That's NOT What She Said

I have this fantasy where i'm one of those smoky, sultry babes that has a witty double entendre to reply to every remark, no matter how mundane or inconsequential. In my fantasy, a routine remark on the weather can turn into a steamy make-out session in seconds, because my words are so saucy and seductive that i create an atmosphere of constant eroticism and irresistible sensuality.

In reality, the responses that usually occur to me are less "sexy and witty" and more "awkward and slightly horrifying". Fortunately for me, i manage to keep the vast majority of these remarks in my head. Fortunately for you, i have compiled them here. 

Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

John: "I'm updating my webpages."
Me: "I'm updating my vagina."
What? No. That's not sexy. That's not even a thing.

John: "I just like to manhandle you sometimes."
Me: "I like to handle your man. Your little man. Your penis."
Stop. Just stop talking. If you have to explain it this much even to yourself, it's not sexy.

more sketchy things i have done

I went to a slightly grimy Massachusetts sports bar with some friends. The bouncer was checking IDs at the door, and was giving us a hard time. I don't know if he was just in a bad mood or if he was genuinely suspicious of us, but he looked at my Maryland ID, and then glared at me, and then took his time deliberating. The next time that he peered at me in dim light of the streetlamp, i stared him down. He apologized and handed me my ID, and let us in without another word.

One time, i placed an order from Athena's Home Novelties for some body chocolate FOR A FRIEND. And when my order arrived, it was accompanied by a whole box of things that someone else had ordered and that had mistakenly been shipped to me. There was tingly lube, massage oil, a "Good Head" lollipop, a starter bondage kit, two bullet vibrators, and other assorted goodies. It took me a few days to decide whether or not it was worthwhile to let the company know of the mistake.

process story

Lately, i've been going through old poems and revising them. I've done this many times before: in high school, i revised poems from middle school; in college, i revised poems from high school; in grad school, i revised poems from college. Now that i'm more or less post-grad school, i'm revising everything.

Usually, this process is largely one of deletion. I'll pull out a line or phrase from a poem that i like and throw the rest away as irredeemable trash. I'll scratch out the main themes of a poem, rearrange the stanzas, and throw out half of it. I'll throw away whole notebooks full of boring and embarrassing scrawls. But as the years go by, i've gotten better. I've trimmed away a lot of the bad stuff and built on a lot of the good. These days, the folder on my flash drive is about 80% potential, with only 20% fluff.

This makes the revision that much harder. When you have a whole sonnet that is absolutely perfect except for one weak line, and you have to fix it without disturbing the meter, and you can't just delete it because then you'd be a line short, it can take weeks and months and even years of work before the poem is solid. Sometimes you put it away for six months or so, and then come back to it with fresh eyes. Sometimes you delete the bad line anyway and decide that the poem makes a stronger statement as a partial sonnet. Sometimes you start dreaming in iambic pentameter and wake up sobbing, declaring that you will only write in free verse from now on.

I'm at the point now where i actually have two poetry folders, one marked "in progress" and one marked "ready". When i want to send in some submissions, i pull from the "ready" folder. In between submission periods, i work on moving things from "in progress" to "ready". Sometimes i find things i'd forgotten about. Sometimes i go looking for something that i can't find, completely forgetting that i renamed it on the last round of revisions. And sometimes, even now, i delete and delete and delete.

It feels strange to be so business-like about editing my work. I mean, my primary goal is simply to make each poem as good as it possibly can be, but i am aware that the better my poetry is, the better chance it has of getting published. And getting published would be pretty sweet. Despite my strong identification with Emily Dickinson, it would be nice to have some recognition while i'm alive, however slight and passing.

It just somehow feels like it should be against the rules or something, you know? It's like i'm grading my own paper. I'm sorting through my poems and reading them and deciding which ones are good enough to edit and which are not, and then i'm editing them and deciding which ones are good enough to publish. I've never had anything published in my life! It's not okay for me to do this! This is supposed to be someone else's job!

I mean, technically, just because i think something is good to go doesn't mean anyone else will ever agree. I've sent things out before that i thought were pretty good, that other people thought were pretty good, that published, award-winning poets told me should be sent out, and had them firmly rejected. So i don't have the deciding vote or anything, but i feel a little bit like the Chief of Staff, deciding what goes on the President's desk and what gets handled by an underling. And i'm like, I just registered to vote yesterday and I can't remember the difference between Congress and the House of Representatives. I really feel like there should be another layer of authority between me and the President. But apparently i'm a grown-up now, and i have to decide these things for myself. So if you see anything published under my name, thank Obama, i guess.

I think i lost track of my metaphor a little bit at the end there.

In the Name of Jesus, part two

Okay so, if i'm being honest? I kind of hated this book. Honestly, i don't even have things i can point to and say, "Here! This is why it is bad! Bad theology! Bad writing! Bad sexism!" or anything like that. It's an extraordinarily mild and inoffensive book. It sort of reminds me of Velveeta: not a lot of flavor, not a lot of substance, and you can't really explain why you hate it (aside from all the chemicals and sodium and whatnot). I don't think this book is wrong. I don't think it's dangerous or offensive. I just think it's really boring.

