Sometimes I Want To Wake Up And Say...

...the hell?! It's September 23. The last time I wrote it was July (and I have to say I was proud of that last post, aesthetically speaking) and suddenly I find myself walking through the grocery store surrounded by cheap Halloween decore.

Seriously, I'm like Rip van Winkle and I woke up to a world turning without me -- one minute it's July and the next minute it's the second half of the fiscal year and my company is laying people off again. (nothing like working hand in hand with the government to create the need for brown shoes and communism -- at least I hear the unemployment checks should receive an increase soon)

Truly, if there's anything that irks me in this fourth decade of my existence (I like saying it that way, makes me feel younger. I'm just a pre-schooler in the grand scheme of Life and its Lovely Little Lessons.) it's that I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. I know what that's like too! My great grandmother grew up on a farm and when I was about five she told me how her dad would tell her to ring the chicken's neck so her mom could start dinner. She would go outside and grab the chicken by its head and swing it around, lasso style, and then jerk the chicken like a whip and the head would pop right off. The body though, after getting back onto its feet, would run rampantly around the yard for a while before finally accepting its fate and realizing it wasn't supposed to function without its head.

(I never forgot that story. You know, I was five... with an imagination much more vivid than the one I have now. Really... the horror... I think the world will suffer once that generation and my parents' generation is no more. They really have the best stories. What can I tell my grandchildren? "This one time, I bought a chicken from Albertsons that had three breasts. That was when I realized they were using too much growth hormone. A year or so after that they started selling cloned meat and well... that's when I went completely organic... sorta...")

Anyway, that's what I feel like -- someone popped my head off a few years ago and my body is still running around like it's supposed to function. And I'm constantly living with this stupid thought that life is passing me by and it isn't because I'm not doing anything it's because I'm doing everything except for what I really want to do! Obligations obligations obligations... political appearances here, smiley faces there, rub an elbow, brown a nose... Oh look! Someone else realized I have a skill they can use to their advantage! Oh YES! And they want me to help them look good for FREE! SIGN ME UP! SIGN ME UP! I would love to put in ALL OF MY EXTRA PERSONAL TIME TO THIS PROJECT!! I would love to stress out over one more thing! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(hopefully, you pick up on the sarcasm there but, as is usually the case, there is truth to sarcasm... meaning -- I was indeed working extra hard on more than one project both in and outside of work for little more than a pat on the back and thanks for making me look good. I think, halfway through my fourth decade of Life, I'm starting to realize that it doesn't pay to be the creative force behind someone else's greatness, even if you do take pride in what you created. It feels a lot like doing the bully's homework in an attempt to keep your lunch money.)

In the meantime, two weeks before I complete one of said extracurricular pro-bono projects, would it be a shock to you if I said my health took a serious dive? If you are one of my readers that is only in your second or third decade of life, you may be sitting there saying, "Health? What's that?" But any of the others who have graduated from Life Lesson Level Three are going through their memory files right now and reading this with complete understanding and find themselves wanting to say something to me like:

"Don't take life so seriously. No one gets out alive."

Yes, I know. I was thinking the same thing as I was sitting in the Emergency Room a few weeks ago. The problem is, my nature is to take life seriously. I believe in giving everything I've got to the things that matter most. What seems to be my problem is that I also give everything I've got to the things that don't matter most. I apparently need a class on priorities and time management (which should include time to eat healthy, sleep well, exercise properly, and have a glass of wine as I sit and tap into my imagination and create something that feeds my soul). And maybe, in Life's perfect plan, this is the class I unknowlingly signed up for this fall semester of my 35th year. So far it's a great class filled with medical terminology I have to look up and research so I understand more about what it is, exams that sometimes include cool medications reminiscent of the more carefree days between the first and second decades of my life, and Doctors who can teach and mentor me as I move through this transitional period of my physical existence. The final exam (of course) is a test in the practical application of all I am learning and well, the quality of my lifespan is the grade. It really is a lot like grad school, it's just that the doctor has MD instead of PhD at the end of his name. The result though, improved quality of life, is about the same. (even if I'm not working in my field, I am convinced my education has been my saving grace more than once in terms of job security and my paycheck ... at least until they start passing out brown shoes and we find ourselves needing a PhD to work at McDonalds)

Regardless...

It comes in waves: this push and pull, this rise and fall, this inhale and exhale.

At first I just watched it, taking in the beauty: the sight of it, the sound of it, the scent of it. But it didn’t take me long to step into it.

Strange how something so beautiful can be so intimidating: the sheer power stopping you in your tracks. The thought of being swept away… losing control in the current of something greater. You are not a rock. You are not an island. You are a vessel prone to drift.

I took another step, just enough to feel the waves caress my ankles, to feel the sand pull away from beneath my feet while the next wave brought a new layer of sand to cover them, grounding me, somewhat, holding me steadfast amidst the soft push and pull, like the lull of a cleansing inhale and the sweet release of a breaking exhale.

Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to feel… regardless.

I pulled myself out of the grounding sand and stepped further… waves breaking just beneath my knees, imploring me to bend, to give a little, to let it take a little.

Strange how it wasn’t as cold as you thought; that same power that once held you at bay now calls to you, welcomes you, heals you even as it breaks against you.

I realized how wet I had become. The waves were coming closer and faster, one right after the other, and the very thing I thought I wanted to avoid suddenly pleased me. I had forgotten what it was like. Me, living in a desert, living in my own self-inflicted drought… I had forgotten… I had chosen to forget. And suddenly there I stood waist deep in that sight and sound and scent of all I thought I wanted to view from a distance.

Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stanger still, your willingness to let go… regardless.

I stood there, took no more steps, as the waves came over me. I sunk deep into the water; my body moved, ever so slightly, by the push and pull, the rise and fall… inhale… exhale… so easy to drift… so easy… if I would just choose to.

Strange how you feel no fear, how you suddenly trust it, this current vowing to sweep you away to a new destination, a new experience, a new existence, another life.

I floated there, completely buoyant, my feet were nowhere near the bottom and my head barely above water. I inhaled and exhaled with each rise and fall and push and pull of passing waves… breaking somewhere beyond me… confident… knowing… I could see the shore.

Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other floats behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to drift… regardless.

I felt the ground beneath me again: soft shifting sand. … the power of the waves behind me, pushing me forward. With the slow rise out of the water, my body felt the strange chill of the warming sun. Standing, waist deep in water, I saw another beside me – a drifter in the same current… lulled by the same waves… willing to drown in the same sea… regardless.

Safety Minute

Moonbeam: (knocks on Pandora's cube wall) Pandora? Does the sight of blood make you queasy?

Pandora: (puts down her pen and turns around) ...excuse me?

Moonbeam: Does the sight of blood make you queasy?

Pandora: Why are you asking me this right now?

Moonbeam: Because I need your help with something.

Pandora: Uh... with all due respect, Moonbeam, my job is to sit here and write words strong enough to withstand battle in a court of law, not to fiddle around with blood borne pathogens.

Moonbeam: Oh my god, Pandora, you're such a kick. It's nothing like that. I just need your help with something.

Pandora: Well, you come up and ask me if blood makes me queasy right before saying you need my help, but... it's got nothing to do with blood?

Moonbeam: Well, you see, I've got this big zit behind my ear and...

Pandora: Wait a minute, what?!

Moonbeam: (turns around and pulls back her ear to show Pandora) ...I have this zit behind my ear and it's extremely painful and I can't reach it well enough to pop it myself so I thought maybe you would help me.

Pandora: Okay... um... first of all, that's a boil, not a zit, and secondly I'm pretty sure that's a safety minute.

Moonbeam: ...a safety minute?

Pandora: Yes.

Moonbeam: How so?

Pandora: Because it's a boil! Boils are infectious, poisonous, toxic, contagious! They are a direct result of Staphylococcus aureus and there is no way I'm going to touch that and expose myself to the dangers of its white pussy contents!

Moonbeam: Hahaha! You are so funny! So.. will you help me?

Pandora: No! I'm dead serious, Moonbeam! That's a safety minute! And seriously, you expect me to stand up here and put my fingers behind your ear and pop that thing?!

Moonbeam: Well, of course not, silly. Use a straight pin or something.

Pandora: ...a straight pin? Am I a seamstress? Are we working in a Bridal Shop? Moonbeam, I'm in a cubicle with maps and legal documents on my desk. Do I look like I have a straight pin?

Moonbeam: (points to the bulletin board) You could use one of those.

Pandora: What? ...a thumb tack? Are you insane? That's also a safety minute!

Moonbeam: What? Why?

Pandora: Because it's unsanitary! It's not sterile! When a doctor sits down to lance a boil he doesn't look at his nurse and say, "We need to take care of this. Would you pass me a thumb tack from the bulletin board so I can pop this thing please?"

Moonbeam: Oh, you're ridiculous. So you won't help me?

Pandora: No. I'm really sorry, but I can't.

Moonbeam: (sees Sunshine take her seat in the cubicle across from Pandora) Sunshine! I bet you'll help me. Nothing scares you.

Sunshine: What? What are we talking about here?

Pandora: I think it's a safety minute.

Sunshine: What?

Moonbeam: Oh, just ignore Pandora. You see, I have this zit here behind my ear and I can't get to it.

Sunshine: What?! You have a what?!

Pandora: I'm telling you, don't touch that thing...

Moonbeam: (turns around to show the boil to Sunshine)

Sunshine: Oh Hell no!! Get the Hell outta my cube!

