thorvalson.net : babble ether

Confessions of an Obsessive-Compulsive Worrywart Perfectionist

Before I get to the point of this little article, it must be said that the following paragraphs probably never would have entered my little noggin unless preceded by the necessary segue known as The Day I Saw the Back of My Closet. Folks, I have a walk-in closet. I do. It's little, sho 'nuff, but because of my diminutive frame and presumably what was the frame of the average adult 80 years ago when this house was built, back in the day when the average American wasn't the size of your average mastodon, I am able to physically walk into said closet. If I could show you pictures, I would, but alas, the closet is so small that any photos within would only wind up as close-ups of my appalingly juvenile jewelry collection (what am I, thirteen?) or of my dead dad's Air Force jacket, both of which might render thee depressed for the remainder of the day, trying perhaps to form some kind of connection between the whimsical, teeny bopper jewelry collection and the dead dad, asking yourselves Why God, Why did he have to die before he could encourage this poor young woman into growing the fuck up and buying herself a real pair of earrings that didn't come from Claire's Boutiques at the mall.
Okay, maybe not, but it's something to write about.
My dad didn't know what jewelry was. In fact, if you asked him in his living years, he probably would have said, "JOOL-rah? What's JOOL-rah?", holding a beer in one hand and scratching his testicles with the other. If you asked him now, of course, his answer would sound more like white noise, like, "shhhhhhh", with less of the beer and testicles.
Some of you may be pissed by the last two sentences, thinking to yourselves something along the lines of, "GEEZus woman, have some respect for the dead!" And I have a response for you: I have found that "respect for the dead" often refers less to respect for that individual's individuality and more to a broad romanticizing of that person's influence in our own smarmy little lives, which we're still living, while the dead are blissfully no longer concerned with our affairs, i.e., alcohol and the procurement/enjoyment of such, and the rubbing of genitalia.

How did we degenerate from closet organization to images of the origin of my being? Sheesh. What is wrong with you people.

While I was organizing my closet, I came across a small notebook, one containing beginnings of poems I wrote while mildly intoxicated two summers ago. And later in the evening, once the closet was Finito, I transcribed these poemettes onto my hard drive pending further investigation. Tucked Maddie into bed after a gripping chapter of Junie B. Jones, First Grader (At Last!), then commenced with the beer cracking and "further investigation."
And ya know what I found?
Some of that stuff's actually pretty decent. Needs some revising, some stylistic editing, but the framework is there (hm! maybe I should work on that!), and it got me to remembering David Sedaris' opening statement when Trace and I saw him a little while ago, referring to the James Frey scandal, specifically, the question of how far a memoirist can go in juicing up their story before they cross the line into fiction. And I thought about my own possible future memoir, and how it might be juiced by the romantic lens of nostalgic recollection, the lack of actual verbal or physical contact with the people who might be represented, the unfairness of their inability to contribute to any work in progress, etc., and then thought, Hey! These are poems! There's no fiction/nonfiction in poetry! IT'S POETRY. You're expected to be, you know, poetic (read: grossly romanticizing).
Problem solved!

So, yeah. Now that I've alleviated myself from the pressure of potential forthcoming lawsuits, you should expect that book of poetry in, oh, another ten years or so.

If I spent half as much time writing as I do fantasizing/worrying about/planning for future calamities - hell, if I spent half that time doing anything - I'd probably be a much saner, more productive person. What if the new gas tank straps on my car aren't installed properly and my gas tank drops while I'm going 50 on the Hoan and my car explodes and I hurt other people and there's not enough intestines left even to burn into ashes for one of those souvenir necklaces they sell next to the urn displays at funeral homes and on the internet? Did I pack Maddie enough lunch? SEE? SEE? I SHOULD HAVE RODE THE BUS. Is it "rode" or "ridden"? FUCK!

To be continued...

My Grandma Rocks

Good to know that the newest addition to our family, Dick, also has a bit of the country boy in him. Otherwise, photo opps like this one would be much harder to find.
I'm warning you: never do anything interesting when I'm around. It will be published.

Questions, questions...

My grandfather likes to (half-) joke that he couldn't afford to buy my grandmother gifts for her birthday or special occasions in the early years of their marriage ("early" meaning between years 1 and 45, I'm guessing, seeing as they were raising children for that entire period), so instead of perusing the gallery of farm-influenced kitsch, bric-a-brac, and tools on the "shopping strip" in Paw Paw, he'd just knock her up and give her a baby every year. This got me to thinking while I was in Rockford over the weekend. What did my grandfather do during all of those births? Did the whole entourage follow her en masse to the delivery room waiting area? Or were the good ol' days good enough that you could trust your eldest, maybe 9 years old, to stay at home and watch over the smaller ones, because Kevin wasn't into tractors and playing war and poking each other's eyes out as much as he was into playing dolls with my mom and therefore could be trusted to be left unattended for the hour it would take my grandmother to shoot out another baby, 'cause after that much practice, it doesn't really take as long? Were the neighbors really that nice, to take on the existing Moorehead clan while Grandma expanded it in the hospital? Or after the first five, did Grandma, once labor ensued, calmly pack her own overnight bag while Grandpa was out mowing the lawn, and leave a note on the kitchen table?
Dear Dad,
(yes, they took to calling each other "Mother" and "Dad")
Went to hospital to have Number Six. Be back shortly. Casserole is in the fridge. I'll do the dishes when I get back.
Love, Mother

Photos coming soon. Like, as soon as I get back from taking Maddie to school.