Two things i will comment on,  however. First, the conclusion:

Nouwen has spent this whole book telling us that it is important for ministry to be communal, that we must find ministry partners and let go of the temptation to be relevant or powerful or a rock star. He has also spent a large chunk of the book talking about the huge change in his thinking and attitude when he started living and working with the disabled. And then he concludes with a story about going to a conference where he was supposed to give a talk with another person. The other person that had been assigned to him was Bill, one of the residents of the home for the disabled. When Nouwen was preparing his presentation, he prepared it alone, and he assumed he would be giving it alone. This despite the fact that it was composed largely of ideas and theories and teachings that he had already presented and worked through in the home; in other words, material that Bill was already familiar with. In fact, he was surprised when they got to the conference and Bill joined him on stage with every expectation of being an equal part of the presentation.

Because he hadn't prepared anything for Bill, or asked Bill to prepare anything for himself, or even considered the possibility that Bill might be an active participant in the presentation, Bill's role ended up being this: he helped Nouwen turn the pages of his notes and collect the ones he was done with, and he occasionally threw in interjections like, "I've heard that before!" Afterwards, he took the microphone and told the group that he was glad to be there with them.

Bill was selected by the community to be Nouwen's partner in ministry for this conference. The community clearly thought he had something to offer. Yet Nouwen did not approach this as a group presentation, but as a solo event. And his whole attitude seems to be, "Hey, look how neat it is that Bill found his own special snowflake way to participate!" rather than, "Wow, I'm an idiot. I should have prepared WITH him."

Seems like Nouwen still has some growing to do.

The second thing? The book is a small paperback, just over a hundred pages, with wide margins and a ton of white space. Each new chapter/section starts about halfway down the page, and every few pages there is a blank page with a small illustration and a quote pulled from this very book. It is a very small book, and doesn't really have a whole lot of text in it, is what i am saying.

It is $14.95.

guilty pleasures: music

I listen to lots of different kinds of music. Classic rock, indie rock, pop rock, pop, worship, classical, singer-songwriter, folk rock -- okay. Maybe i listen to lots of different kinds of rock. Also show tunes.

I like to think that i have pretty discerning taste. I don't like country, i don't like Justin Beiber or Ke$ha, i like lyrical jazz but elevator music does nothing for me, i don't like "boy bands", i grew up on Billy Joel and The Beach Boys and Styx, the first CD i bought with my own money was Avril Lavig -- um. I was thirteen, okay?

And there are some things i like that other people think are terrible, but that i think have redeeming qualities. Like, i really love Amy Grant, especially the super corny 80s love songs (Ev'ry heartbeat bears your name/Loud and clear they stake my claim, yeah/My red blood runs true blue/And every heartbeat belongs to you!). It's catchy, you can sing along without straining your vocal cords, the love is pure and happy rather than desperate and clingy or pathetic and stalkerish *coughcoughTaylorSwiftcoughcough*, and there's the nostalgic association of turning up the volume on the cassette player as loud as it would go while we cleaned the kitchen.

But there are some things i like that are unabashedly terrible. I won't even try to pretend that there are hidden redeeming qualities in these: they are bad, awful, terrible songs, and i love them for that.

1. Girls & Boys, Good Charlotte
Girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money
Boys will laugh at girls when they're not funny
And these girls like these boys like these boys like these girls
The girls with the bodies like boys with Ferraris
Girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money

Are there girls who are shallow and selfish and only want something material out of their relationship? Sure. Are there boys who are shallow and selfish and only want something material out of their relationship? Sure. Is there a lot of nonsense in the lyrics for the sake of rhyme and/or meter? Absolutely. But this song is just so FUN!

2. If We Were A Movie, Miley Cyrus
If we were a movie
You'd be the right guy
And I'd be the best friend
That you'd fall in love with
In the end, we'd be laughing
Watching the sunset
Fade to black, show the names
Play that happy song

Yeah, the chorus is really just a summary of All The Chick Flicks. And the verses aren't much better. The whole thing could have been summed up in a snarky, longing, 140-character tweet that would not necessitate hearing Miley's voice. I guess you'll never know/That I should win/An Oscar for this scene I'm in. It hurts so good.

3. Keep Your Hands To Yourself, The Georgia Satellites
I got a little change in my pocket, goin' ching-a-ling-a-ling
Wanna call you on the telephone baby, give you a ring
But each time we talk, I get the same old thing
Always "No huggy, no kissy, until I get a wedding ring."
My honey, my baby, don't put my love up on no shelf
She said, "Don't give me no lines, and keep your hands to yourself!"

Not nearly as classy or high-quality or enduring as Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young", this song nevertheless has the same message and is awfully catchy. And anyone who's ever been to any kind of abstinence rally/meeting/Sunday School lesson/conversation with your parents will find the lady's side of the conversation awfully familiar. That's when she told me some story 'bout free milk and a cow. Also, i think her repeated line (Don't give me no lines, and keep your hands to yourself!) is pretty kick-ass.

