The One... The Only... The Vieve

Here kitty-kitty

The past few days, I've been having cat visions. Not hallucinating about cats, really, but all of a sudden I'll have this very intense desire to have one sitting on my lap, or twining itself around my legs, or butting up against my arm. It's not a matter of consciously thinking, "Hey, I should get a cat"; it's more like the other night, when I was sitting on Chris's couch, about to watch The Amazing Race, when I felt very strongly, "I should have a cat sitting on my lap right now." It's not thinking, it's feeling, unbidden and seemingly out of nowhere. And it keeps happening.

Makes me think there's a kitty out there somewhere in the universe, looking for me.

There's usually nothing more boring than other people's dreams, but oh well

The plane was coming in for a landing, swooping low over the city. (I've had a lot of similar plane dreams in the past year.) I could see the pilot, and I could see past him to the whole 180-degree vista ahead of us. We clipped one of the wires on the suspension bridge, but that didn't seem to be a problem. Didn't concern me, strangely. We approached the runway, but were going too fast and so touched down for just a second, the pilot lifting the plane up again, presumably to circle around and try again. I hate landings, hate the sudden bump and rattle and whoosh of wind. This landing was not going well, and I was scared. I don't know how it ended, because my dream flitted to some other corner of my psyche.

I was with a former friend/acquaintance, someone I don't speak to anymore. He was talking to me, being very bossy and condescending and really pissing me off. All of a sudden, I started screaming at him, all of my frustrations and anger rushing out, until my throat got scratchy and hoarse. He didn't take it too well, and I felt guilty, but also relieved. (I must be very angry about something or at someone, but I'm not exactly sure who/what it is. If you think it might be you, let me know. IF YOU DARE. I have quite a set of lungs on me, at least in my subconscious.)

At some point in this mess of emotions and neuroses, I decided I was going to move next month. Quit my job, give up my apartment, and take off, I think somewhere West. I didn't have any concrete plans--no job, no particular place to go--but I felt resolute in my decision, even though people were trying to dissuade me. It was freeing, and frightening, and exciting. I have these "running away" dreams every once in a while, and lately I've been daydreaming about moving to California to grow avocados. I do love avocados.

Accomplished

Yesterday was remarkably productive. Here's a (very very fascinating) sampling of what I did:

1. Went to the gym (about 5 miles on the bike, 15 minutes of Power Abs, leg machines, free weights for arms and shoulders)
2. Did a load of laundry
3. Paid some bills
4. Discovered I can e-file my federal tax return for free
5. Went to work, where I finished my copyedit and had about two hours of somewhat-productive meetings
6. Probed my psyche for 50 minutes
7. Won an award from my coworkers (seriously)
8. Drank a couple of beers and ate nachos with my coworkers
9. Talked to my mom on the phone
10. Watched The Amazing Race and discovered stroopwaffels

MILF

As I was walking to an appointment today, a group of 14- or 15-year-olds fell in behind me. And commenced to make comments about my ass, or something along those lines.

Walking back to my car, it hit me like a creepy thunderbolt--I could totally be their MOTHER. Holy christ.

Help

I was somewhere West, in a field of dust and rocks. I wasn't welcome there, and this had been made plain to me. A father and son were playing baseball a little ways off, and I knew there were others around, though no one I knew.

I looked to my left, and a rattlesnake was coiled in the dust. I stared at it, frozen. My heart thudding, panicking. I didn't know what to do. I turned and tried to run, even though I knew the snake would lunge at me and catch me. And it did, striking my arm, piercing my skin with its fangs. I fell down on my side, striking the dusty, stony earth. I could feel the venom moving through my blood, reaching my heart, which started to slow. The world grew hazy, the snake was still attached to my arm, and I started to yell, hoarsely, "Help! Help!" over and over.

No one was coming to help, but I kept yelling, as consciousness started to fade. No one would help me. No one helped me.

I woke up, and yelled "Help!" a few more times, and then I cried. Because I was scared, and alone, and no one helped me when I most needed it.

