Hover:

An intransitive verb

to waver
As between life and death. Between numbers that show increased and then diminished red blood cells. The equation never balancing out. Always faltering between where it should be and far worse.

to linger uncertainly in a nervous or solicitous way
I lay in the floor next to him, observing the rise and fall of his breath. I touch his fur lightly and feel his warmth. I watch how he moves, looking always for his untroubled agility, light steps, inherent feline grace. I study his eyes. I note the color of his tongue, how much he eats, his insatiable thirst because of the steroids. The near constant scrutiny exhausts me and makes me restless.

to remain suspended over a place or object
Holding in the heartbreak most of the time until it ekes out, slides down my face, trembles on the edge of my chin, holding until the salted weight is too much.

to move to and fro near a place
We shuttle back and forth between home and the hospital. Work and the hospital. The waiting room and the exam room. The ICU and the outpatient services. The ongoing rotation of doctors and residents and students who carry the thickening file from the front desk to the discharge desk.

We drive back and forth between my parents' house and my house. We move furniture, small boxes and mow the lawn. We flutter through the rooms briefly and then depart, leaving a hollow echoing shell.

to hang, fluttering in the air or on the wing without moving in any direction
At times in this endless free-fall, I force myself to stop thinking about any of it - the lack of answers, the mounting expenses, the mortgage I'm paying on a house I don't inhabit - and I coast. I gather him in my arms and hold him so that I can absorb his breath, his heartbeat, his purr, his sleek black fur. I hold him and we stay there in that moment with no yesterday and no thought of tomorrow. Only warm, weightless safety.

to fluctuate around a given point
Life is driven by Kudzu. The times we must administer his medication. Leaving work every evening and coming directly home-do-not-pass-go to spend time with him. Fitting myself in the spaces where he lays - by the water bowl, snugged up to the vacuum cleaner, on the old coffee table in the spare room. Bending myself into the small spaces just to be close to where he is.

to be in a state of uncertainty, irresolution or suspense
No one knows why but suggests the answer may lie in the bone marrow, that deepest place where we have looked before and found nothing. The doctors want to invade again and look for those terrifying diseases that will give a name to what is sapping his strength. But I'm not sure that I can. I'm not sure that I can put him or me through that.

We go to the doctor again on Tuesday to check his red blood cell counts. And they will give me too little information and want me to make something of it. To decide what to do next. Which gamble should I take? And does it matter, when I feel like, in the end, that death holds all the cards? My next play is a faceless card, gripped tightly, being pushed toward the table with fear, hovering there, unable to let it fall and finish the game.

Modes of Transportation

I find myself lacking in substance right now. I feel compelled to write, to post thoughts, but I'm not clear on the thoughts. They are ephemeral and indistinct. Life seems to both be moving in slow motion and warp speed.

The holidays are coming...a lumbering freighter, moving lethargically toward me. It is impossible not to see it; but its girth, its potential impact, is impossible to comprehend and so I watch it inching ever closer with all its threatening weight and isolate myself from it. Even as I see the waters shift and rise, I hold my breath, and dismiss the fractional disturbance.

On the other hand, the life that goes on, that moves ever faster away from death, is a speeding train with only flashes of countryside visible out its small square windows. The colors and shapes are blinding; on the inside, faces crowd around me, no more than blurs. And this, unlike the freighter, I'm trying to absorb. I'm trying to find a place in my mind for these faces, for the names that go with them. I'm trying to make room in my mind for this part of life. But it's all moving so fast and I can't hold on. I can't focus and so I'm floating in that sea of undecipherable features. I want so much for these passengers on the train to stay, to have meaning.

And the train speeds on, and the ship pitches toward me. And I am but a wisp of smoke caught between the two.

Facing the Negativo

The last couple of weeks, I seem to have fallen prey to The Negativo. Suddenly, my first reaction to everything is negative. Anger, irritation, impatience, anxiety, dread. It's seething just underneath my skin, and it's provoked at the least infraction. And then it's like the worst version of me just jumps down the nearest person's throat. For example,

* The Dirty Film Boys are back, smelling up the common area. Every time I walk to the bathroom, the one closest to the door turns and stares at me. I am SORRY if the click-clack of my heels on the concrete annoys you, but get over it.