4. I Like Cows, Johnny Socko
I like cows
But not to eat them
I like cows
I like to greet them
Cows are fun
You shouldn't put them on a hamburger bun
Or on the grill of your car
Or on the grill in your back yard
I like cows.

The lyrics only get more absurd from there, and the vocal performance is overwhelmingly bad. It's almost to bad too even be entertaining. The pinnacle of the whole performance is toward the end of the song, when Johnny gets more and more amped up until he is screaming, over and over, "I! Like! Cows! I like them! I! Like! Cows! I like them!" I don't even like listening to this song to laugh at it. I mostly just like knowing that it exists and i could theoretically access it if i wanted to.

5. Sorry For Freaking Out On The Phone Last Night, The Mr. T. Experience

Guess what the first line of the song is. No, go ahead and guess. Did you guess that it was Sorry for freaking out on the phone last night? Yeah. It is. As with Johnny Socko, i just like knowing that this song (and band! The Mr. T. Experience!) exists.

6. The entire REO Speedwagon Christmas album, Not So Silent Night: The First Noel, Silent Night, Deck the Halls, Little Drummer Boy, The White Snows of Winter, Angels We Have Heard On High, Children Go Where I Send Thee, I'll Be Home For Christmas, Joy to the World. It's surreal and terrible and i play it every Christmas. In my office. I'm generous that way.

sharing is caring

On October 8 2011, i was cleaning my room. It was a Saturday, and my boyfriend was rehearsing on campus. He was planning to come over during the afternoon break for . . . Well, for some afternoon delight. I was cleaning my room and watching the West Wing; i like to have the TV on in the background while i work. I put on a DVD of a show i've seen a million times and i grade papers, or write papers, or cook, or clean. And this particular episode was 'In Excelsis Deo'. When my sister called to say that Adam had been blown up, it didn't really make sense to me right away. My roommate walked by as i was hanging up the phone. Sensing that something was wrong, she asked what was going on.
"My brother was just blown up," i said. And i laughed a little: isn't it ridiculous? My brother, getting blown up? Isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard? Big things hit me slowly.
It wasn't until half an hour or so later when John came into the room that it really sank in. I began to tell him what had happened, and i began to cry. He took me in his arms and sat on the edge of the bed and held me. And then the funeral scene in the episode began.
"Sobbing" is not the word for what i did then. "Bawling" is closer the mark, but still doesn't quite hit it. You have to use old, outdated vocabulary to come close to my reaction to that funeral scene: keening, lamenting, wailing. John jumped up and turned off the TV.
A year and a half later, after my brother completed the Boston marathon, after the marathon was the focus of a terrorist attack, after i was stranded in Boston and then in Revere, trying to get back home, after i finally got home and then went to work all day, Mark Oshiro posted his review of 'In Excelsis Deo'. Everything comes full circle.

Those who have experienced mental illness first-hand will probably see flashes of themselves in this post. Those who have not experienced it themselves but have seen it in a loved one might find this interesting. Those who have no experience, either first- or second-hand, with mental illness are first of all either lying or deluded, and second of all should still read this for the writing.

Sometimes, commercials are just plain dumb. And sometimes, they're a little bit worse than dumb.

But this almost makes up for it.

I fell in love with Kate Inglis' writing last year in a way i haven't fallen for words in a long time, in a way where i want to kill her so her talent can stop eclipsing mine and i want to sit at her feet and learn from her and i want to be her pen pal and friend and i want to write something that will impress her and i want to quit writing so there's no chance of overshadowing her brilliance and i want to quit everything and just read her words, all of them, even her journals and shopping lists and birthday cards. And here, she marries words with images and rekindles that first flame. She doesn't post often these days, but the posts are well worth waiting for.

And the brilliant and lovely Hayley Campbell posts a second collection of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. Not to be confused with Men Call Me Things, though i'd argue that they are related, Hayley's transcripts of actual conversations is hilarious and terrifying and acidic and very very typical.

Emily Angelou? Maya Dickinson? Emilya Dickelou? Mayily Angeson?

A few nights ago, my boyfriend and i were getting ready for bed, and he asked me to tell him a story. He does that from time to time, and it never goes well; i'm not good at spontaneous story-telling, and anyway i mostly write non-narrative poems, so it's completely out of my wheelhouse. So i always ask him what kind of story he wants, and he always says, "I don't know; you're the writer," and then i tell him that i don't do that kind of writing, and then he whines, and then i snuggle him to sleep.

But the most recent time, when i asked him what kind of story he wanted, he said, "One that would make a lot of money."
I laughed. "If i had a story that would make a lot of money, don't you think i would have sold it by now?"
"No, because you write poetry," he countered.