Moonbeam: But I thought you...

Sunshine: Hell no!! I aint touchin' that thing! Now get the Hell outta my cube! I got work to do.

Moonbeam: (walks away)

Sunshine: She had one too many hits o' acid, that woman. And what's wrong with you, Pandora? I can't believe you didn't stand up and knock some sense into that woman, you be knocking sense into everybody, but you missed the boat on that one. shit... popping people's boils at that office... shit...

Pandora, Perfectionism, And Mr. Murphy's Stupid Law

I believe, right now, that I am cursed. I have been cursed for days. Thankfully, I'm not cursed by some crazy gypsy lady who wishes my soul be damned to the pits of Hell, but I am cursed none-the-less.

What curses me, you ask? A project. A stupid power point project that I have been working on for days and days and days.

Really, considering the amount of research I had to do for the thing, it has consumed me for weeks now. Last Friday night I had recurring nightmares about the thing -- I kept dreaming that I was presenting the final draft to my boss when I realized the contents of the slides contained elements of my personal life that should not be shared in a work environment. Aaaaa!!!

Aside from dominating my subconscious, the thing has interrupted the flow of my imagination and my creativity. All of the energy I would much rather spend on coming up with something quick witted and somewhat humorous has been spent on placing words on pages in the form a narration about land and land rights (though, I'd have to say, the narrative is worthy of the Discovery Channel, should the producers find they lack material and need to fill a time slot with something no one really cares to know).

Seriously... I am now sitting here in a coffee induced insomniac fit because I came home from work tonight thinking I would finish it up with just enough polish and style to bring it back to work first thing tomorrow morning and be done with it. I would be able to pass the thing off to the people in charge of the visuals and let it go, but no... the damn thing mocks me!

For whatever reason, all the work I sent to my home computer is now lost; "the path" to the file "cannot be found" and I sit here writing in this blog because Murphy's Law has decided to fuck with me and leave me hanging!

Deadlines are looming over my head and tomorrow, when I was so looking forward to leaving this stupid thing behind, I will be sitting at my desk, yet again, perfecting the thing while simultaneously juggling the duties (or at least fooling myself into thinking I'm juggling the duties) of my day to day cubicle confines.

And you are sitting there reading this stupid post and thinking, "She hasn't written anything for days and now I have to read about this stupid thing that I know nothing about nor do I really care or would I care if I even had the chance to care about it." Power Point?! We don't need no stinking Power Point!

Yes, actually, we do. But... instead... we are going to go lie down in our bed and stare at the ceiling and occasionally look at the clock and see how long it takes to fall asleep before the alarm goes off.

All Work And No Play Makes Pandora A Dull Girl. Oh yes, and Wendy, I'm home! Where's the axe?!! Redrum! Redrum!

And to think, I stayed up in prime graduate student style for nothing.

Damn, this is worse than the time I drove out to the school and slipped my final paper under the professor's door at 4:00 a.m. just to keep my "A."

Make A Mental Note Out Of It -- Noise...

...they've been playing this song for years. ...it's a good song, but... i'm not in the mood....played out... hell, that's fourten years of being played out... there's nothing good on any of them, they all play the same stuff over and over and over for years. It's just noise anymore... nothing but noise to fill the space ...white noise... background noise... noise.

the silence is good. somewhat relaxing to hear nothing but the wind traveling over my car, the road rolling under the wheels, the subtle whistle of the air conditioner...

whistle... whistle... hmmm... is that really a whistle? could i really use the word whistle to describe that sound? hmmm... there's got to be a better word for that sound. i could call it a whistle, i suppose, but a reader might think it's the whistle of a breaking air conditioner, and it isn't. it's just the sound of air leaving the vent and keeping me cool... it feels really good right now too.
...nope, not a whistle... i'll have to think about that one.

it is better without the noise though. really. maybe i'll just keep the sound off at home too. muted... everything muted... the mute button...

maybe i should mute myself for a while...push my own mute button. i'm always talking talking talking, always thinking thinking thinking, always looking for the right word and the right way to present it. i get paid to talk.

...yeah, the mute button may be required. especially today, the way i feel right now...

my mind is being pulled in all different directions and i have this huge explosion of creative thought but ... am constantly holding back, saving for later, and all i'm really doing is talk talk talking.

...and somewhere in the background i see Hamlet pacing back and forth with a book in his hands: words words words words words... he pounds the thing... words... noise...

...maybe i should write that down... i better get a pen and write that down before i forget... no pen... No Pen?! what is wrong with me today? i really need to go home and lie down. seriously... i think i'm having a melt down... No PEN? REALLY?! ... Crap! ...No Pen... oh well, i'll just have to keep that picture of Hamlet in my mind until i get home. Crap... i hate it when i don't have a pen...

Morning Coffee

http://pics.myspew.com/index.php/geek/coffee-globe

Pandora rushes in, plops her purse on the file cabinet, takes one look at the pile of work on her desk and decides a cup of coffee is in order. As she heads to the end of the claims department she sees Gunther round the corner and stride in alongside her.

Gunther:  All hail Pandora! Princess of Property Procurement!

Pandora:  Don't offend me with that tripe.

Gunther:  My, aren't you grand and glorious this morning.

Pandora:  (shoots him a stabbing side glance)

Gunther:  Woo hoo... feeling feisty are we?

Pandora:  I need coffee.

Gunther:  Funny (holds up his coffee cup) I'm in need of the same thing. Although, this would be glass number three for me.

Pandora:  Ever hear of high blood pressure, Gunther?

Gunther:  Pfft... You don't come in until 8. I'm here at 6, I'm entitled to a bit more of the juice.

Pandora:  Huh.

Gunther:  Whatever happened to this mythical 9 to 5 job anyway? I've never once seen that schedule anywhere?

Pandora:  It's a lie. ...just like the American Dream. I don't recall dreaming myself into the cubicle.

Gunther:  Ah... We'll all be in cubicles when it's all said and done. Just another brick in the wall, Pandora, another brick in the wall.

(they step out of the elevator and head down the hall to the cafeteria)

Gunther:  Speaking of bricks, I had a dream last night that I was in Egypt. God how I hope that one never comes true!

Pandora:  Yeah, I'm pretty sure there's no Moses for Germans trapped in Egypt.

Gunther:  Pfft... Say what you want, but I'm serious. Reyna wants us to go to Egypt. I told her that's all fine and dandy except for the fact that she can throw on a head scarf and look like a local. Even if I grow a beard and throw on a turban I'd just look like a dumb American asshole mocking them.

Pandora:  (debating herself over non-fat milk or half-n-half for her coffee) Well, no need to bother with the beard, Gunther, they'd probably kill you just for breathing.

Gunther:  No shit. The last thing on Earth I'd wanna do is take a wrong turn and wind up in one of those massive Death To America rallies they seemingly hold on a daily basis.

Pandora:  (pours the half-n-half into her coffee and reaches for a sugar packet) Yeah, Egypt isn't on my to-do list either. It's too bad, really. It's a cool place, but I kinda wrote it off back in the 80s with that whole American tourists trapped by terrorists while checking out one of the pyramids thing.

Gunther:  (sips his black coffee) I would go to crazy third world countries like Vietnam, Cambodia, Peru... but... muslim countries scare the shit out of me! Those are places where they cut off "infidels" heads so the local kids can play soccer! Oh yeah! Sign me up for THAT ONE! (takes another sip of his coffee while he falls in line behind Pandora at the register) What is Reyna thinking? I mean, she means well, but she sometimes forgets the whole "brown" factor.

Pandora:  (hands the cashier 81 cents for the coffee) ...brown factor?

Gunther:  (throws a dollar on the counter and says he doesn't need change) Yeah, brown factor. She forgets that I'm not brown. She can go places I can't.

Pandora:  (rolls her eyes and starts walking back to the elevator)

Gunther:  Oh come on! Don't roll your eyes at me. How do you think you'd fair in Egypt? ...a girl like you... I read that they can be very harassing to American women, especially ones that look like you. ...sometimes even grabbing them as they walk by.

Pandora:  (swallows her sip of coffee as they enter the elevator) Really? You read that somewhere? Sounds like any city in America to me.

Gunther:  Come on, be serious Pandora. This is a serious question.

Pandora:  I am being serious. I was at the Mini Mart on the corner of College Ave. and University when a dude decided to walk by and grab my ass while I paid for my water. That wasn't Egypt, my man, that was right in here in The Valley Of The Equal Opportunity Sun.

Gunther:  Well, still, a woman like you in Egypt? Nothing good could possibly come of it. One look at that crazy hair on your head and you'd be a target for disaster.

Pandora:  Potential disaster strikes every morning, Gunther, the minute a German guy decides to walk with me down the hall for coffee and starts talking about dreams he had the night before. (the elevator doors open) Thankfully, this one had to do with bricks and brown factors.

Gunther:  Aw... come on now. I'm just keeping it real for your left-wing politics.

Pandora:  I'm not left-wing, Gunther.

Gunther:  Well, you're too soft to be right-wing.

Pandora:  I'm undefined.

Gunther:  Hippie.

Pandora:  (shoots another stabbing side glance and sips her coffee) Well, thanks for the company and conversation, Gunther. I'm off.

Gunther:  Make sure they roll out the red carpet, your Highness.

Pandora:  (waves behind her and keeps on walking as she thinks, "Do yourself a favor Pandora, don't forget to bring coffee from home tomorrow.")

Coffee Globe Source

She Goes Again...