Bird of paradise

I went to yoga yesterday afternoon (which was great, even though there was a sub instead of my favorite instructor and even though my shoulder blades are now on fire), and I managed to get into the Bird of Pradise pose, which I'd never done before. OK, OK, so I couldn't straighten my legs all the way, particularly when binding on my right side, and so it looked more like Half-Bloomed or Slightly Shriveled and About to Die Bird of Paradise, but still. I impressed myself.

All bets are off

We had a party at my house this weekend. It was a fun time, pretty low-key, but something happened toward the end that I keep thinking about. It's sort of bothering me and fascinating me at the same time. Anyway, first some backstory.

I have three roommates, all of us with different sets of friends, so there were a lot of different types of people there. A lot of people I don't know, and probably wouldn't get to know in my day-to-day life.

My one roommate, the newest one--who is a stand-up guy, very friendly and personable and respectful--had a bunch of his friends over that night, and they all turned out to be...um, of the white-hatted variety, if you know what I mean. (No? You don't? OK, frat boys. They were the frattiest frat boys ever. I almost expected them to...I don't know, shout "Panty raid!" or smack each other on the ass with their little Greek-lettered paddles, or something. I've seen Animal House.) There's nothing intrinsically wrong with this particular type of guy, I suppose, I just don't have much experience with them. And, I know this is prejudiced, but based on the second-hand information I have from friends who went to UNH, I expect this type of guy to behave like an obnoxious asshole more often than other guys, particularly when drunk.

So I'm standing in the dining room at one point with Chris, maybe around 12:30, about an hour before the party breaks up (and half an hour before the frats leave to find a bar). Two if them are sitting a few feet from me, and one (let's call him Abbott) is putting money on the table and says something to the other one (umm...Costello) about 10 bucks. They chatter for another minute, something about a bet. Sensing that something's up (so astute, even after 3 beers, yeah?), I turn to them and say, "Hey, what's with the 10 bucks?"

I think Costello actually blushed at this point, which made me think that maybe the bet had to do with me (as did Chris, who swiftly melted away into the next room). Abbott and Costello haltingly told me about the bet, which involved saying "something" to "some girl," but now they realized that this girl's boyfriend was probably there, so.... I asked, "Were you going to say it to me?" More blushing. "Uh, yeah," Costello says, then, turning to Abbott, "But now I'm talking to her, and, like, we have this rapport now...." So he didn't want to say it anymore. Before it was OK, I guess, because I was just some chick in a tight skirt. But face-to-face, as a real person, well...things changed.

Finally, I convinced him to say what he was going to say. Something about oral sex and his tongue piercing, to which I said, "Huh, OK." Then I told him what my boyfriend has pierced, and left to go join him in the other room.

I have to say, at first I was a little flattered by this, because I've never been the subject of a bet before. But then I thought about it some more, and...I was the subject of a bet. Which, well, is a little degrading, though I'm not bothered by it overly much. I think I'm more perplexed than anything. Was that supposed to be a pickup line? Why was there money involved? So Costello could turn it into a game, so it wouldn't hurt so much when he was rejected? Was the intent to embarrass me and make me feel uncomfortable? If that was the goal, well, they obviously don't know me at all. Which they didn't, of course, because I was a complete stranger (before we established our "rapport"). And really, what would possess someone to go up to a complete stranger and say something like that to her? I mean, what the hell? It's just kind of gross and rude, and a few drinks is not an excuse. So many questions.

In the end, it wasn't just a party--it was a fascinating sociological experience, and not a bad story.

Things I love

Honey on my cereal.
The color green, particularly that newly budded, springy green.
My zinnia sheets.
French roast coffee with cream and sugar.
That Wonder Woman episode with Martin Mull as a vengeful flute-playing pop star who favors white jumpsuits with sparkly rainbows and says things like "Heavy, man."
Tamari almonds.
Wriggly puppies and sleepy kittens.
Beaches, both rocky and sandy.
When my friend the poopyhead calls, first and foremost because I love talking to her, but also because her special ring is a jaunty rendition of "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes."
Good pedicures.
Soft skin and soft kisses.

The Hold Me Back Before I Kick in the Radio

I'd just like to say how much I hate The Hold Steady. It's not bad music, per se, it's just that the lead singer's voice, his shout-singing drone, provokes this visceral, instantaneous feeling of irritation, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Similar to my reaction to hearing Anthony Kiedis's voice, it makes me want to scream, and not in a good way.