* On the way back from J. Island last week, my Garmin lost its ever-loving mind and directed me into the least populated corridors of the state. And when I turned around for the second time that day using the interstate median out of frustration, I promptly found myself sidelined by the state patrol. I had never ever cried on a cop until that day. "Happy belated birthday," he said. "I'm just going to give you warning."

* The Fam is experiencing too much togetherness. Patience is fraying; tempers are flaring. We're all slightly sick of the sight of each other but are quite at a loss how to avoid the suffocating conditions. Anna, though doing remarkably well, just isn't quite ready for abandonment and so we go and we sit together and we try not to kill each other.

* Work has me tense and knotted. I love my job, but right now, it just feels like everything is on level ten. There are too many balls in the air and I'm distracted...by...what, I don't know. By the shift in the office environs because of the Rockstar's impending departure. And the potential replacement's frightening Type-A over-achieving ways.

* I'm totally annoyed by people who do things better than me. How ridiculous is that? But it's like, I want the universe to give me a break, to give me some arena where I'm a winner free and clear. But instead, I'm on the insecurity train and riding shotgun.

* Another wave of grief seems to have washed over us all, and at times, it makes me resent every spark of happiness in the world. I want to tell other people not to smile. Because every time I think we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, it fades into the distance, and all I can hear is the echo of our voices in a long dark cavern that never seems to end.

* I hate waiting. I'm so mad at waiting. Waiting for the next thing. Waiting for it to be the right time to buy a house. Waiting for the time when I'll feel like writing a book. Waiting for friends to blossom out of acquaintances. Waiting for a time when I don't stand in a room full of people and feel like the loneliest person in the world. Waiting for a time when my whole life isn't hijacked by mourning.

* I resent practicality. I want to throw caution to the wind and plan trips and be carefree. I have 80 percent of my vacation left. I have no idea when or how to take it. And sometimes, when I think about it, I just feel more tired trying to think of how to use it. I just sort of want it to go away.

* I worry about us all...all of us with our respective heart conditions. Anna's broken into a million tiny pieces. Dad's grown tired and stressed. Mom's heavy with her worry for us all. And mine empty and lonely and guilty and sad for feeling all that it feels.

The End

Pack up stuff - check under the beds for lost shoes and misplaced books * Retrace steps...back to the BART, back to the airport * Take Dramamine again * Listen to music as appropriate (Counting Crows as a tribute to Berkeley/SF? David Gray for wistfulness?) * Worry over whether to sleep or stay awake to combat jet lag * Experience total place and time confusion over leaving at noon and arriving at nearly nine o'clock * Collect baggage * Find Mom * Head home

Things on My Mind Other Than That

* Am three days behind putting my time in at work.

* Volunteered to help with a non-profit fundraising event, and I am doing waaaay more than I planned. Daily I'm getting e-mails asking, "Can you handle this too?"

* A Client has asked to meet with my boss. Instead of me. Behind my back. Am now getting an ulcer because I know this is The Client Who Does Not Love Me So Much. (Am I fired?)

* Performance review: next Wednesday

* Having to pack for another weekend at Anna's. Subsequent guilt about complaining about having to pack.

* Another client in total crisis. Have been at work early, late and during lunch this week. Contributing to ulceration.

* My Skittles addiction is back.

* Have to get up at 4:45 tomorrow morning in order to drive to Atlanta, beat the traffic and be at the office in time for a v. important meeting. (see "Client in total crisis")

* The CD player in here keeps hanging up and spinning and spinning in silence and then abruptly restarting and startling the crap out of me.

* Alarming statistics on the volume left in Georgia's landfills - about twenty years, fyi.

* Man having baby.

* No blog til Sunday.

How to Feel Every Day

Mendacious requested a blog on blogging about feelings that seem to never change from day to day. I've given some thought to how one should address this matter, and I think a to-do list is in order. Perhaps it's best to catalog and check off the feelings for each day:

StopStopStop
Stop trying so hard to fit in, make a place, put down roots, shake the dust off your feet. Stop worrying about whether or not you think you can do your job, whether or not they think you can do your job, whether or not you really can do your job, whether or not you're going to get fired any moment from your job. Stop looking back and looking forward and looking back and looking forward - it won't help you make sense of what you're looking at now. StopStopStop or else you'll panic.