Before he married again, she was lucky if she got a phone call once a month, let alone see him. He seemed happy and carefree, trouncing around the country a free man -- going where ever he wanted and doing whatever he wanted, and she was an afterthought. For me, this was to be expected of him; it seemed consistent with the character I married, but... though it's sometimes hard for me to believe, and perhaps even accept, something shifted for him.

He married two years ago, and about a month before his wedding he called me and apologized for things he had done. I distinctly remember sitting in the dark on my patio and suddenly his voice softened as he stuttered and stammered his way through a bunch of "uhs" and "ums" and a few sighs before announcing he had something he'd been wanting to say for a while. After a couple more inhales and exhales, he listed off a series of deeds and words that he should've apologized for years before that. Of course, I doubt I would've been ready to hear it "years ago" since even my reaction at that time was one of polite misgiving (he'd done a fine job of training me to always wonder what his manipulative ploy was this time...).

About six months into his new marriage, he drove out here to pick her up and take her camping for the weekend. She had told him on the phone a few days prior that her bike was broken and mommy didn't know how to fix it. He came to the door with his tool box and took time to fix her bike. She was so excited, she begged for time to ride it before they left. So she hopped on and rode around as we stood there and watched. Out of nowhere he looked at me and said, "You really have done a wonderful job with our daughter." And just as the moment of disbelief and distrust stirred within me, he followed it up with, "I mean it. I know I haven't said it to you before, but she's so smart and she's so talented and she's so well behaved and I know I haven't had anything to do with that. It's all you and I want you to know that I know that." I was dumbfounded and struggled not to cry because I really wanted to believe he was sincere, but all the nightmare that had passed between us was still a bit too much to let go. And now it's summer, and by this time Thursday night she will be well on her way to spend it with him. And all of this is on my mind right now because something different happened tonight.

For the first time in all these years, while she was talking on the phone with him tonight, she sounded completely at peace and truly excited to go out and be with him. This is significant to me because it quite possibly means we've reached some kind of fabulous turning point; because for the past two years, since his new marriage, we've struggled to help her adjust to the changes; because I'm starting to believe that if his apology was a "manipulative ploy" at all, it was because he knew this would be difficult for her and he knew he would need my help. And there have been some terrible moments between the two of them and his new family. And I am no saint. Believe me, I've had no trouble being Mama Bear when I've felt she's been treated unfairly, but even at that, I have to admit that he's handled those moments with a humble patience that he never had in the past. And there've been countless goodbyes at the airport with her clinging to my legs, crying and sobbing and begging me not to make her go, while I stop my own heart from bleeding as I don a smile, look her in the eye, tell her all will be well and to have fun. But not this time.

This time was different. There were no headaches and random stomach aches brought about by dread and fear. There were no tears and no cries for me to keep her here. This time there was simply a smiling face accented with smiling eyes and a touch of excitement in her voice. This time she hugged me and told me how much she loved me and off to sleep she went.

So now I sit here, a sense of awestruck relief surrounding me. Maybe this time I won't get crying phone calls while I'm sitting at work. Maybe this time I won't have to lie awake at night and wonder if she's okay because she will be. Maybe this time I won't have to play the buffer. And maybe this time all I'll have to do is relax and miss her.

Stress Relief and Pigeon Droppings

Over the past two weeks everything in all of the above ventured outside of my control. The challenge was high, the pressure was on, and by Sunday afternoon I completely broke. I spent some time lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the stir of anxiety run from my stomach to my head until tears started to fall. I finally pulled myself together, and spent the rest of the afternoon at the pool listening to the local frat boys come up short on their attempt to wax philosophical after a few too many Paps Blue Ribbons (I didn't even know people actually drank that).

Having let the sun burn away the remainder of my tension, I fell asleep that night only to have one of the strangest dreams I've had in a while. I found myself standing beneath the shade of a giant tree. There were two hippies on either side of me, one man and one woman. I looked over at the woman with her arms outstretched as she said in a lilting voice, "Oh... look at all the beautiful birds in the tree! Aren't they lovely?" I looked over at the man who was also standing, arms outstretched, saying, "They're like a bunch of glorious angels!" But when I looked up, all I saw was a tree full of pigeons. And not only that, they were pooping on everything. The branches, the leaves, and the trunk of the tree were covered in pigeon poop. So I looked at the man and said, "Glorious? They're pigeons. There's nothing glorious about pigeons." The woman looked at me and said, "Just look at them!" And the man said, "They've made the tree white with their glory!" So I said, "They're pigeons, man! And the tree is white because of their shit! They're shitting on everything!" At which point droppings started to fall like rain, landing all over me and the two hippies. I stepped away from the two crazies and found myself walking down a street wondering how two people could be so caught up in a tree full of pigeons they didn't notice all of the crap that was falling on them.

When I woke the next morning, I woke with the intention to let all things outside of my control go. I woke telling myself that I'm only human, that I have my limitations, and that personal and professional boundaries are healthy. And because I claim to be a follower of God (as unorthodox as I may be at times), I reminded myself that walking with God means allowing God to work out the kinks in the system because, for whatever reason, He actually likes doing that for me. So I went about my day consciously making an effort to let one worry go after another until finally my stress levels fell to a normal and manageable state. And as this happened, that stupid dream above popped into the forefront of my mind.

I don't profess to be a dream analyst of any kind, but dreams, at least to this English Major, are like poems: symbols and metaphors just waiting for me to piece together into some sort of meaning (because, if for no other reason, it's fun). Given the circumstances of reality in the days prior, my subconscious was simply having a heyday and the dream actually makes perfect sense. The tree in any circumstance often symbolizes life and life forces, holding its own natural abilities with roots that draw nourishment for itself and allow it to grow and flourish, providing food and shade and life giving oxygen for others. Hippies are characterized by their diversion from "the norm." Pigeons denote a sort of gullibility, if you will; winged as they may be, glorious like eagles they are not. And their droppings... well... let's just call it "wasted production."

If all of these symbols that my subconscious so creatively put together are reflections of myself, then here is what we have. The tree represents all of the talents, skills, and natural abilities I would use to provide for myself and all who sit within the shade of my professional and social circle. The hippies represent my desire to divert from "the norm," which in this society, at least from my perspective, is often mediocrity. I'm always looking to exceed anyone's expectations and take pride in the fact that I often do. But the fact that the hippies have deceived themselves into thinking a tree full of pigeons is something glorious to behold, even as they're being shat upon, is where my ego gets put into check.

You see, in the days prior to this stupid dream, I had allowed myself to get all worked up and wound up tight over things that were ultimately not my issue. I had convinced myself that it was my job to pick up someone else's slack, that I was good enough to do exactly that, and if I didn't it would be a reflection on my performance. In my own perfectionist overly meticulous mind I bore a burden that didn't need be carried. I stayed up late working when I didn't need to, expended energy to the point of exhaustion, and at the end of it all the stress I created for myself leaked out into areas of my life where it didn't belong, affected people it didn't need to affect, and, given the fact that I still had to face "the problem" Monday morning, it equated to little more than mediocrity and wasted production, otherwise known as pigeon shit.

I am, by nature, an overachiever. And though I may not apply perfectionism to mundane tasks like laundry and dishes, I do apply it to those aspects of my life where I believe it truly counts: motherhood (because I only have one shot to nearly get it right), my job (because it pays me), writing (because I love it and people read it), and music (because I love it and people are listening). Obviously, as my subconscious so adeptly pointed out, I need to always remember that sometimes I seriously need to let go and let God. I need to remember that if I want this tree called my life to successfully flourish, I need to root myself in faith and trust, I need to stop and breathe, and I need to nourish myself with those things that feed my soul. Only then will my branches stretch farther into the sky and possibly house something glorious like an eagle or two, as opposed to besmirching myself with a flock of pooping pigeons.

Exorcising The Specter

I've been in a funk lately. If you "follow" my blog (as if I give you much to follow) you may have figured that already. It doesn't take much to know that long silences from me usually indicate some kind of funk.

This one, I'd have to say, is a bit different. It's based more on some stupid sort of introspection than an external circumstance like potentially leaving my cat in a place called "impending doom."

No, this one has more to do with what actually keeps me from writing -- and not just my blog.

This one I've pondered for quite some time now, and over the past couple of weeks I've engaged in some conversation over it with a couple of friends: one being an artist and the other a musician. We're all in our thirties, and the one sentiment we share at this moment in our lives is a sense of melancholy over what seems to be a loss in our ability to create; the reason being, "life" has set in.

You see, I highly doubt there is a single person on the planet that said, sometime in their childhood, that when they grow up they want to serve as a worker bee in a hive called a cubicle (and I apologize right now to the potential person who did believe pushing paper in a cubicle was the highlight of their existence). I know that the life I'm living right now and the career I've found myself in is far from what I dreamed of doing. And it isn't that I disrespect my company, my current career, or the income that I'm given for the expertise I provide to others (I'm actually very grateful), it's simply that... there's a lot more to me than using my skill and my wit for another's gain (even if I am good at it and they pay me well for it).

I've had many dreams along the way (some silly, like the little girl who watched one too many John Wayne movies with her mother only to dream of becoming a cow girl who'd ride horses and shoot down bandits with the rest of the sharp shooting sheriffs) but only one truly remains -- I want to write for a living.

