Keep calm and carry on

The tests are back and all is (basically) well. This is good news. I still have a cough and have to see a pulmonary guy, but nothing serious. I have some small nodules and some scar tissue on my lungs, but these things show up on these sorts of scans, nothing to worry about. I'm probably more relieved than I am willing to admit.

I know I made a big deal about all of this, especially in my head, as I am prone to do, but there was always this nagging voice pointing out that some people do have bad things happen. Sometimes that weird thing on the x-ray that's probably nothing turns out to be something.

As I was in the CT machine, I was thinking to myself that this could be one of those before and after moments. I felt it was important to remember all of the details: going in and out of the machine, the little cartoon faces that light up to tell you when to hold your breath, when to breath again, that soothing male voice, counting down. I was thinking, "Today I am 'normal'; maybe tomorrow I'll have something."

I know I did a lot of worry for nothing, that there are people getting these scans who have obvious masses on their x-rays or can barely breathe. I can't imagine how terrifying that must be. I'm sure they are hoping that maybe that first x-ray was wrong, maybe the tech spilled something on it. They hope that it could at least be something they could fight, something that could be held at bay for a few years.

Luckily, now I'm off to less scary types of testing: blowing in tubes, a scratch here and there. I know that some day I will be faced with the bad results from a test. I'm just glad that today wasn't that day.

Abnormal

The doctor says that I have a "prominence in [my] hilum on the left side." I'm not sure what this means. He says that it's probably nothing, maybe just the way I'm built. He wants me to get another test done. He tells me I shouldn't be worried, but, of course, I am. If you want to convince me that it's nothing, don't send me for more tests. I asked him to spell "hilum" (I can hear him thinking, "oh no, not the internet" over the phone.) I am shaking and crying a little bit. How can I not worry? He tells me that they didn't see any mass, that that's when I should worry. He tries to assure me with logic, but logic isn't going to win right now.

When I get off the phone, I'm crying. I don't want to be crying and worrying, but here I am. I'm mad at myself, upset that I'm so weak, so reactive. I google, as one does. Everything matches what the doctor says but that word, it does show up now and then. I need to stop researching. I guess I'm looking for that site that will say, "It's never cancer; it's never anything bad. In fact, people who have these usually go on to win the lottery and retire in France. And you're pretty." I do not find that site.

Everyone around me is supportive, echoing what the doctor said. Reminding me that the doctor said not to worry. Not telling me that this is silliness, overreacting to one x-ray. I appreciate it all so much. I keep telling myself that it's nothing. I have nothing to worry about. "But..." that voice in my head whispers (shouts!) Shut up, voice. I have too much to do. But then I wonder: am I coughing more today? Is that a new pain in my chest?

For now, I've made my follow-up appointment and I am trying to put it out of my head until then. I'm sure it will be fine, but, yes, I'm also sure I'll be worrying some.

A rip in the very fabric of time and space

Honestly, the only thing that makes sense to me is that I have a black hole. Wait, let me back up for a minute. Lately, I have noticed that things are disappearing from my house. Not major things, not even particularly valuable things, but, yeah, things seem to *poof* just disappear. Okay, I'll admit it, I may not be the most organized person in the world. I do have a tendency to "pile" things. But, seriously, some of this stuff has just disappeared.

Currently missing is some stationary I recently bought (oh, it's so cute, with little Chinese figures on it), a beige sweater (and I looked good in it), and this purse I use for traveling (it's the perfect size and has a million little pockets -- so useful on trips). And these are just the things I know about. I'm sure if I ever find this black hole, I'll also find a few pairs of sunglasses, tape, and an umbrella.

I also think the black hole likes to play with me. The other day I lost a book of stamps. I know I had them around a few days earlier and I looked and looked for them. Could not find them anywhere. And then a couple of days ago: oh, look, there they are. And I wasn't even looking for them. The black hole also loves to play the battery switch game: you know this one. It takes all the AA batteries but leaves behind a bunch of AAA's. But then you go to the store, buy the AA's, look in the battery drawer and you have a pile of AA's but no AAA's. Why am I hearing laughing?

Oh, black hole, please return the purse and the stationary. I'll let you keep the sweater and the sunglasses.

Every day you see one more card

We've all been there: the waiting room of the doctor's office. And, look, I totally understand that emergencies happen, that sometimes there needs to be a patient squeezed into an already booked-up day. I get it. And I really don't mind a reasonable wait. I have my book, I'll be okay. But if you're running more than an hour behind, you got to call the patients with the later appointments and tell them, hey, you can come in a little late. Or maybe reschedule.