Boy, when did I become such a grouchy misanthrope? Eh, don't answer that.

Contrary to the tone of the first paragraph, I'm actually in a good mood today. The sun is shining, I don't have a headache (knock on wood), I'm going to see Mates of State tonight, I ran further on the treadmill this morning than I ever have before, I slept well last night (despite the 2am mishap with a bottle of lime seltzer; the mattress is still kind of damp), I had a funny interaction with a very cute chocolate Lab puppy this morning, and I've been at work for almost 30 minutes now and I'm still smiling. Things are A-OK.

Epiphanies, cannibals, and butterballs

I had a little epiphany today: I realized I keep waiting for things to get better, but they're never just going to "get better." I need to make them better. Now I just need to figure out how exactly, and make that leap, even though I'm terrified about fucking up and actually making things worse. Being a grownup is hard, but I think I just need to suck it up.

In the meantime, a little retail therapy: The Rosebuds (Birds Make Good Neighbors), Neko Case (Fox Confessor Brings the Flood), The Essex Green (Cannibal Sea), The Decemberists (Castaways and Cutouts), Nouvelle Vague (Nouvelle Vague), and lots of Lush goodies.

(Also, as of 2 minutes ago, "Don't Know Why (You Stay)" by The Essex Green is my new favorite song. Actually, the whole CD is pretty great. Try it, Mikey; you'll like it.)

3 questions

1. What is one supposed to do when the gay Starbucks guy has an obvious crush on one's boyfriend, and tries to woo him with free coffee (lattes, no less, not just plain old drip)? (I'm affecting a posture of bemused faux-jealousy, but that might change if I start finding coffee grounds in his underwear.)

2. What did the person who found my site searching for "how to make a masturbation device" actually find? (I'm a little scared of the answer to this, actually.)

3. Where is spring, and why is it not here yet? (Slippery little season.)

Pretty pretty amaryllis

The amaryllis my mom gave me at Christmas finally bloomed, despite months of neglect. It's kind of amazing how something so delicate can also be so resilient.

Secret sharer, or, what was once opaque becomes semi-transparent

We all keep secrets. Sometimes things are so secret, we don't even know about them ourselves. Some secrets are embarassing; some are horrific; some are just so inconsequential, what's the point in telling anyone?

So many reasons for keeping secrets: shame, fear of judgment, fear of things worse than judgment, a need to keep something private and just for you, a promise you made to someone. It's difficult to know sometimes when to let it out and when to keep it in. Which is less harmful, which is the lesser of two evils. Maybe sharing will be cathartic, maybe it will stir up shit that was best left alone. It's hard to tell.

I've been thinking about this lately, I guess because I'm a fairly private person by nature who has lately become more open, more direct, more...effusive. It's not an easy transition. It feels strange, this relative transparency. And it makes private things, things that before would have been no-questions-about-it secrets, harder to hold onto. I want to scream things to the world, but then I wonder whether that's the right thing to do. Sometimes selective reticence is best, but selecting and filtering my disclosures can be befuddling. I don't know where to draw the line, but I think I'm getting closer, maybe. Some things are just trial and error (emphasis on the error), and they take more than 30 years to get even close to right.

Cabbages and kings

Happy Evacuation/St. Patrick's/Get-Drunk-and-Puke-on-the-Subway Day!

I'm actually craving some corned beef and cabbage. And potatoes, lots of potatoes. Must be the McGuckin in me.

Ow

I'm on day three of a very painful and persistent headache. Maybe it's a migraine, maybe it's a bad tension headache, maybe it's hormone-related. I really don't know. What I do know is that Advil doesn't make it go away, I'm leaving work soon, and I'm getting a hot rock massage at 3pm. Nyah! (Ow.) Woo! (Ow ow.)

Camel toes and penis patches

I get a lot of comment spam on this thing. Tons and tons, which you never see, because I have to approve all comments, and so I spend about 10 minutes every day deleting 100 or so of the gross little buggers. Comments from "rate my camel toe," "saggy tits," and "Doug," to name a few. It's annoying, going through all that nonsense, but also kind of educational. Who knew that there was such a market for lesbian foot fetish sites? That there are patches you can put on your penis to make it bigger? That "Fleshlight...is an [sic] portable, concealable, sturdy male masturbation device"? Thanks to comment spam, I am a font of perverted information.