I want to tell stories that make people laugh and cry. I want to move people, to inspire them to get up and see potential in their lives simply because I wrote the right words in the right sentence structure about the right character at the right time that reminded them of themselves or someone they knew. I want to wake up in the morning and know that I'm using my mind and all of my talents in a way that people will never forget. And I'm not looking for fame or fortune. I am, much like William Blake, simply longing to write to the audience that is meant to find me, to hear me, and to take the creation of my imagination and make something of it for themselves. And somehow that seems elaborate and sappy all at the same time, doesn't it? But it's true. The unfortunate thing is, I'm completely wrapped up in this thing called "life."

The reality of it all is that I'm thirty-four. I have this crazy education in 19th Century American Literature that I'm not even using. I gave up the dream of a PhD so I could actually have a real job and make "money" and live a somewhat comfortable life with the little girl that I've been raising on my own for the past nine years. I worry about stupid things like FICO scores, credit lines, student loans, the electric bill, the phone bill, the cable bill, the car payment, fuel for the car, maintenance for the car, the rent, food in the fridge, clothes, daycare, getting my daughter to soccer or softball or basketball or volley ball or where the hell ever she needs to go next, college funds, retirement funds (or the lack thereof), helping with homework, did I say that right, did I do that right, the dishes, the laundry, cleaning the house, what I'm going to wear tomorrow and whether or not I look fat in it. And all of this is what sends me to a cubicle in the morning so I can sit and give 100% of everything I've got, intellectually or otherwise, to make someone else a dollar and be thankful when I get some in return. And when it's all over, I find myself sitting here staring at a blank page wondering why I lack the energy, or the creativity, to write.

This is what William Blake would call The Specter: the ghost, the demon in my mind that interferes with my ability to see clearly. So how do I get past that? How do I exorcise this demon that comes in dollars and cents from my mind so I may free myself from the chains that bind me? How do I stop caring about all of these things that seem so pertinent long enough to convince myself that I have enough energy left to sit here and write and try to become that person I dream of being?

I really have no answer. I could preach to you right and left and know there's a possibility that tomorrow will come and I may not write for three more months. The only thing that really sticks with me at this moment are the words one of my friends said to me. He said, after reading some of my past posts, that he admires how much creativity and imagination I've been able to hold onto. He recognizes that though a specter may toy with me, it hasn't successfully blinded me as of yet. He believes that the dream I have is tangible and realistic. He believes that if I can muster up the energy to try I will achieve it. And though the sands of time may be slipping through my fingers, the vision of what I have left indicated to me that he's right; I still have a chance to get there, but only... ONLY if I discipline myself enough to do so (one can't exorcise a specter if they lie dormant and let it rule). And if I polish the few rough chapters that I have, if I complete my novel and submit it for publication only to find myself denied and denied and denied, at least I can lie on my death bed and say that I lived my life fully, that I used what I believed were my true talents, and that I gave it everything I've got.

So then, here's to exorcising The Specter. And here's to the artist and the musician who suffer from the same specter as I. And here's to you, because I know you're in the same damn boat and, as cliche would tell us, it's time to sink or swim.

Free Bird...or Cat, that is.

Ok, I'm going to make this short and sweet because I have to get this ball rolling again. It's been far too long of a silence, and I have many things to write about, but I couldn't leave you all hanging after the sob story about my cat. So...

I found a home for her! I didn't have to drop her off at some creepy shelter where they would take one look at my bitch of a cat and decide it best to give her two coins for the Ferry Man and send her across The River Styx.

After I wrote my sob story, I proceeded to fall into a bit of a depression (yes, a depression, I don't exaggerate) over my pet. It may seem silly to some, given I've been through so many dark times why should I sink into the pit over a cat that pisses all over my life, but still... I did. No matter how packed my sinuses were, no matter how many random boogers filled my nostrils while trying to have valuable conversations with people, I could NOT bring myself to pile that kitty into my car and haul her off to certain doom. So for days I told my story to random people at work and where ever I went, begging for ANYONE to help me. And just as things seemed to be a lost cause, my daughter mentioned a teacher at her school that lives on a farm and that Simba might be happy there. Being desperate, I had no trouble approaching that teacher and telling her my sob story, doing my best to appeal to her desire to let all creatures great and small have a right to life, but to no avail. She told me she already had three cats and couldn't take any more. She did wish me luck though.

Needless to say, I shuffled off to work that day certain I was going to have to suck it up and drive Simba to hell myself. As I was sitting in my cubicle, contemplating whether or not I should call my dad and sob and cry until he willingly drove an hour just to come pick up my cat and do the deed for me, a coworker stepped in and indulged me by listening to yet another set of my feline lamentations. She listened and said, "You know who might take your cat? Ron. He might take your cat. He lives on a ranch with three horses and I know he had an outdoor cat that just passed away. Go talk to him and see what he says."

SO... Ron The Office Cowboy, after watching a sweet helpless damsel in distress struggle to keep tears behind her eyes, agreed to become the proud new owner of what will most likely be known as one of the most feral domesticated cats in history. I drove her out there on Saturday morning, and to my surprise she not only trolled a small portion of the territory to check it out, she actually cuddled up to Ron and his wife (which I considered a merciful sign from God). I stayed long enough to be sure she wasn't going to turn on the people, and then I left without shedding a tear on my way home. Thank you, Ron! You're a life saver! (and I refer to my own life even more than my cat's)

Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat...

This is truly a tragedy. I mean it. This is serious. I feel terrible about it, but...

I have this cat, I've mentioned her before. She keeps me awake at night because she's constantly ripping up the carpet or pissing all over my life. She's mean to everyone. Sometimes I think, if it weren't for the fact that I keep her bowl full of kibble and regularly scoop the crap out of her stupid shit box, she'd be wicked to me too. Every once in a while she tries to play the whole "Who's The Alpha Female In The House" game with me; she does her best to terrorize me, the way she does everyone else, but... there's only ONE Queen of This Jungle, and it aint her.

If you've been reading my blog regularly, a) you're excited to see something new, b) you're frustrated that I waited nearly a month and a half to post again, and c) you are completely familiar with the ringing of my ears and how irksome that was becoming to me. So all you've really missed is about six weeks of me going back and forth to the doctor trying to find out what was wrong. Well, the cat is what's wrong. The cat that has been the bane of my existence ever since I moved into this little hovel of a home.

When I moved into this space, I unfortunately moved away from a home that was perfect for my cat's personality. She could go out back into this fairy tale yard, complete with fountain and Zen garden, and hang with the group of swaggering felines that patrolled the area, providing a service to the people via pigeon population control. She stayed out all night and came in for the day. She pissed on nothing that was mine and dug her claws into nothing but outdoor trees and possibly other cats, critters, children, and random people who dared approach the "cute kitty." It truly was cat heaven. The only time she came to me was when she wanted some love and a warm lap to curl up and purr on. (Ah yes... those were the days when I could hold my own in the cat vs. dog argument) But when I moved here I basically moved from 2000 square feet to maybe 850 square feet, not to mention I have no private yard and we're sharing walls with other neighbors (some of them annoying drunk neighbors). She hated the move, no cat does well with change but this, for her and possibly for me, was a very unwelcome change.


My initial solution was to get her a collar and let her roam about at night like she did at the house. Wrong. Her first night out I get a call at four o'clock in the morning with this thick Indian accent on the line saying, "Uh, jes. There is thees cat and she has been scratching on the door for hours and we finally got up to see what is going on and it's thees cat and my wife, she open thee door and thee cat got in thee house and we could not get her out of thee house and my wife, she finally got her out of thee house but now my wife, she cannot get back in thee house because thee cat, she is standing in front of the door and she is scaring my wife and my wife, she cannot get back in." So I walk outside and find a lady standing in the courtyard of the building directly across from mine. I start apologizing profusely as I walk upstairs and see her husband staring down at me from the kitchen window with the phone to his ear and I find my cat standing on her hind legs at their front door with her claws out like she's some kind of grizzly bear protecting the entrance to her den (and I have to admit she was quite a terrifying sight... Feral Cat).

After that episode two things happened: I removed her collar because if she were going to roam around and terrorize the neighbors I didn't want to be associated with her wickedness, and she apparently scared herself into never roaming outside our courtyard. The problem is, she's a free spirit that doesn't like being confined in a tiny space (an aspect of her I completely relate to). Unfortunately, this created some kind of cat neurosis that finds solace and comfort in pissing all over my house!!!

I don't know how many of you are familiar with feline urine, but it's one of the most awful smells I've ever encountered. One of the cleaning solutions (I have tried many, btw, and I can tell you which ones are the best so don't go by false advertisement -- if you need to know the best in cleaning cat piss, call me) even advises to ALWAYS wear latex gloves when cleaning cat piss because it's "caustic." No joke -- CAUSTIC. How many times to you hear that word? I've called people caustic, and they're usually the same people that have me doubled over in laughter due to their extremely bitter and sarcastic retorts to life in general, but... Caustic Cat Piss? As in, capable of burning, corroding, or destroying living tissue? So, not only is my cat annoying the hell out of me, she's basically inundated my home with a poisonous fluid that could destroy me? I AM a living tissue. It's like the acid that drops out of Sigourney Weaver's Aliens, but it's lining the baseboards of my home and destroyed a few of the books that rest on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. On top of it all, the caustic fumes, that apparently don't go away after repetitious cleaning, were such an affront to my immune system it decided to man up my nasal passages and swell to the point of closing off the vestibules in my ears which is why (three months later) my ears are STILL RINGING!!! Adding insult to injury, I had to spend $125 on medication yesterday for my allergies and my ears all because of the cat piss that I've already spent at least $600 on in an attempt to remedy the situation. I've read books, I've changed cat foods, I've changed litter and litter boxes, I've played calming music for her while I'm at work, I've put cat nip and cat fermones everywhere, I've used countless amounts of enzymatic cleaner to get the pee up out of the carpet only to watch her turn around and do it again and again and again. And yesterday I had to sit in the doctor's office and listen to the man say, "I'm not going to tell you what to do with your cat, but it's definitely a problem."