Ignoring the irony embodied in his own words, i had a flashback to senior year. In our senior seminar class, we had an assignment designed to make us seriously consider our career prospects as English majors. (Hint: they are not bright.) Those of us on the Creative Writing track had to research the market, look at publishing houses and magazines and journals and calls for submissions and find out what was profitable, what our demographic was, what our chances were for success. There were four graduating English seniors that year: two Literary Analysis, one Creative Writing (fiction), and one Creative Writing (poetry). The fiction writer was writing a Christian teen romance novel which will almost certainly sell. I thought it was okay: fluffy beach fiction with structurally sound but stylistically flat writing. But that hasn't gotten in anyone else's way, so she has a good shot. Anyway, when it was my turn to talk about success in the poetry field, the professor called in some other experts.

So we sat there, me and Beach Fiction and the two Literary Analysts, and Benji and McCann (published poets, both), and KP, and we talked about what it means to be a successful poet.
"Emily Dickinson never published anything in her life," McCann pointed out.
"And Maya Angelou made a million dollars last year because she sold out to work for Hallmark," Benji added.

Then there was a debate about Maya Angelou, and whether her more popular, money-making poetry was as good as her earlier work, and whether any of it was as good as Emily Dickinson's work, and whether either of them would be read in another fifty or a hundred years, and does success as a poet mean that you get published and are famous in your own time, or that you're still read after your death, or both? Or what if you never get the recognition you deserve, but you're still talented and you feel good about your body of work? What does it mean to be a successful poet?

I've been looking at submission calls again lately and getting depressed. It's hard and scary and heartbreaking and awkward and forward to just send people your poems and ask to get them published. And what's the upside? You get published and then you have to start sending things out again? You get a ten dollar check and a free magazine and you can't tell anyone about it because the poem they picked is the one where you yell at your mom or the one about the time you had to buy Plan B? You get published and then some other random publication actually asks you for work and then you have to find something that's polished and ready to go? And then you've published all of your stuff and then you have to write more? And what if you only had ten good poems in you and then you've sent them all out and then you're faced with the inevitable truth that you suck, that that part of your life is over, that you'll spend the rest of your life showing visitors the laminated magazine page with your poem on it and serving people coffee? You send out a submission packet and promptly die of embarrassment and anxiety?

Still, my workshop requires me to turn things in every week for review. And when i'm applying for English teacher jobs, it looks good if i have some publishing credits on my résumé. And knowing is better than not knowing. And even ten bucks is better than nothing. And who knows? Maybe i'll be some kind of Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover: an introverted white lady who doesn't title her poems and makes some money off of them while she's still alive. Okay, so i guess that's less of a Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover and more of a Profitable Emily Dickinson, but whatever.

Hey, remember when i used to write about the Bible?

Yeah. It's been about a month now. And part of that is that i was reading through Kings and Chronicles which, if you didn't know, are basically just lists of names. And then occasionally there's a small story, usually about someone killing someone, and then more names.

The other thing is, God and i have been kind of in a fight lately. I've been trying to figure out the point of this whole religion thing, like, you can still be a good person without being religious, so why take on all the extra guilt? And i have universalist leanings, so i'm not certain that you absolutely have to belong to any specific religion to go to Heaven. And i'm not sure i believe in Hell, or that Hell is eternal, so why the panic? I mean, the whole Jesus thing works really well for me, and i love Him and am glad to be in a relationship with Him, but i struggle to articulate why anyone else should be. And in the midst of all of these questions, four people died in the last thirty days. I mean, a hell of a lot more than four, but these particular four were in my boyfriend's life, and two of them were in my life as well. Obviously he's been through a lot more than i have in the last month, but i've been through the wringer, too. And when he hurts, i hurt, so it's been a really hurty month. And meanwhile in Bible study, we're talking about the not-so-warm-and-fuzzy images and stories of God, like when He fucked up Job's life for no real reason, or all of the many, many, many children that He's killed or injured for no good reason, or the whole question of Hell and Salvation and what's the point of all of it anyway, and what is God getting out of humanity that He cares what we do, anyway?

And i haven't been writing about it, because it's all still too close and fragile, and i need to gain some perspective before i can really see the journey and tell anyone about it. But also, i felt weird writing about it, like i was telling you about a fight with my boyfriend, but bigger than that. Like it was too personal, and the whole internet is already such a weird peephole place and i didn't feel like this was a sideshow that everyone needed to see.

But.

When my boyfriend and i started dating, i would refer a lot to other couples we knew. This drove him INSANE. (I'm pretty sure he still thinks it's weird and inappropriate, but he puts up with it somewhat now.) One time he said, "These couples are not us. Why do you keep talking about everyone else's relationship instead of ours?" And i said, "I like to cite my sources." He gave me this look that was half, "Oh, wow, that makes perfect sense," and half, "Oh, my God, what have I gotten myself into?!" The point is, we all live in community, and we all learn from and relate to one another and come to understand ourselves through sharing stories. I know there have been times when someone told me a relationship story and i thought, "That's me and John exactly! It all makes sense now!" And there have even been times when someone told me a relationship story that didn't connect with me at all, but then later on i ran into something similar and it clicked.

And there have been times when i read a Bible story, or religious blog, or talked to a friend about God, and realized, "That is what i'm going through with God. It all makes sense now." Or it didn't connect with me at all, but then later on something came up and it clicked.