Yesterday I had a doctor's appointment. I was there early, as I was a new patient and was told to be there 15 minutes early. I had filled out the paperwork they sent me ahead of time. I took note of the signs that made it clear: (a) you sure as hell better cancel at least 24 hours ahead of time or they will charge you for the appointment and (b) you better not use your cell phone, eat, or drink in the waiting room. So, I pulled out my book and started to wait. And wait. Now, I just want to point out that no one said anything about the doctor running behind or anything like that. Nope. Not a word. After 45 minutes, I asked about what was going on. Maybe they forgot me or something. I had seen a couple of people come in after me that were already called back. No, they didn't forget me, sorry, the doctor is running behind. How far behind? "We're doing our best." Is that really the answer to the question?

After over an hour, they ask me if I'm willing to go to another doctor in the practice, because the guy I was supposed to see was still not available. So, let me get this straight, he's over an hour behind already and it's not like it's going to be soon, so that means he's got to be about an hour and a half behind schedule. At least. And no one could bother to tell me? And I can't use my cell phone to call someone in case I actually had plans or something. (By the way, I did use my cell phone because they can suck it!)

Like I said, I understand emergencies, that sort of thing. But I have a cell phone and you have the number: call me and say, hey, we're running behind. I can come in a half hour late. Or, if nothing else, tell me when I check in, so I'm not getting more and more pissed off as I wait and wait and have no idea what's going on. My time is valuable as well. I'm there because I'm sick. Just give me a little bit of respect.

I'm not sure why it's so acceptable for doctors to get away with this sort of behavior. I'm sure if I showed up an hour late, they would be, well, you missed your appointment. Sorry about that. And, oh, yeah, you still owe us the copay.

Maybe next time, I'll charge them my hourly rate. (Oh, that sounds dirty!)

Snow Day!

You may not have heard, but the Washington, DC, area is getting a little bit of snow. This past round has actually been two storms: one that started on Friday and one that's going on now. I'm nervous about the sheer amount of snow (can my roof really hold all that?), but there is an upside: snow days!

They sent us home early on Friday, and I'm willing to bet we're not going back in until Friday at the soonest. If we get Friday off, with President's Day weekend, this may be the longest stretch I've had off work in over seven years. Nice! I like my job and all, but the break has been very good. We had enough warning with these storms (props to the forecasters who have been spot on this winter!) so that we could stock up on everything we need and hunker down. We just hope that the power, internet, and cable (in that order) hold up through all of this.

So with all this time off, have a done a thorough house-cleaning, organized all my receipts, wrote (and edited) another novel? No. Frankly, haven't done too much of anything, but that's alright. These are bonus days. Days that I can just let happen. Yesterday there was a lull between the storms, so we used it as an excuse to just go for a walk. (A side note: the grocery store was more picked-over than I had even seen. I wanted to get some potatoes and there weren't any. None! No potatoes!) Today I took advantage of the tv reception we had this morning to watch mindless shows. Now that the snow's piled up, I'll have to rely on DVDs.

Well, I better post this before we lose the internet as well. It's going to be a while, digging out of all of this. If you have snow days, I hope you're enjoying them. Be safe and stay warm.

Letter to a Seventh Grade Teacher

Dear Mr. Mills,

I'm not sure if you'll remember me but I sure as heck remember you. You weren't my homeroom teacher, but you taught me science, math, and reading -- was it just a coincidence that these were my favorite subjects? But seventh grade, well, that wasn't a great year for me. In fact, I kind of hated it. But you were a bright spot in the year. Your classes were interesting and fun. I remember learning so much in your classes: the names of all the bones, geometry, that "a lot" is two words, the words to "You're so Vain." Looking back on it, it seems like the things I learned in your classes are things that I'm using all the time.

I remember that you used to let Wendy and me hang out and talk with you before school started. You probably got stuck listening to a lot of conversations about Nadia Comaneci (who I was completely obsessed with that year) and "Laverne and Shirley", but you never acted like we were boring kids. You'd actually talk to us. Ask us questions about ourselves.

At the end of the school year you signed my "autograph book" (I think we all got these cheap, little books at the end of the year to collect our classmates thoughts about us. You know, a lot of "2 good 2 be 4 gotten.") I don't remember exactly what you wrote, but you tried to encourage me. You told me that you thought everything would be alright, that I had talents and a bright future ahead. I remember at the time not quite believing it, but I was glad that you wrote it.