I Heart David Sedaris

That's all I have to say on the subject. Heard him speak last night at the Marcus Center - truly an inspiration for my writerly tendencies, him being not only hysterically funny, but selling out venues like a rock star.

Completely unrelated - and more than likely a black mark on my coolness rating - I am so looking forward to this (scroll down to the May 25th listing).

The big debate in my mind currently: If ever there was a Buffy character that most closely resembled my personality, it would probably be Faith. But Faith wasn't in the musical episode! What to do, what to do. Willow? Anya?
And the burning question - who's gonna be Spike?

All right. Carry on.

Oh. God. Could it be the weather?

I think it's been officially declared that the inhabitants of this house are Going Through a Phase. The last few weeks, my brain has been swimming with all kinds of confusing and at times contradictory messages, all fighting to be the first to reach the surface, wanting to be the winner, wanting to be able to proclaim itself the Definitive Answer to Everything.

I'm fucking pooped.

It would seem my brain and I aren't getting on very well these days.

Last night, I went out for a couple of drinks after a bit of coaxing from Greg, who thought that a good night out of the house, away from so-called "reality", would cheer me up and clear my head a little. I wasn't sure about the "clearing my head" part, but agreed that being in the house without leaving for three straight days (okay, aside from 3 hours at work one day) was probably not helping. The numbing effect was good while it lasted - allowing myself to blissfully ignore the billions of fears swirling around in my head while half-listening to the half-conversations going on around and through me - but the thing about escape is that it's only temporary. And I wouldn't want it to be anything more than that. But there's something about the knowledge that it's temporary that prevents the little escape from being a true escape.

I listened to a 31-year-old lesbian I've met/waited on a few times talk about her girlfriend's father's death, how their relationship is or isn't accepted by various members of their respective families, and thought about how death is death and relationships are relationships no matter what your lifestyle is, no matter where you live, no matter what your nationality is, and felt the comfort of that thought. I told her my relationship is going through A Phase, that my boyfriend and I are each respectively going through A Phase, and that it's taking a toll on our relationship. We're growing, we're changing, and we're trying to keep track not only of ourselves but each other in the process...

This. Is. Hard. Work.

She said that everyone she's talked to recently has said the same thing. Maybe it's our age group, she says, maybe it's the weather. No one seems comfortable with themselves right now, and she can see that it's not just her and her relationship or me and my relationship because the whole goddamn neighborhood's sitting in the restaurant she works at on a Wednesday night, drinking like it's Saturday night. It feels as though each and every resident of Bay View, every relationship, is going through something that has pressurized one half of each of those relationships enough to force an explosion of empty, dizzy little diamonds out onto the streets and into the bars, their respective partners and better halves at home, probably sighing with relief.

So there I sat. Empty and dizzy.

We talked about work, about being grown-ups and wanting grown-up things like health insurance and vacation pay, but also being of the dreaded "artistic temperament" and therefore only finding true fulfillment in things that most likely will bring us neither insurance nor assurance of any kind of financial stability.

The last seven years of my life have been centered around fulfilling someone else's needs. Namely, Maddie. And thank god for that, or I'd have gotten myself into something really stupid and likely fatal by now. And she's getting to an age where she doesn't need me standing over her every waking moment telling her what to do. I still have to be around to help her tie her shoes and retrieve stuff from the top shelf and kiss her owies, but other than that, she's starting to figure out who she is, and she doesn't want any help in that process. Maddie. Loves. Dresses. Whether Mommy's a tomboy or not. She wants me to supply her sparkling, flowery dresses and then get the hell out of her way. Which, in some sense, is what every human being truly wants and should have. Not a supplier all their lives, but the right to be themselves without anyone trying to stop them. And I'm getting to an age where I find it not only acceptable, but necessary to be a bit more vocal about my personal needs and desires. And feeling pretty good about it most of the time. I don't like every human being I meet! I like the texture of liver and onions! AND THAT'S OKAY WITH ME. And if it's not okay with you, that's okay, too! JUST DON'T TRY TO STOP ME.