So... as much as I love this cat, I think it's time for me to start thinking of her as a relationship gone sour. I can't take this abuse anymore. But... what do I do? She loves no one but me, and even that's questionable at times. Who would take her? Who would be able to win her heart over?


If she were a dude, pissing all over my house in an attempt to manipulate me, I'd dump him without hesitation. But she's not a dude, she's a cute little furry creature that still curls up and purrs on my lap whenever she finds time to love me. If she were a friend that just needed me to constantly clean up her messes, I'd eventually tell her that she's a drain and a waste of my time and energy, she does nothing but take and give nothing in return, and she needs to fend for herself. But she's not human and she can't fend for herself, and I'm not even sure she knows that her urine is "caustic" so... I can't do that one either. But I have to break this relationship off. I can't keep doing this. Something has to change and I'm pretty sure, after six months, I've exhausted all avenues except the "break-up" route. The problem is, whenever I put an end to an unhealthy human relationship, I never have to worry that someone will be euthanized if they can't replace me within the next seven days (though in some cases that might have saved someone else some serious drama).

As frustrated as I am, I cried most of the day yesterday because I feel like I've failed my cat somehow. I feel like there was something she needed I didn't give her and now she's the one that has to suffer because I just can't deal with it. I have allergies that are driving me insane, I have a home that I'm constantly struggling to keep clean and sanitary, and I have this cute furry creature with a personality that has both angered me and given me pleasure. She's been my guard cat against people that should've never been that close to me and she has amused me even when she's frightened people I care about (because it's always funny to see a tiny ten pound creature that could easily be drop kicked wield a presence powerful enough to intimidate 100+ pound people). I've looked for No Kill Shelters, but they only save cats that are "threatened" with death not cats that have to be handed off by owners who can't care for them anymore. I'd advertise for someone to take, but who's going to believe that she's lovable because she's only lovable to me? More and more it looks like I'll be taking her to the county animal control shelter and my heart sinks. I've had her for five years... walking down the hall to drop her off in some cold scary cage that may be the last thing she sees before the end does NOT sit well with me.

Seriously, if anyone out there has any better ideas, I'm open to suggestion.

Disease Of The Eighth Nerve

Okay, so it's day seven on the antibiotics for my ear infections and the ringing is still with me. The doctor had told me that if day seven (today) rolled around and my ears were still ringing I needed to see a specialist (an ENT). To top it off, the paper he handed me had two boxes checked: one for infection of the middle ear and the other for tinnitus. I can make jokes all day long, but the reality is I don't want to spend the rest of my days with ringing ears.

Knowing that today was nigh approaching, I did what every good patient shouldn't do and went looking for information about tinnitus on the Internet. Do I need to admit right now that I wish I hadn't done that? Apparently, everything from high cholesterol, vitamin B deficiency, high blood pressure, ear disease, aneurysm, some constant meningeal fluid, and lets not forget insanity can be the cause of tinnitus. This is another one of those "ignorance is bliss" moments. I should have just taken that referral slip, made my appointment, and walked in saying, "Yeah, my ears are still ringing," and let him look with his ear scope thingy. But no, I thought I'd go look up symptoms and causes and see which ones I could rule out. I know which ones I want to rule out, but seeing as how most of them are silent killers, unknown to you without proper testing and exams, yeah... I did myself no favors here.

The best and most terrifying description came from a book titled, _Text-Book of Nervous Diseases_ by Charles Loomis Dana:

The disease attacks adults in middle or later life. Men and women are alike affected. Neuropathic constitutions and an unstable circulation favor it. The arterio-sclerosis of old age, cerebral aenemia and congestion, sunstroke, tobacco, and alcoholism lead to it. It occurs often in melancholia and in neurasthenia. Some local disease or congestion in the middle ear is usually present. Tinnitus also occurs in Brights disease, gout, and dyspepsia.
...Tinnitus accompanies insanity, sometimes, and may be the source of aural hallucinations. ...Despite the long list of causes, the chief factors may be summed up as neurasthenic states, local ear disease, humoral poisons and irritants, reflex irritants, arterio-sclerosis.

So, yeah... All of that was written under a large section titled "Diseases Of The Eighth Nerve" also known as the acoustic or space sense nerve. The best part about it, now that I've scared all of you (hopefully just as much as I scared myself, though I doubt it), I stopped giving that portion too much credit the moment I realized the book was published in 1898 (which explains the creepy Dr. Frankenstein tone of the writing, though I doubt he was a Mary Shelley fan). This is not to say that Dr. Charles doesn't have some points, I simply mean that I can't equate late 19th century medicine to early 21st century medicine. I will also say that the information I found aside from this had a little less fear attached to it.

Most made reference to possible cardiovascular causes, but in those cases the tinnitus is a pulsating sound (which I don't have) keeping up with the heart beat indicating something wrong with the carotids. The other possibilities are related to head injury (which I don't have), neck problems/pinched nerves (which is a possibility for me, since I refused to take the advice of the ergo guy at my office), jaw joint trouble, and middle ear infection/disease (which I have right now). The only one that truly scares me would be the cardiovascular case, but given the circumstance I'm in and that my blood pressure two seconds ago (no joke, I checked) was 104 over 69 I think I'm good.

There is, of course, the possibility that I'm one of the thousands of people that go the rest of my life with ringing ears and no one can figure out why. All of the sites, however, assure me that it isn't due to insanity. The tinnitus associated with insanity is the constant sound of voices talking to you. Of course, I take that with a grain of salt because if I ever publish any of the books I plan to, and if I happen to turn out to be the writer no one reads until after I'm dead, one of the things they will probably write in the "background about the author" section was that she was overcome with tinnitus sometime in her mid thirties and it was said her inspiration to write came from long bouts of insomnia and the constant voices in her head.

The Lunch Room

(Misanthrope sits at the back table by the window eating his sandwich. Pandora sets her soup and salad on the table and sits across from him)

Pandora: What’s up, Misanthrope? Been playing Warcraft lately? Up to level 80 yet?

Misanthrope: Eh, my play time has gone down a bit since the semester began and I started getting a bit o’ exercise again, so no, not 80 yet. 72 though!

Pandora: A bit o’exercise? Running again?

Misanthrope: (chuckles) No, better! P90X!

Pandora: P90 what? Never heard of it. Educate me.

Misanthrope: Oh…? Well, it’s a kickass, adrenaline pumped, muscle maximizing, home work out system. A series of DVD’s for working out. From what I hear, it’s actually a legit system with potential for real results, unlike the “Hip Hop Abs” or the “Rosie O’Donnell Diet” series… And from what the last 10 days has told me, it FEELS legit. (looks over his lanky physique) oh so sore…

Pandora: Dude… You’re gonna be RIPPED!!!

Misanthrope: (laughs a bit) I hope so!

Pandora: Totally. Then you could go out back and pull those weeds with one arm, like the true Death Knight you are!

Misanthrope: (thinks about his Warcraft Death Knight for a moment) So you think I could really look like that?!

Pandora: Well, sure… minus the pointy ears, horns, and the cloven hooves. Biceps, tricepss, and power quads… sure. (she winks)

Misanthrope: …I’ve got hooves…

Pandora: What? You’ve worked out with that thing for ten days and it gave you hooves? (she takes a bite of salad and starts pointing with her fork as she talks) You may want to return that equipment. I think it came from some twisted Disney studio artist. The more you use the machine the more you’re going to turn into some kind of Beast. I mean, you already have the set up for it. You’re pretty much a Hermit, with a creepy garden of death in the back. All you really need now is to become The Beast….maybe some talking utensils and singing candlesticks… and that’s that. Plus, there’s no way you’d ever find a Beauty to come save you because… well… you never leave your house, and there’s no reason for Beauty to go investigate a mysterious tract home because… well… it’s just one more pink house on the block sitting next to another pink house on the block – there’s nothing mysterious about a tract home. (she takes another bite of salad) Your parents might bring a good church going girl over to try to save you, but chances are, given your cloven hooves, she’d think you were demon spawn and run. And, unfortunately for your parents, this would do nothing but make you laugh because I think you think your transformation is just proof of Darwinian Theory. (she points her fork at him again) But you’re wrong. All you really are is some victim of a magical Disney writer who hates his job because the bad economy forced Disney to lay off 300 writers and he now sits in a cubicle writing advertisements for workout equipment. He totally hates his life. And you, my friend, are doomed because of it.

Misanthrope: Hmm… This could be bad. What if I put up an ad on Craigslist? “Looking for a Beauty to complete my fairy tale” Many women would apply because they’d think it’s some cute, sweet, prince charming type request, right?

Pandora: Oh sure. They’d respond to it, but they’d run away screaming right after they saw you, just like the poor little church girl. And, the only reason you would do that is to keep yourself entertained. You know, watching women run from you. It would get old though. And all of those ladies would report you to the police who would come and investigate, which may then lead to a few science experiments -- you being the test subject of course. And now that I think about it, that’s how you’ll meet Beauty. There’ll be some crazy female scientist that works the night shift in the observation room and you’ll start telling her all about your addiction to Warcraft and the weeds you never pull and your random trips to the middle of nowhere in search of radioactive materials… It wouldn’t take long. She’ll start looking up from her clip board more and more and eventually you’ll be saved: true love’s kiss (via Science) will bring you back to normal.