ThisTimeLastYear
This time last year I was sitting on my back porch reading a book from the library. This time last year I had a job I understood where I sat across the desk from STGD and laughed. This time last year I lived on Grace Street and walked the wide-board wooden floors and sat on the windowsill and dreamed. This time last year I stood on the Cape Fear River. This time last year people knew me. This time last year was another lifetime.

PeoplePeopleEverywhereAndNotaDroptoDrink
People from dawn til dusk, from waking to sleeping. Always someone else occupying the same space as me. Next to me in the office, in the same house. Crowded for breathing room and the thoughts cartwheeling in my head. The people are familiar and unfamiliar, and they are omnipresent, and they do not comfort. People everywhere and yet so lonesome am I.

OneIsTheLoneliestNumber
Try not to think about being alone. Just one. Just me, just me, just me. And I don't know anyone. And I don't know how to meet anyone. And I look jealously upon groups of peolple who appear to be friends. Who laugh with each other. Who talk and know each other's language. And I am just one. Just me.

WhereIsTheEnd?
To round out these feelings, to sort of end where you started and as a nice second to StopStopStop, there is the question of when this ends. How far ahead is the light at the end of the tunnel that you can't see? How long does it take to get to the destination that isn't in sight? How do you find the place on the map if you don't know where you're looking for? How do you tell yourself there will be an end when you really don't know?

Fear of Failure: The Baseball Analogy

“Hank Aaron,” Dad says. “Hit a lot of homeruns. But think about how many times he struck out.”

“I know,” I mumble, tears hanging on the apples of my cheeks.

“You gotta learn to strike out, baby.”

“I know.”

“I ain’t saying you’ve got to be satisfied with it.” He pauses. “But you’ve got to get comfortable with it. And I’m not saying don’t try to hit the ball. Swing hard. But know that sometimes, you’re going to miss.”

Don't Panic

Thoughts pell-mell like so many colored kites jagging in storm winds...tugging to get free of their lines, giving slack and then straining, but all the time held tight by a single unyielding thread. Colored blurs flapping, the sound of a playing card on bicycle spokes. A loose thread unraveling, the reel coming free.

Lines tangle. Kites crash.

One singular sensation
It starts with...
...thrumming blood, right ear, so hard I press my finger in to make sure the drum won't burst
...sharp tightness, central chest, pinching beneath the bow of my sternum
...dull nausea, stomach pit, slick and threatening...

Pleasemakeitgoaway

Fight the pricking tears. Fight the gag reflex. Fight the breath coming so fast that is never enough. Fight the claustrophobia of mind.

AndIdon'tknowwhy

Wracking shivers but I am not cold. Or maybe I am. I am numb and feeling everything amplified - a sense of irrational imploding. Attempting sleep, but in the darkness, all I can think is

Pleasemakeitgoaway

If I fall asleep, it is to wrestle like David with an Angel, restless and overpowered. And when I wake, it is to purge.

Justtomakeitgoaway

AndIdon'tknowwhy

Dillon: A Snapshot

*Teeth: Four
*Crawling: Almost
*Meltdowns: 5 am, 10:40 am, 2:15 pm
* Exhausted parents: Two
*Insanely huge mosquito bites: Two
*Favorite book: Hello, Bee! (Thanks to Andi!)
*Favorite noise: Woof
*New skill: Hilarious attempts at fake crying
*Fingernails: Sharp enough to draw a Potteresque scar on Auntie Ashley's nose
*Worries about scar disappearing before scheduled website photo Thursday: Thousands

T-Minus

Nine hours from now, I will be on the way to the new job. I know where to park. I know where my office is. And I know the name of the girl who sits at the front desk. Everything else is a little fuzzy. Biggest concern: what will I do for lunch tomorrow?

Alka Seltzer to the Rescue

On Thursday, I had an i-n-t-e-r-v-i-e-w in Atlanta that qualified as the most intense 4 1/2 hours in recent memory and included a quickly-eaten egg salad sandwich. For future reference, do not eat egg salad when nervous.

I felt fairly ill for the rest of the day, but marked it down to prolonged anxiety and tried to sleep it off. On Friday, the awful feeling resurged after dinner, but I dismissed it as the result of dwelling on all the things I said wrong in the i-n-t-e-r-v-i-e-w and the contemplation of possibly starting a new job, new life, etcetera and so forth, and on the other hand convincing myself that I'd flubbed the whole thing and would be back to square one. On Saturday, following dinner, the overwhelming nausea reared its ugly head.