Anyway, I wanted to write and you and tell you that I turned out okay. Better than okay, actually. I'll always remember how you encouraged me. When I tried to reinvent myself in the 8th grade, I had the words you wrote to push me along. It probably wasn't much to you, but it meant the world to me. It was the first step to the rest of my life. And you helped give me the confidence to take those steps.

What I really want to say is: thank you. You probably didn't hear that enough, especially from a bunch of 7th graders. I know it's late in coming, I know you probably won't read this, but thank you, anyway.

So, Mr. Mills, wherever you are: thank you. So very much.

The unknown future rolls toward us

I am trying to get ready to step into the darkness. I am gathering writing together to be submitted into a contest. I am preparing to be judged. And it is really scaring me.

The thing is, I really feel I need to take this step. Please don't give me the argument that I am just writing for myself. Sure, on some level that's true. But if it were really true, well, I'd be keeping a diary, with a request that it be destroyed if something were to happen to me. The fact is I'm writing this blog: I want readers. But I want happy, friendly readers. Readers that just tell me how funny and brilliant I am.

But that's the easy way, isn't it? Now is the time for me to put it out there, at least at some level. It's time to scrape together some pieces that are inside of me, put them on paper, and hand them over to a stranger and say, "well, what do you think?" It's a bit like falling in love: you have to put yourself out there and hope that the other person won't reject it. And, like falling in love, I have to know that no matter what happens, I'll be alright. That I'll be a bit richer for the experience.

This modern world

As most of you know, I'm on Facebook. And like most of us on Facebook, you have a variety of "friends": you have your close friends, you have your family (Hi Mom!), you have work friends, college buddies, those friends of friends. I try to keep my number of friends reasonable, to people I actually communicate with now and again. Usually when I friend someone (funny how "friend" became a verb), there's that brief burst of communication when we first make contact ("Hey, tell me about your life!"), a few back and forth emails, but then you just watch the status updates. If something major happens, well, you might post something on their wall or send them an email. That's all you need, that's all you expect.

A while ago I friended a guy from high school. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He was always friendly, always funny. I remember him as this positive force. Just the kind of guy you always felt you could go to if you needed someone.

Shortly after I friended him, we did the email exchange and these were just some of the sweetest emails you'd ever read. He told me about how happy he was with his life. When he described his girlfriend, it was with so much love. And he was a great friend to have on Facebook: good status updates, no invites to join "Farmtown" or whatever ridiculous game was popular that month. So, although we weren't close in high school, I was glad I put out that friend invite and he accepted.

A few months ago I noticed that he hadn't had any updates for a while. I didn't think much of it. These things happen; people fall off of Facebook. But just out of curiosity, I stopped by his page, and there was a notice from his girlfriend: he had passed away suddenly about a month before.

I was shocked. I didn't even know how to react. Do I cry? Do I cry over someone I haven't seen in over 25 years? A few emails, that's all we exchanged, but this really hit me. I suppose this is part of this modern life: the death of a Facebook friend. I'm glad his page still exists. I know that one day it will be gone, and it will hit me again, the day I notice it's gone.

Will this be how we learn our friends are gone? My parents read the obituary pages, but I don't. I don't read the local papers; I don't know anyone who does -- how would I know if something happened to that buddy from college? I don't know if I like this modern world. Not for this.

John, you are missed.

Get out the fork

This is a follow-up to the 5-year plan post as well as a bit of a response to Vaguery (hey, shout out!)

I am realizing that, as important it is to plan, it is also important to actual do. Not to say to go in without a goal (that would be silly), but maybe to stop having goals so far away that they feel like they'll never arrive. Or at least, not to have them as the only goals.

I need short-term goals. The goals I can achieve in a few months, or, at the most, less than a year. These are the scary ones. If I have something that occurs 5 years away and a year goes by where I didn't get any closer, whatever -- I still have 4 more years to get it done. If I set a 3-month goal, while it's a "smaller" goal, those 3 months go fast. So, if I plan to "write a book" in 5 years, no problem; if I have to produce 50 pages of writing by the end of April: gulp!

I've always been an "eating-the-elephant" kind of gal. You know, one bite at a time. I need to break down my projects into the bites. I get overwhelmed too easily. Although I think I'm better at breaking down the goals at work; I probably give work goals too much importance. I need to tell myself that my personal goals, my life, is really just as important. Maybe even more important. I have spent too much time over the past few weeks thinking about planning, about doing. I need to start chewing. Because that elephant, she ain't getting any smaller.