Misanthrope: I like where this is going! What kind of timeline am I looking at here? I AM an impatient hooved-foot hermit, you know…

Pandora: Well, given the fact we still have to fill in the details of your development, the time it takes for the whole Craigslist fiasco, and the transfer from Police custody to Science project… not to mention the whole falling in-love issue… I’d say about six months, which is great, quite honestly! I mean, in six months time you’ll no longer be a menace to society? How lucky is that?

Misanthrope: 6 months?! But I’m so impatient! (despondently sits back in his chair) Well, I better resign myself to the opposite then. I’m going to sell my Disney workout equipment, plump up to grandiose roundy proportions, and find God. (sighs) I’m going to miss these hooves...

Pandora: What?!!! No! You’re ruining my story! And what’s this plump up and find God stuff?! You’ve been the Chaos Theory Guy as long as I’ve known you. You’re the Chaos Theory Big Bang Man Of Science and I’m The Lady Of Providence; there’s no changing your archetype in the middle of the story!

Misanthrope: You’re right. I’m sorry. Guess I’m just in a slump.

Pandora: Well snap out of it. I can’t take it. You can’t be stuck in a slump. Who’s going to lead the rebellion if you grow plump and roundy?! That can’t happen. (takes a sip of water) Okay. How about this: the timeline is a six month span but the story runs like a feature film and you really reach the happy ending in two hours

Misanthrope: Ok. I’m sorry. No more slump, but this two hour deal does have me intrigued. So, can you make it so I’m able to fast forward through the boring, monotonous parts of life? …like in that movie Click? I like where you’re going with this. Continue…

Pandora: Fast forward? Boring and monotonous? I happen to believe that were I to actually pull a story like this off it would be far from boring and monotonous.

Misanthrope: I like your spirit. It’s definitely encouraging. But, I dunno… Could you maybe shorten it to commercial length? You know, run like one of those black and white, romantic perfume commercials? With me, the hooved-beast, frolicking on the beach next to the beautiful Ms. Science?

Pandora: …a perfume commercial? You’re killing me.

Misanthrope: And at the very end of the segment, the backdrop of myself and Ms. Science blurs and in the foreground, a hideous looking cologne bottle appears to the side. And a low, sexy woman voice whispers, “The Beast. For Men.” And then a normal voice chimes in on fade away, “Gift packages available at Macy’s and Dillards.”

Pandora: So… basically you want to remain the musky smelling hooved creature with a hot scientist standing beside you?

Misanthrope: And in the gift package? A half gallon bottle of The Beast, in the form of a mini fire extinguisher, a heavy duty file for hoof maintenance, and a mini pick for getting the rocks out of your horseshoes.

Pandora: (stares at him) I can’t believe you. I wrote this great love story to transform you back into a human but what you’re telling me is that you want to be this half horse half man thing, you don’t want to go back to normal, and you want to keep the girl. …and you want me to write it as a commercial for men’s cologne. What are you doing to me?! You’ve basically just turned me into the Disney writer who cursed you in the first place! I’ve gone from writing screenplays to writing crappy cologne commercials?!

Ok. I’ll write your crummy commercials, and your science girl can create the cologne -- she’s going to need to because you’ll probably smell bad anyway. But you better prepare yourself, because I’m going to hook myself up with the bitter Disney writer and have him teach me the ways of dark writing magic. Yes, heed my warning, Misanthrope. All those men who use your cologne will turn into Little Mermaids and attract nothing to themselves but a bunch of singing crabs and flounders. Then, I’ll take my bitter Disney writer man and we’ll go on strike.

Misanthrope: Ah, I’m so sorry! Don’t do that. You’re right, you’re right… this is your tale. I won’t try to take control again, I swear! No more cologne or commercialized beach frolicking…

So going back… I have 6 months then, right?

Pandora: What? Feeling bad for the transgendered mermen surrounded by singing crabs?

Misanthrope: Yeah, you’re very quick to toss the curses about… I need to watch my words carefully, me thinks…

Pandora: (sits back with a smirk) Yes, six months. But, because you’ve seen the light, I’ll write your beach frolicking commercials, after the film is released, and I promise not to curse the cologne.

Misanthrope: No. No cologne necessary. Let’s just see this love story out…

Pandora: Love story it is. I’ll let you know when it’s ready for production.

Poe, Tinnitus, and The Ringing of the Stinking Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells...

My ears have been ringing for three weeks. Yes, it's annoying.

I woke up around 2:30 this morning, got a glass of water, and went back to bed. I laid there, trying to go back to sleep, but the silence of the room left me nothing but the sound of the damn ringing in my ears. The more I tried to focus on relaxing and sleeping the louder the ringing became. There was nothing but this constant high pitched tone consuming my mind, like a dog whistle that no one can hear but me.

I started analyzing the sound. There is a sort of break in it, a very slight variance in pitch from time to time, but there is no rhythm. I can't keep time to it. I can't march to it. It's just there, endlessly ringing, but not like a bell.

I started thinking about how annoying it was, how it could potentially drive a person insane. Then, for whatever reason, I started thinking of Edgar Allen Poe and how annoyed I always was by the poem _The Bells_.

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

I love Poe and his writing, but this one poem always drove me nuts (kind of like this ringing in my ears). It drove me nuts because it seemed that the teachers never "got it." They would stand at the front of the class and clap their hands together with joy and say something stupid like, "Oh, I just love this poem! Doesn't it just ring like a bell? And look at all these bells: wedding bells, golden bells, silver bells... Poe must've been really happy when he wrote this one." What? Happy? Poe? No. At this point I think it was more like he had tinnitus and laid awake one night listening to the "tinkling" and the "jingling" in his head so he decided to get up and write something.

You see, these teachers come from the old school that poetry is all about rhythm and rhyme and the poet's ability to wield it like the masters that they are. The problem is, by focusing on just the rhythm they miss the big picture and lose the opportunity to show their students the true art of the poet.

This poem is written in four parts: the first being silver bells and the "world of merriment their melody foretells;" the second being golden bells and the "world of happiness their harmony foretells;" the third being brazen bells and a "tale of terror...their turbulency tells;" and the fourth and final part being the iron bells and the "world of solemn thought their monody compels." Monody, people! The final stanza of the poem tells of Monody which smacks of lament, of sorrow, of mournful loss, of tragedy. Now, that being said, shall we all clap our hands together joyfully and say how much we love this poem and that Poe must have been happy when he wrote this?

The true art of the poem is that this rhythm that makes these teachers clap with innocent glee is a subtle reference to the rhythm of life and our blind following of the "time time time" that it keeps. The repetition of the bells, bells, bells indicates our repetition of a pattern: there is birth, there is love and romance, there is alarm and warning of all that is destructive and burns like wild fire, and there is death that inevitably tolls like an iron bell for us all. This is the "Runic rhyme," the one written in stone somewhere by a supernatural force that won't allow us to do anything but eventually die. Additionally, there are people, like ghouls, hanging about the steeples, ringing the bells of death. That is their only job and they don't get to do it unless we die. There's a sense of sick pleasure in the death because now they have purpose -- to ring the bell after you and I kick the bucket!

Now I ask you, does this sound like a man that woke up happy from his bed, or does it sound like a man that couldn't sleep because of the damn ringing in his ears that could be interpreted as an "alarum bell" indicating that the "iron bell" of death is waiting just around the corner? I'm pretty sure you know what I think.

(and if you're worried, I did go to the doctor yesterday. I have an infection in both ears, hence the ringing, and I could go off on the symbolism of that, but I won't.)

http://www.online-literature.com/poe/575/

Stalkers and Valentines

I wasn't going to write anything related to Valentine's Day at all. Nope, nothing. Despite the special requests that were sent in by a couple loveless people, I was going to let it go... I was going to make my way past that stupid holiday and say naught about it. But after yesterday, I decided The Universe wasn't on my side with that one and I am now forced to say something.

It's difficult to ignore the "romance" and my lack of it when I basically spent Valentine's Day weekend driving out to Rhedondo to have dinner with my ex-husband and his new wife in an attempt to help them smooth out some blended family issues with the kids. Need I go into detail over the mixed emotions that later tied me in knots that night?

So I had to play nice with the enemy, so what, right? So I had to sit in their new home and eat food prepared in the kitchen of their beach house, big deal. I can shake that off, no problem. But when I came home Monday night I came home to some flowers. (Don't bother with the "oos" and "aws" because this is me we're talking about here and it wasn't like that.) There was no name on the card, so I stood there with the flowers in my hand running through the mental files of who I knew that would possibly send these to me. I have a few friends that could've sent them, knowing how miserable I was over the weekend, but none of them took credit for it. So I just stood there with dread in my stomach because I was certain I knew where they came from.

Back in August I went out to dinner a couple times with a man who instantly fell head over heels for me. After dinner number two, I knew he was nuts and I also knew it was a waste of time to do anything more with the man, so I politely explained to him that I was not interested. It seemed to me, being thirty-something, that we both held enough maturity to shake hands and part ways and wish the other well. Apparently this thirty-something man adheres more to "the menace to society" idea than anything else because he proceeded to stalk me.