Remedy

When you're in the middle of an existential crisis, leaving work for a two-hour "lunch" with your boyfriend goes a long way toward curing what ails ya.

Online job sites + full moon = existential crisis

So, things have reached a point in worky-work land that necessitates updating the resume and commencing a casual yet concentrated search for something new. Which sucks for so many reasons, but mainly the new and exciting opportunities for rejection; writing the dreaded cover letter, over and over again, with just the right mix of enthusiasm and professionalism, warmth and distance, generality and specificity; realizing I have absolutely nothing appropriate to wear to interviews (I don't do suits, pantyhose, or heels--never have, and never will if I can help it. Well, maybe for six figures. Maybe); realizing that I'm maybe on a career track that is leading nowhere, or at least certainly not toward financial security and perhaps not toward sustained job satisfaction, and wondering what the hell I should do about that. Which makes me question MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE and REASON FOR BEING. Buh.

Seriously, I am starting to wonder whether publishing is for me. It's kind of a bitchy-backstabby business, the job security is pretty shaky, and they pay you absolute crap. I love books, and I love helping to create them (well, theoretically anyway), but maybe that's not enough. Money is not exceedingly important to me--I don't need to be raking it in to feel fulfilled, certainly, and doing something I love and am excited about is more important than dollars. However, the fact that I have 7+ years experience in this business and just last year my income finally nudged above the de facto poverty line for Metro Boston is just a wee bit depressing. I want to be able to save money, buy a house someday, pay off my student loan and credit card debt, maybe eventually buy a car that's not at least 10 years old...these aren't extravagant goals, you know?

But what else would I do? I have no fucking clue, even though I've spent the whole morning obsessing about it. So I turn to you. Tell me what I might be good at, might enjoy, might make some decent money doing. Or tell me what you think my skills are--maybe I'm overlooking something. (I already know I'm good at obsessing over minutiae, worrying, procrastinating, and eating snacks, so, you know, something other than those things.) I'm being a little silly here, but I really do need some help, so please send me your ideas if you got 'em.

Thanks in advance for your time and consideration. I look forward to further discussion regarding this matter.

Sincerely,
vv

Tasty, tender children

I wuv Big Bunny.

Conjunctions are your friends. Periods and semicolons are also quite lovely.

If I have to fix one more fucking comma splice in this motherfucking, shitty-ass book, I'm going to scream.

Ahem. Hi.

Responsibility

In one of my dreams last night, I was at a party and a bunch of people were shot by other party-goers. Not shot dead, but they still had bullets in them and so they all had to go to the Emergency Room. I was the only sober person there, and so it was up to me to round them all up in a big station wagon and drive them to the hospital. (Why we couldn't call an ambulance, I don't know, but...such are dreams.) Of course it wasn't as simple as it should be, and I couldn't find one of the people, and I was getting very frustrated and upset, as the sense of urgency (and bleeding flesh wounds) got more intense.

And then I woke up, and I was like, "What the fuck? Why was it my responsibility to make sure they got to the hospital? I didn't shoot them! Why do I have to clean up someone else's mess?"

And then I realized my dream was a pretty accurate reflection of what I deal with a lot, mostly at work but also in other situations. I can't stand the mess that I see and feel compelled to fix things, or I'm held to be ultimately responsible for the outcome of a project and have to find some way to make everything turn out OK, even when I've been placed in an impossible situation by someone I have no authority over. It's maddening. It makes me feel like a doormat and a patsy, and makes me have dreams about sucking chest wounds. I've gotten a lot better at stepping away from problems that are not my doing (and that I can't really fix) in my personal life, but with work... Well, I really do like my health insurance. And I've really become fond of having food to eat and a roof over my head and suchlike.

Maybe I need to start buying Megabucks tickets. Or find a good pyramid scheme.

Ahoy soy

I'm developing a real fondness for soy milk on my cereal. I guess that's what happens when you're with a boy from San Francisco who makes his own granola.