I tried deep breathing and sitting upright while watching The Prestige, because I figured Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman would make me feel better. But the stomach pains and biting nausea refused to subside, and I started to worry that I was having a panic attack. After the movie, Justin and Eva asked me if I was okay. But I wasn't. I was positively green. And on top of that, my stomach was hard to the touch, which convinced me that an evil being was waiting to burst forth at any moment. Around midnight, Justin went to Walgreens to consult the all-night pharmacist.

The pharmacist figured that prolonged anxiety had caused me to brew a raging case of acid indigestion in my stomach that had gone unchecked for several days. Prescription? Two Pepcid AC chased by a double dose of Alka Seltzer. Ack. The remedy itself almost made me toss my cookies. But I am pleased to report that within ten minutes, my belly had deflated a bit to its normal gushy state and I didn't feel quite so sick. I'm pretty certain that if I were a superhero, my Achilles heel would be my stomach. With the nervousness and motion sickness, whatever my great powers were, all it would take to defeat me would be a series of speed interviews aboard a cruise ship.

The Girl Who Lived

"You can't help but wish that maybe you aren't really all Muggle -- non-magic folk -- but have some bit of wizard blood in your veins that would allow you the chance to visit Hogwarts....and so I've had my nose pressed into the pages of the first four books--rather lengthy, they all are. I've been obsessed with Harry, because in Harry's world, there is no graduate school. A fire-breathing dragon or a life-ending curse, but nothing as bad as moving to the next state."
-- Journal dated August 8, 2001, three weeks before relocating to N.C.

I've just finished rereading Goblet of Fire for the I-don't-know-how-many-times, and I can't help but think of the first time I read Harry Potter. It was six years ago to the summer that Niki convinced me that I had to read Socerer's Stone. I remember reading that first chapter with Dumbledore and the Put-Outer and the flying motorcycle and thinking, "What is this?" I don't recall exactly the point at which I got hooked, but once I was hooked, I was all the way hooked.

It was a tough summer. I'd just graduated from college, and on my graduation day, I had no plans. No job. No apartment. I was waiting to hear from UNC Wilmywood to see if a spot had come open in its MFA program. And on top of that, I decided not to get a job that summer, owing to the fact that Mom needed my help since Anna and Justin decided to get married less than 30 days apart. Did I mention that my boyfriend at the time was in D.C. doing an internship?

Everything was changing, my whole world upended and the future totally uncertain. I was lonely and worried. And I was suffering the fate of the youngest child, which is that everyone else goes on to the next stage of life without you. I suddenly felt like the classic which-one-of-these-doesn't-belong?

But in the midst of it all, I found Harry Potter, who was suffering a bit himself in a world so far removed from my own that I could almost forget what was going on here. I was insatiable; I carried the books with me everywhere. Car trips, waiting rooms, dress fittings, hotel rooms. At 2 in the morning, I sat in the recliner in the den deep into the graveyard scene in Goblet of Fire, and was more than a little spooked by the dark yard outside the sliding glass door. Upon finishing, it took me a bit to calm down enough to brave walking past the big glass door and go to bed. I may have finished the book, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. But it was okay that the next book wasn't around yet - it was time for me to go to North Carolina.

It was two years after that when Order of the Phoenix hit the stands, and I made myself nearly sick and hysterical reading that giant tome for such a stretch. And the death in that one hit me particularly hard, and I was inconsolable for days. Two years after that came Half-Blood Prince, whose release caused an absolute temper-tantrum when it wasn't delivered as expected. But that was nothing compared to the quivering mass I was after the outcome of the book.

And now it's coming down to the wire. Less than 25 days before all will be revealed in Deathly Hallows, Potter's last stop. I'm on schedule to plow through OOTP and HBP before the big day gets here. Today, I read an article with a massive spoiler, a possibility that I hadn't considered, and it was the first time during all my conjecturing that it really hit me that, whatever the outcome, this is it. Whatever's on those final pages, whether it's Harry's death or happily-ever-after or a mysterious sentence ending in "scar," it's the end of the story and we'll all have to live with whatever ending Rowling penned.

