said applied was "breaks and changes of direction," which would mean I'm "prone to many changes in life from external forces." Which doesn't make me incredibly happy. But I can't decide if I am even less happy with the thought that I simply don't have a fate line.

As far as the shape of my hand goes, I think I have a fire hand (according to this website, anyway.)

A fire hand has "square or rectangular palm, flushed or pink skin, and shorter fingers; length of the palm greater than length of fingers."
And it says:
spontaneous, enthusiastic and optimistic
sometimes egoistic, impulsive and insensitive
extroverts
do things boldly and instinctively

I hesitate to argue with most of that.

Now I just feel more eager to go see Mystic Meg and find out just how right on I was, as well as what else she can tell me. Thanks, Tor.