I still don't really know how to write about this fight i'm in with God, this lover's quarrel/professional dispute/filial unrest/academic debate/what-have-you. I don't know which parts are relevant, which parts are helpful. I don't know which parts are which, even, because it's still happening to me and it's overwhelming. But i will continue on this journey, and i will write about it.

Here's what i can tell you right now: i still love God. I still know that He loves me. We're still in a relationship and trying to work things out. I'm getting into some of my favorite parts of the Old Testament soon, so normal posting can resume.

vocabulary lesson: mourning

We say some weird shit to people when someone dies.

Like, "I'm sorry." I used to hate this one. I always thought, "Sorry for what? You didn't kill them." Of course, what they mean is, "I feel sad that you are sad," but that's an awkward thing to say. Maybe just don't say anything? Maybe just give them a hug and bake them cookies or something? Because a huge part of caring about another person is being sad that they are sad. Which means that, when someone dies, it's sort of implied in the nature of your relationship that you feel sad that they are sad. So maybe instead of making awkward and incomplete statements about your feelings, just put your feelings on display. Show, don't tell. And if you're not so close that you hurt when they hurt, maybe just say something like, "That's so sad."

Another weird one is when you (the mourner) are crying/distracted/otherwise upset, and you apologize. I was talking about this one with my pastor yesterday, actually. He was saying how messed up it is that when someone you love dies and you express appropriate emotion over that fact, you somehow feel like you have to apologize to the people around you, who presumably didn't have a relationship with the deceased, or they would be crying too and would therefore require no apology? It's so weird! Like, "I'm sad because of something in my life that doesn't really touch you, and I'm sorry that --" What? Sorry that I'm sad? Sorry that i'm expressing my feelings? Sorry that i have feelings that you are not a part of? There is nothing to apologize for. So my pastor has decided that he won't be apologizing for that anymore, and neither will i.

Here's my favorite: the empathetic backdoor . . . It's not really a backdoor brag, i guess, but it's a backdoor something. Like this morning, when i was talking to some people in my office about taking time off of work to go to Bryan's funeral. One of the people i had to talk to outranks me, but isn't my boss exactly, but she runs campus visits and i sit at the front desk, so when i'm out and people visit it's awkward. So we were talking, and she knew Bryan a little, so she was like, "I didn't even know he was sick, it's so sad, blah blah blah." And i'm like, "Yeah, he was diagnosed about a year and a half, two years ago. Colon cancer. It was stage 4 when they found it, so we knew he probably wouldn't make it." And she's like, "Yeah, I have a friend who was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer, too, about a year and a half ago. And they did all kinds of treatments, and chemo and surgery and everything, and they ended up removing most of her liver. Because the cancer had spread to her liver. But, you know, she made it, and she's doing okay now." Um. Congratulations on your friend being on the other side of the statistic? What the fuck is the point of telling me this story?

Let people have their grief, okay? If you want to let them know that you know what they're going through, just say, "I know what you're going through," and don't elaborate. Especially if your story demonstrates that you DON'T, that you CAN'T, know what they're going through.

Also awkward is all of the euphemisms we use. I know that just saying "He died" is too harsh, too abrupt, but sometimes the euphemisms make you downright incomprehensible. When we got the news about Bryan, i texted one of his friends to let her know. At a loss for words, i said, "Bryan went home." "Home?" she asked. "His forever home," i clarified. On the other side of it, i once wrote a Facebook status update about my brother's progress in the hospital, and i said that he had passed a test, and someone told me that i scared them because they saw "Adam passed" and thought he was dead. Do all of these death euphemisms actually make people feel better? And if so, why? Which one is the best? "Passed, passed on, gone, gone home, passed over, left us, no longer with us, gone on," etc., etc.?

I mean, that's the reality, is that they're dead. And honestly, some of these euphemisms are almost worse. Bryan went home, huh? I know that theologically it's sound, but it's also kind of a shitty sentiment: was he so out of place here that it wasn't a home for him at all? Ever? Not even a little bit? Was there no moment in 27 years when he thought, "I belong here"? Or when we say that someone has passed, i always think of ghost stories where they talk about spirits passing over. It seems creepy and impersonal. Death is so black-and-white, so cut-and-dried, and i find that comforting. There's no room for equivocation, no room for political correctness or white lies or tact or passive-aggression. It simply is what it is. Everything else in life is so fraught and angsty and layered, but death is just death.

In other words, it's been one hell of a month, and i have lost the ability to talk about it "appropriately". The vocabulary i use and the stories i hear or tell don't change my feelings, and it's not my job to protect anyone else's feelings from reality.

Judges 11-21, Ruth, 1 Samuel 1-24

Saul often gets a tough break when we talk about the kings of Israel. He was the first one, and he was followed by David, who was the favorite of God and ancestor of Christ and all kinds of other impressive things. Plus there was that whole thing where Saul was jealous and kept trying to kill David, and when they were picking a king Saul hid because he didn't want to be considered, and he lied and was cowardly and violent and rude. He started out as God's anointed, but everything went pear-shaped somehow.

