The prodigal daughter...oh, forget it.

I've been thinking about this lonely little blog as of late. I've been thinking about it in a listless, half nostalgic sort of way that has yet to motivate me to log back in and write. Then this woman stopped by. She comment on my tragic New Year's Even post. She reminded me, though not directly, that I'm gratuitously taking up space in the blogosphere while contributing very little to that greater good. Nine months. Nine? Really? I'm a busy woman, but that's pretty lame. So here you go... (mom, since I'm pretty sure you're still the only person who reads this stuff verbatim). 

I had a rough spring, medically speaking. It was the first time in nearly seven years that I wasn't boarding a plane headed somewhere different every three weeks. It was also about six months after wrapping up grad school. I told myself that this perfect storm, this gift of time, must be dedicated to sorting out issues I'd been willfully avoiding. Scary issues. Like issues of malfunctioning lady bits. 

I wish a fond farewell to all the men who just clicked off this screen and back to Facebook. Thanks for making it this far. That's cool. Nothing is getting graphic, but whatev. Ladies that are left, I don't need to tell you how disorienting and quietly scary it can be to go through medical issues like this. You can have 1,482 supportive people surrounding you every day, but you remain uniquely aware that you are still, somehow, going through it completely alone. 

Going through what? Well, I'm actually glad I'm writing this nine months later and not in the moment. The time lapse has put it all in perspective and boiled it down to a soundbite. You don't need details, Internet, you don't want them. The short version is that I was dealing with an issue that triggered a legitimate cancer scare. The longest two weeks of my life were spent waiting for the results of three different biopsies to come back. The longest three months of my life were spent pumping handfuls of supplements three times a day in an attempt to bounce back from intense, severe anemia. 

My iron levels are back to normal - for the first time in five in years, as it turns out. My biopsies were benign. My IUD is firmly in place and doing it's job quite well. The aftermath has left me wondering, for the first time in my life, if having biological children of my own matters to me. My doctor and I worked to essentially close up shop, in what I'm told is a reversible way, in order to save my health and allow me to move on with an active, full life. Being a single woman in her early 30s, this possibly-reversible-possibly-not situation is an interesting reality to face. I've never dreamed of a big family. It's not really my thing. But I've also never sat with the reality that it may not even be a possibility regardless. It's a weird position to be in.

So, World, that's my somewhat ironic memory of a season known for her fertility and renewal. Now, summer...

Confession: New Year's Eve

Myth: Everyone on Planet Earth is out on the town having a fabulous time, meeting the love of their life, and looking gorgeous amongst hoards of gorgeous friends. You are the only human being not involved. This makes you supremely lame.


-----

Told friends I'm a no go. Check. After massage, pick up quick dinner.

Why is this parking lot such madness? Isn't everyone supposed to be out on the town having a fabulous time, meeting the love of their life, and looking gorgeous amongst hoards of gorgeous friends? What's with the stampede at the market?

Pizza. Check. Oh, that's right, I need orange juice. Better get a cart.

And string cheese. Need milk, as pretty sure mine has curdled up a bit. You know what sounds good? Pasta.

Whole wheat or "enriched" noodles? Um. Um? Um! Both. Two of each.

Need cute containers to hold pasta on countertop. Too pretty and imported and colorful to be stored in cupboard. Yes, good idea. Cute containers.

"Excuse me, where's the mayo or Miracle Whip or something like that?" I'll totally make that parmesan chicken thing I saw on the hulu commercial. I bet the recipe is even on the Hellman's label. Or Google will know. 2012 is my year for cookin' at home. I'll totally nail it. Perfect Soccer Mom did it in like 15 seconds and it was golden loveliness. I got this.

Oh. Chicken. Right. Now, where would that be? "Excuse me..."

Pasta looks adorable on countertop. Goes well with vintage milk bottle vignette and nested jewel-toned mixing bowls. Will impress friends by perceived ability to cook stuff. And mad staging skills. Suck it, Pottery Barn.

Countertop not sparkling though. Clorox wipe will quickly take care of...

Text from Portland friend (actually, instant message within the Words With Friends app, which is actually a critical distinction in our case): "What are you doing tonight? I'm toying with staying in." Validation.

How old is that stuff in the cupboard, I wonder? Does Jello expire? "Use by 08/2008." Huh. Have I ever made Jello? Why is this here? Isn't it horse parts or something? Toss. Liberating.

I think that's correct. Google: "Do I need to refrigerate pasta sauce?" WikiAnswers will know. I got this. 2012 is my culinary cotillion. "...however, once opened..." Oh, okay.

Wait. Is that Ramen? A can of pineapple from...what year what year where is it? It's still okay. It's not even opened. Oh wait. It has my name written with Sharpie ink on the top. From when I had roommates sharing my cupboards. Seven years ago.

Text received: "I am relaxing/cleaning house. Have some halibut to cook. Wine. Movie at home with the furry kids." I told you, World. Fabulous people all over the map are sitting on their sofa right now. I told you.