He called me incessantly, sent crazy text messages telling me he was in love with me and I just didn't realize that I was in love with him, showed up at my home unannounced a few times, left gifts at the front door and so on and so forth. I had told him in September that this was harassment and, aside from a random love text on Halloween, it seemed to die out.

The week before Christmas I came home and found more gifts from him at my front door (expensive gifts at that). Knowing that I have the ability to break necks and rip out trachea, I was unafraid when I packed up his stupid gifts, drove out to his house, and handed them back to him saying, "You have disrespected me and my requests to be left alone. You have shown up at my front door unwelcome and unannounced for the last time. Contact me one more time, in any manner, via phone, text, email, snail mail, gifts at my door, anything and I will contact the police, I will file a report, and I will place a restraining order on you." His dumbfounded wide eyes were an indication that he understood me and I hadn't heard from him since.

Obviously, while holding a bouquet of flowers in my hand with a note saying, "I hope this isn't weird, but ..." I assumed that in the past two months of silence, the man had forgotten my threat and the promise I would follow through. I instantly went into battle mode; it was time to get the evidence and make allies of the police. I called the flower company and learned they can't give out the sender's name without permission. I let them know that if I didn't get the information from them I would have law enforcement find it out for me. An hour or so later I get some text message from a number I don't recognize saying, "Hi Pandora. This is Leonard...from Walgreens. Did you get the flowers?"

...the Hell?! Leonard?! From Walgreens?!! What the hell is going on with my life?! I can't even pick up a prescription with a smile without someone looking up my information in a computer and feeling the need to send me flowers?!

I have never wanted to be tied down by the sacred bonds of matrimony more than I do right now. I'm not joking. This is getting old. I hate dating because it's always some lame story, but the fact that I can't even walk around and be polite to the local Walgreens cashier without the dude thinking he might strike up a romance with me by dropping me some flowers (on phone and address information that I didn't volunteer to him)is just silly and creepy! I had to stop getting a cup of morning coffee from the Circle K because the old bald guy behind the counter believed I was coming in to see him. Now I have to change pharmacies?

The Mormons are right. If you're not married and getting laid regularly by the age of twenty-five, you are a menace to society. Circle K has now lost business because of the menace working behind the counter. Walgreens is about to lose business because of another menace working behind the counter. And I'm a walking talking apocalyptic menace to capitalist America because companies are losing money due to the fact that I'm not walking around with a nice big rock on my left hand to deter these idiots from saying or doing something stupid.

This whole single thirty-something mess is really starting to bug me. It's as if The Super Power Forces are having too much fun toying with me, but it's really starting to feel like this has crossed over from "the slightly irksome" to "the downright ridiculous." And Valentine's Day, one of those happy little holidays with cupids and hearts posted on windows everywhere, did nothing for me. My friends are always amused. One friend, after the Walgreen Guy Flower Episode, likened me to the Cameron Diaz character in _There's Something About Mary_, and until yesterday that's not how I would've seen myself. Unfortunately, the thought of a pizza guy pretending to be a crippled architect, a private detective hired to spy on me, and a past boyfriend with a stress related rash sounds a little too much like the men in my life. After laughing at me, my friend did her best to remind me that Mary was going to tie the knot with Bret Favre and that maybe this means I have Kurt Warner waiting in the wings for me somewhere. You and I know better though.

I Blame Tornadoes and My Ex

Though this is the first night with no sleep in the past eight weeks, the usual insomniac cycle is one week on and three weeks off. I can't really tell you what triggers it either, depends on the circumstance I guess. If I lie down to sleep with an overactive brain I never really relax and all it takes is one significant something to pull me out the rest of the way. (Tonight it was the stupid drunk man downstairs that shouted out an extremely complex sentence consisting of mostly slurred F-words and one final resounding F-word to prove his point.) So I've been up since 1:30, killing time on the Internet until I started asking myself when these bouts of insomnia really began. I used to blame it on graduate school and the constant writing and research I did while loaded with caffeine and nicotine. But as I sat here tracing my sleep patterns backward, I decided the true origin was somewhere in Enid, Oklahoma where I had to endure tornadoes and a husband that slept with earplugs.

I'm from California and, though I fear and respect the earthquakes, I would much rather endure an earthquake than a tornado. Earthquakes are unpredictable but you can live for years without experiencing one and, unless you're extremely close to the epicenter, most of the time you just get a good jolt and you're on your way (false sense of security, I guess). But tornadoes are seasonally random; you never really know when it's coming for you, but you have the promise that it will be coming (sometime between March and July) and it will come for you over and over again (like a recurring nightmare). To top it off, it makes an entrance with some ominously black rolling clouds, like the vengeful voice of the angry Old Testament God, and a sound like the wheels of an unbelievably overpowered semi-truck straight from a Hell created by Stephen King (one of the most terrorizing sounds I've ever heard). And when these ominous forces of destruction touch down, depending on its size and its fury, it also promises to damage and/or demolish everything in its unpredictable path.

Now, keeping all of that in mind, I was twenty-four years old and five months pregnant by the time tornado season came upon us. So, take an overly sensitive hormonal pregnant girl, add an irrational sense of fear instilled by The Wizard of Oz, some alarms reminiscent of bomb dropping Nazis, a husband that sleeps with sound proofed ears and... voila! The Light Sleeper is born.

I can't tell you how many times I went to bed at night telling myself to stay awake just enough to hear the sirens. Similarly, I can't tell you how many times I endured a grumpy husband, angered by me telling him to wake up and get in the basement. One time he was so angry with me I just left him there, I sat in the basement by myself worried, frightened, but resigned to the idea that at least the baby and I would be fine, once they dug us out of the rubble.

Obviously, I don't live there any more, nor am I married to a man that stuffs his ears with sound stoppers, but apparently I never got over the need to keep my ears alert while sleeping. And since that time I've filled my mind with books and research and intangible theoretical ideas that I constantly try to prove or disprove through life experience -- this creates a situation where the brain refuses to shut down. I suppose it thinks that if the ears are awake the imagination may as well stay up too. Intellectually, I have no problem with this. I enjoy being awake and I enjoy using that time to create something out of nothing. Physically? It takes its toll. And after about four or five nights of no sleep the migraine sets in with a promise to knock me down and out.

And I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, other than I can't sleep and I chose to. It really has no point. Nor is it very humorous or entertaining. This is more like something I should put in a spiral notebook that no one reads, not even me.

I realize that I'm not being very considerate of my reader, since this is basically a boring piece. Perhaps you can pretend that you snuck into my home and found one of my random notebooks thinking you'd take a peek at some of Pandora's secret and intimate thoughts. Now you can pretend you're disappointed that it wasn't something juicy -- you grabbed the wrong notebook.

Feel free to give this a C. I would.

What We "Make-Up" For

I was sitting at my desk the other day when a fellow emailed me a random question:

"What is your personal definition of make-up?"

After giving him the dictionary answer and then reading his response, which was something like, "I can read the dictionary, Miriam Webster. I wanted to know how you personally define the stuff women put on their face," I said something like this:

My personal definition would be the stuff I put on my face because I’ve been socially programmed to do so. Not only does it appeal to men, or so women as a whole are told, but it also appeals to other women in that we believe it makes a distinct improvement on our features and we impress each other just as much as we impress members of the opposite sex.

Make-up is some subtle form of flaring out peacock feathers, or something along those lines. Additionally, through media and social programming, I have come to believe that I look better with make-up on than without (though my daughter regularly tells me I’m pretty without it and I don’t need it).

Women without make-up are often referred to as plain, homely, insecure, ugly, masculine, lesbian, feminist, etc. and so forth, anything that could possibly be perceived as a negative connotation. So… make-up could also be considered War Paint against the battle of negativity which comes from all sides (i.e. the side of feminists that argue against it have created their own zealous diatribe about make-up and women who wear it and the side of those traditional women and men who continually make negative comments about women who don’t wear it).

Make-up is one of those catch 22 things that you finally just have to say to yourself, “I like the way I look in it and so I’m going to wear it” or, “make-up is a pain, I hate putting it on, I look beautiful without it, so screw everyone and what they think.”

He asked me that question because he had apparently made a comment to his girlfriend about "make-up" being little more than a compensation for our wish to have green eyelids and black outlines instead of the regular plain faces that we have. Considering me a "level headed female" (which I laughed at), he thought he'd get my take on it since (at least I suspect) he received a somewhat hostile response from her. But he has a point, and his point is probably what rubbed her wrong. He basically stated that we "make-up" for what we perceive ourselves as lacking in the beauty department. This of course implies a sense of low self-esteem and we literally paint on a mask to cover that up. This aligns quite a bit with the feminist argument that we should see ourselves as beautiful and powerful women just as we are and not succumb to the pressure of society (which they consider patriarchal and oppressive)and make ourselves "pretty" because we're little more than visually pleasing objects. I guess this is why I've grown a fondness for make-up as war paint.

As a student of Humanities, you have the unavoidable pleasure of constantly sitting in class with the young ladies who love to shave their heads, wear camouflage and combat boots, claim themselves enlightened feminists and see every moment and everything as a perfect time to argue about patriarchal oppression of women. External beauty is always a prime target for their bullets. One of their favorites is that the beautiful woman is not free; she continually subjects herself to male dominance by presenting herself as the "object" and thereby hinders her ability to be respected for her internal attributes such as her powerful intellect. They also accuse her of being a follower, not a leader, and a terrible advocate for women because she is, through the acceptance of mainstream society, perpetuating female oppression. (on a side note, one of these shaved head ladies once told me I was very intelligent and my arguments were good, but they were invalidated by my long hair and make-up. "You would be so much more effective if you cut your hair." Effective to whom, is my question. Last time I checked, in a classroom of forty students, there were only two women with shaved heads and combat boots. If my arguments are good, I think I'd rather get through to 38 people instead of the 2 who've judged me for my appearance even as they claim to be my advocate.)