According to the text, God sent "a distressing spirit" to Saul. In fact, according to 1 Samuel 16:14, God actually left Saul before sending the distressing spirit.

God left Saul and sent spirits to distress him, and then Saul started acting crazy. Let's put two and two together here. This goes along with some of the frustrations i've felt toward God lately: God sends spirits to trouble people and then they are judged by their peers and by history for a judgement God visited upon them.

I know Saul was not blameless. I just think it's a good idea to approach the people around us with grace. Who knows what kind of spirit God might have sent to them?

shopping 12/10

• half and half
• Degree clinical strength deodorant (2 pack)
• Frank's Red Hot wing sauce
• white bra
• nude bra
• grey bra

shopping 11/27

• silver, green, & red gift bags & tissue paper
• cat carrier
• pregnancy test
• milk
• half and half
• sugar
• brown sugar
• laundry detergent

good thing i'm already hell-bound

My former pastor posted an article on my Facebook today about how reading fiction can deepen spiritual (specifically Christian) practices and experiences. I commented that it was an interesting piece, and that i had had a recent discussion with a friend about the one book (besides the Bible) that has had the biggest impact on my spiritual life. That one book was The Things They Carried.

Well, Pastor got really excited and decided he had to check it out. He recommended another book to me (one about the Gospels), and then told me he had added The Things They Carried to his Amazon wish list.

Now, here's the thing: Those of you who haven't read The Things They Carried, shame on you. Read it now. In the meantime, i should tell you that it is not, explicitly, a spiritual book. It's a work of metafiction, focused on one man's experiences in the Vietnam War. And it is not delicate in its handling of the life of a soldier.

There is a lot of foul language, is what i'm saying. There is also a lot of violence, anger, depression, frank discussion of wounds and diseases and what would lead a man to shoot his own toe off just to escape the horror of it all.

This is not a beautiful redemption tale. Nor is it a metaphor for finding God everywhere, even in a (quite literal) field full of shit. It is not something that most people would see a whole lot of spirituality in, of any religion.

But i wasn't kidding when i talked about the huge spiritual impact this book has had on me. I've mentioned it before in reference to interpreting Scriptures. It really did help me approach the Bible in a whole new way. The Things They Carried, more than any other book except the Bible, has changed my life.

Here's where the "going-to-hell" part comes in: i didn't talk to my former pastor about any of this. I briefly considered warning him about the language, the coarseness, the vulgarity and grittiness and darkness and indelicacy and horror. I thought about letting him know that this is not like C. S. Lewis or Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Joni Erickson Tada.

But then i imagined this very conservative, fairly uptight, appearances-oriented middle-aged pastor settling down in Starbucks with his coffee and his sermon notes and a shiny new copy of The Things They Carried, and i pictured his face somewhere around the sixth F-bomb.

And i said nothing.

Lazarus Redux

Okay, if this is really the same mouse being reincarnated over and over, he must have been Hitler or something in a previous life, because he has been through hell.

He came back again a few days ago. Charlotte was chasing him around my room. I got her away from him and tried to encourage him to run and hide. When he wouldn't move, i looked closer. His back legs had both been damaged as Charlotte played with him. He could still use his front legs, but he was not strong enough or fast enough to drag himself over the lintel, run away from Charlotte (who was camped out just outside of the door), and find safety in the attic or basement or walls.

Charlotte doesn't know how to kill mice quickly. She only knows how to play with them to death. I know that this is not exactly cruelty, not the same as if it were me playing with the mouse to death. I know that this is the natural order of things, that cats play with mice and birds and other things to death every day, that i don't know anything about the pain that mice feel or remember. I know that i didn't buy or capture a mouse specifically for her to play with, that the mouse wandered into our house and found an unexpected cat. I know that there is no reason to fret myself over this one tiny life, that this one mouse was even less than a drop in the bucket of suffering in the world.

But i couldn't let her keep playing with the mouse. I couldn't sit quietly at my desk, hearing the pained, frightened shrieks of the mouse. I knew that even if i got the mouse safely away from Charlotte, there was still a good chance that he would find his way back in, or that she would find another mouse. But i couldn't do nothing.

I found an empty box. I gently scooped the mouse up with my hands and placed it in the box. I put on pants and took him outside. As i watched him dragging himself slowly up the hill, i thought about the other cats i'd seen in the neighborhood. I thought about owls, dogs, raccoons. I knew that this mouse would not be able to feed himself, protect himself, that he would likely die even more slowly out here than he would have if left to Charlotte's tender mercies. But i couldn't sit and listen to his dying cries.

It occurred to me that the merciful thing might be to find a large, heavy rock, and put the mouse out of his misery. The thought made me physically ill. I could almost imagine myself doing it, but then i realized that there was a chance it might take more than one blow. I couldn't do that, for certain. One blow i could perhaps manage, but i was not capable of slowly beating the life out of Lazarus.

Was my own psychological suffering worth more than his physical pain? Was it more important to protect myself from sorrow and nightmares than to make him comfortable?