OMG. Gross. Been seven years since I had either roommates or any remote necessity to property tag my fruit cans. How many apartments and boxes and moving vans has this little fruit can seen? I should call the Smithsonian. Which one? American History? Could call Natural History. They're probably fossilized in there. I'm a long-time member. I bet I can get a curator on the phone. Why have I never consumed this pineapple? How hard would that have been? Why have I packed it around...oh, forget it. Toss.

In fact, while I'm in here...

I like that I've spent over an hour deep purging and organizing my cupboards, freezer, fridge, secret snackety snack sugar stash, et.al. New year, new kitchen, new me.

Bag of unopened pasta from 2009? It's good, remember, it's not even opened. That makes it okay. But, I have Pretty New 2012 Pasta in Cute Containers. This time around, my pasta cooking resolution will stick. For real. Not like the disastrous Pasta Cooking Resolution of 2009. Clearly not like that. Oh fine, toss.

I was raised by hippies, not Depression Era beet farmers. What's with the nonperishable food hoarding? OMG I've become the stuff of cable tv. Toss. Toss. Toss. Tosstosstoss.

Just go outside, you're not leaving this sitting in your entryway. Frozen stuff will melt, leak everywhere. Don't want to know what no-longer-frozen fish from 2010 smells like in your carpet. Just go.

It's freezing out here. My neighbors will be all, "Who's that mysterious girl taking out three overstuffed trash bags at 9:00pm on New Year's Eve? She must be having an awesome party to generate that much waste. We've barely filled one trash bag. We're lame. She can also throw a party that fierce with no makeup in yoga pants and flip flops? She IS the fiercest. Or a lesbian. I kinda thought so."

Clankety clank clank go three Hefty bags full of evidence of Old Me Who Apparently Hoarded Food. Definitely sounded like wine bottles. Hope they heard that. People will think my party is fierce.

WOW...wow...wow...echo. My fridge is huge. And dirty.

So satisfying. I will wake up sans hangover, STD-free, with a refrigerator sparkling like...

What IS that? Ew. Bleach. Bleach. Fix it. Hurry.

Text received: "...listening to wait wait don't tell me on opb, with my christmas lights on, looking out the window. Cue sappy music. I'm sure I'll meet the love of my life from inside my house."

Requires myth-busting response typed one handed to avoid Palmolive soaked iPhone: "87% sure the men of our dreams are not at a bar tonight. Cruel irony is they're doing exactly what we are, just in their own homes." (If you would like to prove me right, and you're a tall singer/songwriter with a well-paid day job, hit up the comment section.)

That's a really strong smell. Bleach in the fridge. Was that a good idea? Google, help me. The food's fine, right? I have a box of baking powder in there somewhere. It smells like a YMCA locker room.

I never did make dinner.

Nope, not even DIY Boboli. That's frozen CPK, bitches. Deal with it.

Note to Self: Pasta tomorrow. Definitely make use of Pretty New 2012 Pasta in Cute Containers. Tomorrow.

...only it's purer

[originally posted 07/31/2011 to now-defunct iWeb blog]

Recap: “Beyond all my book learnin’ and such, the take-away from this meta-analysis of grad school is one of a refiner’s fire. Grad school sucked everything out of my life except for grad school. I was able to boil down over the past two years the bits I’d really like to take back. [...] What grad school did was refine my list of what really really matters. When I finally got a break, what did I want to do? When I decided to blow off my research on Saturday afternoon, who did I want to spend time with? When I’m done and it’s all behind me now, what made it to the top of the list of things that matter most to me?”

Refining consists of purifying an impure material, in most cases metal. The final material is usually identical chemically to the original one...only it is purer.

Thanks, Wikipedia. Again, impressive research skills brought to you by grad school. My thesis has nothing on this blog post. I can google an answer before you even realize what you’re asking. I’ll relish that fact as I write student loan checks for the next 35 years, I’m sure of it.

Back to the refining idea: In a way, it’s an exciting feeling. It’s almost like I had a huge moving sale and thousands of people drove away with all my clutter. As I walk back into an empty house and look around, I realize that I have ultimate freedom. I have ultimate freedom as to what I put, and don’t put, back into the space. So what makes it in?

• My core friends. A large extended social network is a given (and I look forward to reconnecting with all sorts of people I’ve lost touch with), but I’ve come to deeply love core people that I realize I can’t live without. I plan to love them like crazy from here on out.
• Spiritual space and room to breathe. This aspect of my life has ebbed and flowed freely over the years, but I’m at my best when I cultivate a connection to something beyond myself. Most would assume that translates into a religious context, but no, it’s so much more than that. Introspection, nature, social justice work, regular yoga practice, creative outlets, like-minded radicals, volunteering...it’s all spiritual to me because it all feeds my spirit.
• Weekend brunch. No one should have to explain to you, gentle reader, the glory that is al fresco breakfast food.
• Emotional availability. I haven’t been available at all. I know that. My friends and family know that. I like to be available. I thrive when I am. I’m working my way back into that.
• The. Gym. I sincerely miss the feeling of enjoying getting dressed in the morning...or getting undressed at night, for that matter. *clears throat* Enough said.
• Reading. Not text books, not academic journals, not the literature wonk of the wonk field blah. I mean reading stuff I want to read for no reason other than I want to read it. It may be a magazine. It may be friends blogs in google reader. It may be hefty nonfiction. It may be a trashy novel or Rainn Wilson’s tweets. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it was not assigned to me and a 20-page paper is not pending.
• Creativity. I’ve felt like a creative black hole for a long time and I’m so over it. Blogging. Photography. Traveling with my big camera/lenses. Designing my new condo. Painting. Movies. Community festivals. Creative writing (you wanna talk about something that gets beat out of you in grad school). Live music and my dirty feet dancing in the ampitheatre grass. All of it. I know what that creative spark feels like, and it’s been fleeting at best for years now.
• Vacations. Travel that is unrelated to work. I shouldn’t have to explain this.