I can't help but recognize that there are eerie parallels between reading those first pages of Sorcer's Stone and now anticipating Deathly Hallows: the waiting, the need to escape reality, this strange station between one chapter of life and the next (a Platform 9 3/4 time in life, if you will). There are similar trappings - temporarily living at home, my stuff scattered everywhere, and me not really belonging anywhere. And more than once in the last couple of weeks, I've thrown up my hands at the job search and buried myself in Potterdom just like I did way back when, only then I was trying to avoid registering for classes and folding wedding programs.

Me and Harry have been through a lot together. (Like the development of my slightly unhealthy obsession. ) The intervening years have been as much an adventure for me as him. And whether or not he lives or dies, his adventure is coming to an end. But me? I'll get to be the girl who lived. For me, there will be another chapter.

Out There (or The Waiting Place)

As I've run into old friends and acquaintances (or their parents) and I relay the circumstances of this place in my life, I hear the following: "Don't you worry. (Fill in the blank) is out there for you. Just you wait and see."

And it's one of those things that people dash off, a ready-made phrase selected as easily as a cliche, a proverb, a line of Shakespeare. It's just what you say in these conversations. I'm not ungrateful for it. It is said in such a manner as to suggest that people aren't worried for me, that, in their minds, the future holds good things for me. It is a sort of glimmer of hope when they say these things and reminds me that this place isn't forever.

As for this place, I'm torn between two schools of thought about it. One stems from this kind of remark - this place is not forever and there is a next station on this train ride of life, and when I get there, I will laugh about my panic/insecurity/overt worrying. It is the thought that emphasizes that this is temporary, to be endured and to test patience. It is the place between here and there - a life layover. And like all layovers, I simply must make the best of it.

And the other school of thought comes from another place that tells me to be patient and enjoy. For me, it's swimming-upstream, beat against the current, a thought against the status quo to stop trying to "get past" this time and accept it. This voice is very, very quiet, because I'm not much given over to things like relaxing into a life without structure, without habits and plans and knowing.

Along with this school of thought comes the question, is there a reason I'm stuck here for longer than I anticipated? Maybe "out there" is just not out there yet, and so I'm here waiting for it to fall cosmically in line. And beyond that, maybe while I'm here, I'm not supposed to see the time as wasted on waiting. Instead of ticking off the time like so much sand through the hourglass, maybe I'm actually supposed to be doing something with this time - learning those things I need to know from Mom, like how to cook eggplant. Or maybe it's time to pick up with my writing. Or photography. Or something...something besides adding up the hours and days and weeks like a bean counter.

And so it's a fight to the death between these two schools of thought, hovering around me like the proverbial devil and angel. But in this case, it's more like a fight between Ferris Bueller and Cameron. And, like in most situations, I think the key is balance - pursuing the job search with a reasonable amount of intensity but not letting myself forget that I exist right now. Carpe diem.

Eight-Legged Freakout

Last night, I had the most vivid dream that my scalp was covered with tiny little black spiders no bigger than the end of your finger. In the dream, I kept putting my hands in my hair and leaning forward to flick the spiders from my head. And then at some point, I realized the spiders were literally coming out of my head, from this bump above my forehead at my hairline. Spiders upon spiders. I started awake and lay very still as chills descended on me from head to toe. So real was the dream that I was afraid to touch my head, and so I tried to ignore the creepy crawling feeling on my skin and go back to sleep. I couldn't shake the sensation of tickling legs for the rest of the morning and even checked my pillowcases to rule out actual spiders.

When dreams are this vivid, I feel like they must mean something - something my brain can't quite work out when I'm awake and thinking and so must consider while I'm asleep. I looked up spiders in several dream dictionaries, and their appearance in dreams can be sinister or an omen of good luck (for, like, getting a job?). One source suggested that spiders represent irrational fears and anxieties, but ones that are more complex, hence their representation by eight-legged creatures. And that they also can signify a feeling of oppression or stagnation. Other sources indicated that spiders are symbolic of the creative spirit, and that they simple indicate that you have a creative itch you need to scratch.

But in truth, the dream felt more like a little arachnid army of anxieties marching around my head followed by the realization that I was the source of the madness. Perhaps it was a combination of things: a laundry list of insecurities and doubts surging to the surface, a niggling sense that I've let my writing lay dormant for too long, and all this heat that has everything slow-roasting in its tracks. Whatever the case, I may sleep with Raid under my pillow tonight.