But i couldn't do it. I know my limits, and i had reached them. I decided to wait until someone else was home, someone who might be able to stomach it. But by then, when i went back out into the yard, Lazarus was gone.

So now there's this happening.

Moodle is an online system that allows students and professors to connect, share information, and go paperless. It is one of several such systems; my alma mater (where i am currently employed) uses Moodle. It's a great system in a lot of ways: changes to the syllabus can be immediately posted in an accessible place, make-up dates for snow days or other delays can likewise be posted, and assignments can be updated. Students can turn in work electronically, ensuring a time stamp and eliminating wasted paper. It is also possible to lock the assignment window after a certain date, ensuring that students can't turn in assignments late. It has many wonderful features, and it would be a perfect system if it would only work properly.

In four years as an undergraduate student and one year as a grad student/employee, i have seen innumerable Moodle issues. The site cannot be fully accessed from IE, despite the fact that IE is the only browser that fully supports the other three online systems that the school uses. It sometimes crashes. It often gets confused about login credentials and blocks all attempts of everyone to use it.

And today, it is sending me quizzes from a marine biology course.

I am not teaching marine biology this semester. I am not the TA for marine biology this semester. I have never even taken marine biology. In fact, i took a regular bio course in high school and have never studied biology since. Yet for some reason, as these students submit their completed quizzes to Moodle, the quizzes are being sent to me for grading.

UPDATE: Turns out, this particular professor has been using Moodle for his class quizzes for years. This semester, as he was setting up the page, he did exactly the same things that he has always done, and the quizzes are rocketing all over the place. I've gotten two so far, the VP of Student Development has gotten a few, our data technician has gotten some. The professor has gotten none.

Wednesdays are swiftly becoming book writing days, huh? It's mostly unintentional, but maybe i should make it official. We'll see.

Anyway. This is a brief post, just to say this: four years after penning what i thought was the final installment in my series of fairy tales, i am contemplating a new one. As i read back through the old stories, i realized something important. While i have worked hard to both preserve and break the classic structures, my fairy tales are still not as feminist-empowering, equal-rights, civil-liberties, freedom-and-justice-for-all as i would like them to be. I'm remedying that now, rewriting descriptions of some characters to make them non-White races, tweaking characters to make them more independent and powerful, giving my queens and princesses just as much power, authority, and freedom as my kings and princes. But it's still not enough.

So i'm crossing the final frontier and attempting to write a same-sex fairy tale where one princess rescues another, so that they can live happily ever after.

I'm nervous about this for two reasons, one way more noble than the other.

The first, more noble reason, is that i'm not gay. I'm not even bi-curious. I'm about as straight as it is possible to be. I'm not sure how to write from the perspective of a lesbian princess. I don't want to get anything wrong. I don't want anyone to be hurt, or confused, or offended, by what i write. If i'm going to get angry letters, i want them to be from Christian fundamentalists who are condemning me for contributing to the decline of morality in our nation, not from angry lesbians who insist that i stop trying to represent something i know nothing about. I understand that it can be a really tricky area. I've read things written by well-meaning men in strong support of women and women's rights and feminism and so forth that still set my teeth on edge. I don't want to be "that guy".

The second reason is that i know damn well that including a lesbian romance in my story will make it harder to find a publisher. Publishers don't want to get angry letters from anyone, whether Christian fundamentalists or lesbians. Publishers don't want bookstores to refuse to buy their stock. Bookstores don't want to be boycotted or to have to pull stock that isn't moving or is causing controversy. I don't want to lose money because i'm trying to write a fair story.

But at the end of the day, i'm going to say "fuck it". Because my concerns assume that someone somewhere will want to publish my book, and that if they decide not to, it will be out of fear of retribution and lost money, and that's pretty arrogant of me. Because i'm not doing this to make money or to be famous, but because when i try to sleep at night my head buzzes with the stories i haven't told. Because i'd rather write well than sell well. Because my need to be honest is greater than my need to succeed. Because the world needs more positive models of feminine strength and healthy relationships, even if those models are both women. Because this is one more story that has buzzed its way into my brain and heart, and i know i won't be able to move on until i've told it.

I may post excerpts here as i work on it. Or i may not. We'll see.

So glad i could help.

This woman just walked into my office and announced, "I'm not in the right place."
I started to ask her where she was trying to go, so that i could direct her appropriately, but she kept talking.
"Where are they registering people?"
I started to ask what she meant -- registering for classes, or checking into their dorm rooms? -- when she started talking again.
"The gym. They're doing registration in the gym."
"Okay," i said, overjoyed to finally have something to contribute. "Do you know where the gym is?"
"Yes. I need to speak to Steve McLean. His office is upstairs?"
"Yes, it is."
"Okay. Thank you!"
Um. You're welcome?

She came back later, breezed past me, and went straight to my boss' office. Fortunately, he was not there. She then came back over to me and asked if Ashley was around.
"Ashley Rivers?" i asked, referencing one of our enrollment counselors.
"Ashley O'Donnell," she replied, heading toward the door. "Ashley. Ashley Rivers?"
"Um," i said, unsure at this point what her question was or how to answer it, "Ashley Rivers does work here. She was in here earlier this morning, but I haven't seen her since. I think she's gone for the day."
"Okay. Thanks!"