That’s enough. Of course this list is not comprehensive. It’s not meant to be. It is meant to articulate a starting point. As I piece my once-awesome life back together, and heal the violent experience of grad school, this list holds my touchstones.

This one time, in graduate school...

[originally posted 07/31/2011 to now-defunct iWeb blog]

I’ve had a thought floating around my head for a while now. Say, for over a year, give or take. The thought? Graduate school is violent. Rephrase: Graduate school was a violent experience for me. And it was partially my fault.

Violent? Violent.

As in, destructive. Forceful. Maddening. Severe. Harsh. Tumultuous. Distressing. Overwhelming. Disturbing. Struggle. Marked by extreme and sudden intense activity.

As in, not gentle, peaceful, moderate, still, or controlled.

Thanks, Thesaurus.com and Merriam-Webster, for providing articulate inspiration. I know, it’s all those astute research skills I learned in graduate school.

Of course there were amazing experiences. Of course there were amazing people that have since become true friends. Of course there were amazing texts and lectures and ah-ha moments. Of course. But guess what? I don’t want to talk about those today. Nope. I just don’t. Today I want to get this whole violence train of thought out of my head and move on.

To clarify, grad school did not exist in a vacuum. I was appointed Interim Director of my organization on the same day I started classes. After months of interviews and search committee machinations, I was offered the full Director position. Suddenly, at age 28, I went from program manager to The Boss with seven professional staff and a 1/2 million dollar budget. I was still consulting for a national/federal organization in D.C. and traveling all over the country every few weeks. Then I decided to buy a condo and become a first time homeowner. I had nothing else going on, after all.

So when I say “violent” I mean the entire experience writ large, as in, the last two years of my life in general. So when I say “destructive. Forceful. Maddening. Severe. Harsh. Tumultuous. Distressing. Overwhelming. Disturbing. Struggle. Marked by extreme and sudden intense activity...” I mean exactly that.

My health - mental, emotional, physical, social, and spiritual - suffered and declined greatly over the past two years. That’s part of the violence I’m referring to. It was a violent time in my life marked by extreme and sudden intense activity...activity that was unbalanced and unhealthy. The word “violence” also works because I genuinely feel that I have to heal from the experience. I regret the way I handled it, but I also didn’t know how else to do it. With everything that I had going on, I retreated into survival mode and powered through with my blinders on. There were plenty of savvier, more well-balanced people in my cohort who may read this and wonder what I’m rambling on about. They may have had an entirely different experience and wonder why I was so incapable of balancing life. That’s okay. I’m not dwelling on it and making comparisons to anyone else; I’m simply naming it, acknowledging how I handled it, and moving on.

Beyond all my book learnin’ and such, the take-away from this meta-analysis of grad school is one of a refiner’s fire. Grad school sucked everything out of my life except for grad school. I was able to boil down over the past two years the bits I’d really like to take back. Everyone who knows me knows that I’m hyper-engaged in...anything and everything I do. I’m a busy person and I fill my life with stuff I love doing, seeing, tasting, experiencing... What grad school did was refine my list of what really really matters. When I finally got a break, what did I want to do? When I decided to blow off my research on Saturday afternoon, who did I want to spend time with? When I’m done and it’s all behind me now, what made it to the top of the list of things that matter most to me?

Enter: Next Post.

Rekindling an old flame

When I broke up with blogger and then started an iWeb site instead, I did so mainly because I was bored, wanted a challenge, and needed the creative outlet that designing in iWeb provides. Or rather, provided. Past tense being the operative element in that statement. If I understand correctly, with the advent of Apple's iCloud, iWeb is going the way of the buffalo. Cest la vie.

So. Here we are, Blogger, awkwardly running into each other. In the produce section. At 11:47pm. Me in Uggs with no makeup sans bra. You with your bevy of shiny new widgets. You look good. Are you well? I see you've made a lot of changes. I'm proud of you. The time apart worked well for both of us, it would seem.

Rather, it worked well for blogger. I was the moron with the bright idea of starting a new blog in the midst of full-time work, full-time grad school, and constant business travel. Oopsie. All told, I spent a handful of hours taking advantage of the creative design capabilities...but only posted about 30 times in well over a year. Blahblah. I'm back on the blogger bandwagon. No sense looking back.

Except, there are a few posts I want to transfer and use specifically as the jumping off point for future blogging adventures. With that in mind...here goes...