Fears Du Jour

* That Dillon, now getting to the point of being able to recognize and distinguish people, will not like me because he will know that I am not good with children.

* That I am a terrible conversationalist. It seems that every time I talk to someone and then reiterate my conversation to my mother, she will ask a very obvious question that I don't know the answer to and didn't think to ask myself.

* That there is truth in the look that some people give me when I confirm that I am childless, unmarried, unemployed and living at home that indicates there is something wrong with me.

* That something will happen to my mother before I learn all the things I need to know. Being here all the time, I see the questions she gets about everything - cooking, shopping, sewing, childcare, health, happiness...she's like Dumbledore. And they both really love socks.

* That nothing, not even Secret Clinical Strength, can stem the flow of my sweaty, sweaty armpit. STGD, are you with me?

* That I am boring

* That I will be forced to take a job that I don't love

In the Still of the Night

Dillon and I didn't sleep well.

In the crib: Dillon has learned to turn himself over from stomach to back. Unfortunately for all parties, the reverse is proving a bit more complicated. Set to sleep on his stomach, he flips and wakes and cannot go back to sleep.

In the guest bed: I crawl into the bed in the guest room certain that sleep will come swiftly after an early morning and a long day. I read until I am quite sure my eyelids will droop closed before the next word and turn off the light. Immediately, my eyes open wide in the inky darkness.

In the crib: Dillon draws his knees up under him and then shoves his feet back, twists on his side and rolls against that left arm that is never quite in the right position to turn. He wobbles against it until he is on his back.

In the guest bed: I fight the sheets and blankets, alternating between hot and cold. This bed used to be my brother's bed. I used to seek refuge there when the dark of night and all the monsters lurking there struck fear in me. And now, all the anxieties are swirling around in my brain, a persistent hum against the black.

In the crib: Dillon can put the pacifier in his mouth, but he forgets to let go and jerks it out again. We call it the Paci-Monster.

In the guest bed: I see plastic stars stuck to the ceiling by the previous owner's kid. Without my glasses, I can only make out the faint smudge of flourescent above me. In a trick of poor eyesight and darkness, it looks a little like the night sky until all of the light in them recedes to nothingness.

In the crib: Sometimes, Dillon just wants to know someone is there.

In the guest bed: I try not to think about the hours passing. I breathe deeply. I try to imagine somewhere peaceful. But the serenity fades and I end up counting my anxieties, fluffy little insecurities herding through my mind.

In the crib: Dillon cries loudly and I am up and in the hallway before I'm really concious of moving. I hope to save Eva from a trip to the nursery. He's all twisted up in the blanket, and I'm working to untangle him when she arrives. In mere seconds, she scoops and flips him like a baby pancake and has the pacifier in his mouth before he hits the crib again.

After four and before seven, we drift in and out, finding the edge of dreams but always jerked back by the insecurity of being flat on our back, anxious that we are alone and unable to pacify ourselves long enough to fall back asleep.

In Sheep's Clothing

Now that I've declared my independence, announced my plans to depart, and given my notice at work, I'm a mere month away from being an unemployed waif. I've sent out a couple of resumes, but I admit that my heart hasn't been in it. It's not because I don't want a job or because I don't think that jobs are out there. It's more a sudden inescapable feeling that I am...well, a fraud. I know on some rational level that it would be silly to think I could've kept my job for almost six years without having some skill. But it's one thing to succeed in the known arena, and another thing entirely to go back out into the marketplace to peddle your wares.

Yesterday, I interviewed someone who might replace me. Someone more than 15 years more senior than I am, and I felt a bit foolish asking her to describe her work experience. As if, at 27, I could possibly compete with her body of work, much less question her competence for the position. I actually confessed to her on the phone that I wasn't quite qualified for the position I hold. I just blurted it out before I had time to consider the context and the inappropriateness of telling an interview candidate that I have very little business conducting the interview.

She asked me if I felt like I had a good portfolio as I head out into the world to find another job. And I said yes. Yes, because I am proud of what I've accomplished. And I think that my work is good. But what if what I think doesn't hold water in the outside world? I can make all the pronouncements I want about my pride in my job and how I think it's good...but at this point, it's ultimately someone else's opinion that's going to matter. And I do know enough about this industry to know that it has the potential to be cutthroat and catty and condescending.