I'm still not totally confident that i contributed anything meaningful or useful to her day, but she was spending her day power walking around a college campus, trying to meet with the wrong people, and carrying several large beach balls. So i'm not sure that there was anything anyone could have done to make her day more meaningful or useful.

So i guess the moral of the story is that my grandmother is a cougar. And i was a sexy, if somewhat androgynous, 14-year-old.

Gay guys always tell me i'm pretty. Like, lots of different gay guys in lots of different contexts at different times and places. And they are not always drunk in a dimly-lit room at the time.

I was always highly complimented by this. Like, "They don't even like girls and they still think i'm attractive!" But it recently occurred to me that maybe they just think i look like a hot guy. Which has been said of me before. By my grandmother.

When i was fourteen, i cut my own bangs. I had cut my own hair before, most notably my eyelashes (story for another day. Actually, no: one time, i cut my own eyelashes. End of story), but up until this point, most of my experience was with cutting Barbie hair. However, i did a decent job of it. They were a heavy, straight-across fringe that, according to my crazy friend Renee, made me look like a little like Anck Su Namun.

Except my boobs were bigger. And usually covered by more than pasties and gold body paint.

However, my mom hated them.

For about a year, i'd been toying with the idea of getting a pixie cut. My hair is very thick, and Maryland gets very humid in the summer (like, from late April through mid October). Also, i was lazy and self-conscious and didn't want to spend hours every day trying to get my hair to look good. That was time i could spend knitting or re-reading Harry Potter or talking to a cat. I figured a pixie cut would be cute, comfortable, easy to maintain, and would give me a hip, rock-and-roll edge over my much cooler friends. (I was homeschooled and fourteen. Shut up.)

My mom decided that this was the perfect opportunity to talk me into making the leap. I was nervous, but consoled myself with the thought that hair always grows back. We went to a salon and i picked out a style. I was completely thrilled with the look and comfort, although less than thrilled with the sticky styling waxes and clays the stylist recommended. Can't i just comb it and air-dry, like boys do? Have we invented metrosexuality already?

The next day, at Wednesday evening prayer service, i was wearing a slightly baggy t-shirt and my hair had that "I-got-a-new-haircut-yesterday-and-have-no-idea-how-to-style-it" look. My grandmother was sitting on the other side of the (very small) sanctuary. My mom was chatting with her before the service, and Mommom asked her who the good-looking young man was sitting next to my brother. My mom glanced over, and then looked back at Mommom and said, "That's Diana."

Whatever, Mommom. That haircut landed me the Abercrombie model-lookalike who worked in the grocery store, okay? And he was totally hot and older and not even homeschooled and my sister saw him recently and said she thinks he's gay now and -- oh, fuuuuuuuuu . . .

Why I Can't Go Out In Public 2

Or maybe i just shouldn't go to Fuji anymore. Clearly, i get in a lot of trouble at that restaurant.

Clarissa and i were having lunch there a few weeks ago, as a combination farewell date/sushi eating lesson. I hadn't been sleeping and, if i remember correctly, hadn't had my coffee that day. Consequently, i was a little out of it.

This thing, but less crumpled and more folded. And more soaked in Coke.

As we chatted and i sipped my soda, i glanced at the glass and noticed something white in the ice cubes. I very smoothly and surreptitiously fished it out as Clarissa was telling me a story, and unfolded it. It was the wrapper from my chopsticks.

I stared at it for a moment, until Clarissa noticed i wasn't listening anymore and looked to see what had distracted me.

"Did you just take that out of your drink?" she asked.
"Yeah," i said, still bemused.
"Do you want to get a new drink?"

Here's the thing about Fuji: the soda comes in a can. They bring you a can and a glass of ice with a straw. So it would have been difficult for them to miss it a folded chopstick wrapper shoved into the ice cubes. Then again, i missed it and it was my soda. But still, where did the lighter fluid chopstick wrapper come from? (Arrested Development? Anybody?)

I thought about all of this for a moment. I also tried to remember what i had done with my wrapper when i removed it from my chopsticks.

"Um, no," i said at last. "It's just a wrapper, and i've already been drinking from it, so i can't imagine that i'll suffer any ill effects. Plus, i'm not really a hundred percent certain that i didn't put it in there myself and just forget."

Clarissa stared at me wordlessly for a minute.

"I'm really tired," i explained. "I do weird things sometimes when i'm tired."

But you know what, Clarissa? It's not even that weird. People do things like that all the time: leave their car keys in the freezer, put the empty cereal box back on the shelf, forget their child at WalMart, whatever. Sometimes you get distracted and do something that seems logical at the time and only strikes you as odd in hindsight. So stop judging.

And by the way, totally still alive. So it was fine. And i ate at Fuji today and spilled nothing and found no weird things in my drink. So, progress?

Overheard in the Office 19

"I hate soda. It, like, burns me going down." (said as she massaged her throat)