I'm coming to the realization that I've spent the last seven years raising a child and am suffering some kind of premature Empty Nest Syndrome, minus the actual empty nest. I have the time now to consider what I'd like to do with that time, and the problem is, I DON'T WANT TO CONSIDER IT right now. In some ways, life was easier when Maddie was a baby and all my time was mapped out according to her patterns of eating, shitting, and sleeping. Now there's all this pesky, mysterious space in between.

So all of this stuff has been swirling around in my head, and I really want to talk to my partner about it, but he's having a hard time listening to me right now because a) when I need to talk about something, it takes a lot of words (scroll up. or down.), and b) Have you read the last few entries? I'M OUTTA MY FUCKING MIND RIGHT NOW. ANNOYING, ISN'T IT., and c) I've been spending a lot of time worrying about (read: judging) him and his position and how it effects our relationship, when the main problem here has less to do with our relationship and everything to do with me being a woman and mother, of which he is neither, going through some major fucking changes, and d) I'm not looking for an immediate solution, I just need someone to talk to.

The ten thousand things rise and fall without cease.
Hold fast to the center.

Puppies and Unicorns

The only thing good about this:

is this.

For those of you who are nosy and bookish like me, the books are Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert, and Everything Changes by Jonathan Tropper, the former being concerned with the annoyingly but accurately worded "human condition", the purchase of which being inspired by my renewed argument with myself over whether or not free will exists
(WARNING! GIANT PARENTHETICAL TO FOLLOW!! : Between you and me, I've kinda been on the fence/not thinking about it since college, but after reading Schopenhauer's take on it, 'A man can do as he wills, but not will as he wills', in this article... well, you trying punchin' yer way outta that one (but don't think of an elephant!));
the following line, taken from the back jacket:

"...Gilbert reveals what scientists have discovered about the uniquely human ability to imagine the future, and about our capacity to predict how much we will like it when we get there ... (and) explains why we seem to know so little about the hearts and minds of the people we are about to become..." ;

and lastly by my just having finished this book, which starts off as a real Cartesian no-mans-land zapparoo at reality and a vigorous jostling of the ol' perception (du-uuuude), but happily leads to salvation via four easy-to-read (less so to follow) suggestions for, if you will, stumbling on ... HAPPINESS!

And so we end as we begun.

But that's just the first book!

The second one is (again, from the jacket), "A smart, funny, brutally honest, much-needed guy's point of view on how messy love can be," concerning a guy who starts questioning his relationship 'cause he's gettin' hitched and he starts to worryworryworry and then his dad mysteriously shows up after a twenty-year absence all gung ho on starting fresh, which is both infuriating and inspiring to the son.

And then I bought Sin City, because after digging into either of these books, and pitting them within the frame of reference of the last book and what I know of philosophical arguments regarding religion, I'm probably gonna wanna have a drink tonight and then watch something really, really violent.

Cheers!

INNNTERNEEETTT!!!

Oh, how I've missed you. Did you miss me? 'Cause I missed you. All this time, swiftly sweeping by - dance recitals, St. Patrick's Day and its associated horrors, Ireland and back, laundry room floor refinishings... Well, here, I'll just show you.

IRELAND: Go here. They're not in chronological order, which really irks me, but my Pro account has expired and until I'm able to upgrade again, we'll have to deal with the mish mash. Can we do it? Can we withstand the disorder? Temporarily, yes, I think we can. Be brave. It's all gonna be okay.

DANCE RECITAL: Maddie's entire school had a performance last month at the Lincoln Middle School of the Arts. Blurry, but still cute.

Afterwards, Maddie went to the County Clare for a pint and a cigar. This, combined with the boots-and-tutu outfit, are enough evidence to prove her direct descendance from me in court, should there ever be a question.

ST. PATRICK'S DAY: AHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHH!

Me gettin' fresh with the Happy Pint:

My favorite people to unwind with after two 15-hour days in a row: gay people, and the Mexicans who love them:

AND FINALLY, THE CAPSTONE EXPERIENCE OF THE LAST TWO MONTHS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.... I HAVE A NEW LAUNDRY ROOM FLOOR!

Before (yes, that's dust on the lens):

Ooooh...

And After:

Ahhhhhh.

ADDED BONUS MATERIAL!!! No return to the internet would be complete without a new haircut. You didn't think I'd come crawling back all mussied up, now, did you? This haircut brought to you by the Left Wing and the Dead Kennedys' Plastic Surgery Disasters and In God We Trust, Inc. albums:

Coming soon: More "wild streaks". 'Cause it just ain't left enough for me yet.

Side note: As evidenced by the buff pythons in the above photo, I have been working out, internet. Yes, I have. AND YOU AIN'T SEEN NOTHIN' YET. This week? This week? - I'M GONNA WRITE. Uh huh. And 30? Thirty's just a-cryin', 'cause I'm waaaay ahead of the game. FUCK YOU, 30!

God, that felt good.