I keep imagining myself across from some unbearably hip executive who is making dismissive noises paging through my portfolio. I see the doors closing behind me; feel the impending sense of failure knowing that I will not get a call back. It all reminds me of a one-act play called The Actor's Nightmare. In it, a bewildered actor bounces from scene to scene, not knowing the words or the context and inevitably muddling everything. I feel quite like that now, like I've fallen into a performance where I should know the words because I've studied the script, but in the end, that great big hook is going to come out from behind the curtain and yank my incompetent self off the stage.

Weird Six

I've been tapped by Kim to reveal some of my innate weirdness to the world. Narrowing down to six was the tough part:

1. I have an overwhelming fear that the world will run out of electricity. Sometimes when I drive at night and see all the lights on in an office building or think about all the electric signs, I feel panicked. When I had a washer/dryer and dishwasher in my first apartment, I couldn't run them at the same time without needing to leave the apartment. I can't sleep if I can hear the air or heat clicking on and off, so I'll turn the air up and the heat down to the point that it only comes on periodically.

2. I've noticed lately a few habits about numbers. I have to pump gas on the fives. It has to be $16.65 instead of $16.62. And the volume on the TV or radio has to be an even number.

3. When my sister got married five years ago, I had my first and only manicure. Before that, I wore my fingernails very, very long. The manicurist cut them pretty short, and since then, I've been unable to stand long fingernails. I had to cut my nails before I left for Salt Lake City, because I knew if they got too long on the trip, I would chew them off just to keep them short.

4. I have an undergraduate and graduate degree. Neither the college nor the university I went to had a football team. Conversely, I grew up a stone's throw from Athens, Georgia, a town obsessed with its UGA dawgs. But I have never been to a UGA football game.

5. I am obsessed with my handwriting. Perhaps it's something to do with being lefthanded, which typically makes for terrible penmanship. But I practiced and practiced and practiced until I had neat handwriting. If I start to write a note to myself on a post-it, and it looks messy, I'll throw it away and start over again.

6. I am an inherently messy person. At my house, I throw clothes and shoes around without care, leave dishes in the sink, and let the bathroom go straight past EPA standards. In a hotel, I am meticulously neat. Fastidious even. I will fold my clothes, put items back in the suitcase after use and hang up the towels in the bathroom. Perhaps I need to pretend I live in a hotel.

I'm double-tapping, but I'd love to see weirdness from Pen & M, Tom, Andi, Niki, and The Growler.

Joining the Club

Today I read Pen's and Kim's posts about worrying. Since Pen's starting a club, I figure I should probably join in. As I read through their various worries, I realized that I worry about these kinds of things every day, all day. So much so, that sometimes I let it keep me from doing the very things I need to do so that I can stop worrying about them. And sometimes I worry about things that could be solved one of those things that I just have an aversion to...like phone calls, visits to "meet with someone", trips to official places(like the DMV or the bank or the post office), anything that requires an estimates or paperwork.
Worries are like those cat hair tumbleweeds - ever present, collecting in the corners, and ready to emerge just when I think I've got them under control. All this talk about worry made me think of the way that it sometimes can be darkly funny. Like Edward Gorey and his Gashlycrumb Tinies, here for your dark amusement. And, Pen, I'll try to be a better Worry Club member than Book Club member. Just something else to worry about...

Stressed to the Nines

Today, I ran around the office like a chicken with my head cut off trying to put out one fire and then another and feeling like I was never really getting something done. I found myself saying, "If I just get through this job, I can relax." But it's not true. After that job, there will be another. And then another.

And as I was discussing with Penelope , who is a stay-at-home Wife/Mommy/Reality TV Connisseur, and Mel, who is a part-time professor, no matter what your "job" is, there will be stress. Even if you don't go somewhere to work and punch in with a boss. There will be the stress of a crying baby or a dirty bathroom or a dwindling bank account. Or, as I worried aloud to one of the women I work with the other day, retirement.

Stress is just one of those many-head monsters that has another head growing just after you've cut one off. And there's one at work and one at home. One for relationships and one for family. Stress, stress everywhere and not a drop to drink. And that's why there's beer.