None of this is to say that I don't recognize my female self as an "object" of a man's lust. But in my experience, I could walk around with a shaved head and no make-up wearing a potato sack and they'll still lick their lips and make lewd comments if they feel a stir in their loins. The reality is, I can only please some of the people some of the time and this argument is a stupid waste of time.

Society does have an idea of how women should appear, but the same could be said for the appearance of men. And as a feminist, I would say it is important to be free of all societal chains that bind you (including overly zealous feminist diatribes that sound every bit as wacky as an overly judgmental evangelical christian); be aware that true beauty is internal and figure out what that means; know that your power is your mind and the way you use it; and don't be ashamed of your physical attributes because they are a part of the package so why not flare out your peacock feathers.

Let's put it this way. Some women want to be the Red Corvette: flashy, sleek and sexy and fun to drive but ultimately useless (this requires make-up). Some women want to be a four wheel drive, so they can make their break into the mountains where they don't need anything but all natural beauty (this requires no make-up). Some women think it best to be an army tank, convincing themselves that they must camouflage their appearance so they can accurately target their enemies and take a few hits before blowing him up (this requires no make-up, but some alterations in the way you dress and possibly shaving the head). Women like me? We prefer to be the James Bond vehicle -- the silver BMW that everyone wants to ride in but only we know it's equipped with machine guns, rocket launchers, a passenger seat eject button, and blades that pop out of the tires to grip the ice and snow as we make our escape without slowing the pace (this requires make-up).

Waking up and remembering you didn't keep your promise...

So I haven't written in quite a while. And this one isn't going to count as writing-- not for me at least nor for the reader I made a promise to yesterday.

You see, she reads my blog religiously. She sometimes emails me with questions about them, or tells me of stories she relates too, or which ones made her laugh and which ones made her cry. A few weeks back she emailed me asking why I hadn't written in a while and she told me that she reads the blog because it gives her something else to think about (poor girl... reading my blog must be like reading the work of the student who refuses to do their homework until the panic over the grade sets in, meaning: it's hit or miss. Sometimes I'm right on target with that A+ and sometimes I hand ya a C-). At that point, some of the more tumultuous events of my life (the holidays...) were coming to an end and smoothing out so I vowed to write weekly (as I vow to myself weekly) and well... you see what's come of that.

I write now because just the other day the same girl made yet another comment to me about how I need to be writing on my blog, that it's over due (see... she even sounds like the teacher prompting the slack student to get her work in on time), and that she knows she's not the only disappointed reader. So yesterday, my response to her was a promise. I promised to write (because I had a great topic in my head and I had every intention to write it out) and if she didn't have a Mixed Number notice in her email the next morning she could take all of her anger and frustration out on me. Bad part is, this tripe I'm writing now is to make sure she gets a feed notice in her email. What's even worse is that, though she may crack a smile at this rambling, I know (like the teacher student scenario) she's basically going to hand this back to me and say, "Nice try. Now write the real thing." And worst of all, I have a feeling this lady has some seriously pent up frustrations she would just LOVE to blast on someone and well... I sorta put myself out there as a willing sponge and...

Yeah... I am such a slack student.

I Really Was A Lost Soul

What if I told you I was a warrior, wielding a sword in each hand, cutting through demons in The Hinterlands, searching for a lost but sacred altar? And what if I died battling the last two demons that stood between me and that altar? Would you say, "Oh, what a shame," cross yourself and walk away? Or would you keep reading to find out whether this sword wielding warrior went to Heaven or to Hell? And what if I said that neither of those two places were an option?

What would your response be if I told you that I found my soul standing before an Angel, in a distant cemetery, who told me that my work wasn't done, that I had to stay here and finish what I started? Understanding my bewilderment, surely you wouldn't be surprised when I said I took a few steps back to gain perspective, only to find my soul falling from the edge of The Overlook Cliffs down to the shore of The Forbidding Sea. Surely you would feel my pain as I looked up at the cliffs, far far away from the Angel, and well aware (obviously) that dead souls can't fly (nor can they pass through mountains or trees or anything that is solid...the movies lie to you...regularly...). And perhaps you would feel a bit sorry when I told you this poor soul was forced to wander the shoreline of The Forbidding Sea until I reached an open path, through the coastal mountain range, leading me to an unfamiliar valley known as The Eastern Plaguelands (the beginning of a seriously negative element in my unwanted spiritual journey...I truly was a lost soul).

And I'm sure you would keep reading as I told you that I wandered through the Western portion of the Plaguelands (a very ugly place, by the way, and I was happy to not be alive right there, quite honestly, because I'm pretty sure whatever is alive right there would've killed me anyway). I also passed through some strange ruins that led me to a place called Sorrow Hill (which I thought was appropriate)and past The Writhing Haunt (also appropriate), and I was constantly burdened with the reality that I was getting farther and farther away from the body I so needed to find. And just as I was about to give up, I wandered into a familiar area, with a familiar graveyard, where I was greeted by another Angel who took pity on my weary soul and offered to raise me from the dead (an offer, at that point, I couldn't refuse).

It is questionable, however, if you would understand the frustration I felt when, once fully returned to my body, shaking off a little resurrection sickness, I realized that the Angel in the Southshore graveyard returned me to the same damn cliffs my soul had fallen from many many moments ago! And regardless of my location on the map, I still couldn't figure out how to get back to those stupid demons by that stupid sacred altar that had killed me in the first place! And at this point I am fully aware that some of you are sitting there saying, "What the hell is she talking about? Is this some kind of weird dream she had? Some crazy story from Past Life Regression Therapy? What?" But others are reading this and laughing. There are others that know exactly what I'm talking about, that recognize the locations my lost soul wandered through as part of another reality, another world, a world in which all is fair in love and WarCraft. They are smiling to themselves right now and saying something like, "She fell off The Overlook Cliffs and wandered all the way to Southshore because she couldn't find her body in The Hinterlands? Pfft... I wonder what level she is. ...stupid noob..."

The Heart Sickness

So I haven't written in a while -- almost a month. And considering that I had been on a writing roll, I hate to see that the silence started to set in again. But, you see, the holidays are upon us, and ever since Thanksgiving I have found myself suffering from something I've named The Heart Sickness. It's that feeling that lingers, even though rationally and logically you may see no reason for it, you feel this constant heavy sorrow despite your smiling "game face."

My little girl will be leaving me today to spend Christmas with her father, just as she spent Thanksgiving with him too. And one would think that I would be used to it by now. I've been doing this for so many years, I should be numb to it, right? I should take this time to eat and drink and be merry with my friends, and I should do it in style...without the "game face." I should be ready for the break, I should be ready for an overdose of spiked egg nog, but I never am.

I was tucking her in last night and as I was giving her a hug she said, "I'm going to miss you, Mom, but I don't want you to be lonely without me. You always say you won't be, but I know that you are." So I smiled at her and I kissed her on the cheek and I said, "You're going to have a good Christmas, you're going to have fun, and I promise you that I won't be lonely." And with that I turned out the light and walked away with my Super Woman cape trailing behind me. But in the silence of my own room the Super Woman cape turns into nothing more than a worthless sheet, and I realize that my daughter knows me every bit as well as I know her.

The truth is, I will be lonely without her. I will miss hearing her little voice sing Christmas songs as she bounces around the house. I will miss her while driving in the dark since she's the one who so eagerly points out the houses with lights on them. I will miss her begging me to make cookies for Santa, even though I'm pretty sure she no longer believes. I will miss dressing her up on Christmas Eve and watching her restlessly shift in her seat at church because the best part is yet to come. As I go through my yearly Santa Clause ritual, and quietly place her gifts under the tree when I'm certain she's fast asleep, I will miss her because she'll be fast asleep in California...far away from me. And when the sun comes up on Christmas morning, I will miss her because she wasn't here to jump on my bed and force me out of it with her smile.

And so now you understand the heart sickness. Out of all the times, as a single parent, I may feel tired and need a break...Christmas isn't one of them. The childhood years are passing quickly. The hormone ridden adolescent years are waiting for me right around the corner, and when those years come Christmas will be little more for her than status quo -- she will graciously partake in the Christmas Eve festivities, she will politely endure the company of surrounding adults, and she will sleep late on Christmas morning because, special day or not, it's basically the same every year. And so, eight years later, I still feel the familiar sting of divorce; not because I love the man, not because I still hurt from the misery that was our marriage, but because we made this beautiful child together and we split her, 50/50, like we did everything else. The difference is, when it comes to her, something deep down still feels like "family should be together."

I apologize for being such a downer on this 19th day of December. But if I hadn't said it, the silence would have continued. And I'm working hard to write both in and out of the blog and the silence, for a writer, is deadly. So take from this whatever you will. I promise to be a bit more entertaining in the days to come. And for all the single parents out there, wearing their Superhero capes, enjoy the festivities, game face or not. Have a glass of egg nog for yourself and one for me, and I will do the same for you. I have a feeling that you all know exactly what I'm talking about because you have all thought it at one point or another. I just happened to say it out loud.