Like the French philosopher RuPaul said, "Girl, you better work."

2015

I have been thinking about 5-year plans. Anyone who's every had a job in business or a bigger company knows about 5-year plans. Now, I think that 5-year plans at work are a joke. Let me clarify: it's good to have a 5-year plan for your career; it's stupid to share them at work.

Okay, here are the problems I have with the work 5-year plan:

1) You pretty much have to always lie. After all, what are your options:

(a) I want the same job (which will be interpretted as, "I have no ambition.")

(b) I want *your* job (which, of course, is threatening to some managers.)

(c) I want a completely different job (which comes down to, "then why are you here?")

(d) I want to be retired (see "c")

(e) Anything but this (once again, see "c")

(f) Seriously, I have no idea (which is interpretted as being without direction.)

So what you have to submit is a version of "I want a slightly better job than what I have now (which conveys a certain amount of ambition but not enough to be threatening to you, oh manager of mine)." Ideally, you should need a small amount of training that you can do without interferring with your current workload.

2) You may be held to it. Let's say you think you might want to get additional training, like a degree or something along those lines. Maybe you think you'd like to get your MBA. So, you put it on your 5-year plan. And maybe you take a course at night (or on-line or whatever) and you know what? It's just taking too much time from your *life*. You'd rather go out and watch bad movies with your friends. Or play Mafia Wars on Facebook. Or whatever. Just not work on a degree. But then it's two years later and you're being asked by your manager what the progress is. And you have to say, oh, nothing. Bad employee!

Or maybe you think you want to be a manager, but then after you learn a bit more, you decide that you don't. Or the other way around: you never thought you wanted to be a manager, but later you think you might. People sometimes change their minds. It's alright most of the time. But you sure as hell don't want HR or your manager to pull out some plan you had 4 years ago and hold you to it.

3) You have to share it. And you don't know who will eventually get it either. Are you working for the same person you were 5 years ago? With the same management structure? The same company goals? The same job title? I doubt it. You could have a 5-year plan that involves a lot of training because your current boss is into that, but then you get switch to someone who views it as a waste of time, and then they might hold it against you. "Don't you already know how to do your job?" You never know how someone else might interpret what you wrote for another audience.

I'm actually a fan of a person having a 5-year plan. But it should be yours and private and flexible. Do you think that my current 5-year plan matches my plan from 5 years ago? Do you think I'm where I thought I'd be, where I'd hoped I'd be (well, actually, I'm probably not too far off, but that's another story)?

If I sat down and wrote a 5-year plan for myself, a real one, it wouldn't be working my way up the workplace ladder. No way. It would involve wiring maybe a novel and travel to fun places and walks with wonderful people and great conversation and flexible time and self-exploration (oh, get your mind out of the gutter), but not hopes and dreams of becoming a principal writer and managing a small group of project-related junior level writers (which is what I'd put if I was submitting one to HR).

Submit your 5-year plan below:

A couple of rants for ya'!

Rant 1: Carry-on baggage. First off, why, exactly, do the airlines charge for baggage you check but not for the baggage you carry on? The weight is the weight. Just put it in the price of the ticket. Or, if you don't want to do that because otherwise folks will be bringing on body bags of stuff, just charge by the total weight. Put it all on the scale, purses, laptops, the whole bunch, and charge, I don't know, 10 cents a pound. Done. And why not encourage people to check the bags. Really, how much more pleasant would flying be if you didn't have to fight for overhead space with that business guy who is shoving a garment bag, a suitcase, a computer, and his coat in the space above you? Charge for carry-on, I say. Especially with all this extra security nonsense.

Rant 2: Mariah Carey. I don't know if you heard about this, but she won this acting award at the Palm Spring International Film Festival and she got a little kooky with her speech. Now, I haven't actually seen it, but I've read about it and it seems she was a little excited/drunk/rambling. But, you know what, who cares? She was obviously thrilled to have won the award and for once it's kind of nice to have someone who is just babbling instead of thanking their damn agent and press manager. Wasn't she supposed to be over about 5 years ago? I remember when her label bought her out and her career was supposedly done, I told someone that I wish I could buy stock in her, because I knew she'd be back. (I'm not Mariah Carey fan, but she's got pipes and she knows what the people want.) So, shut up Sean Penn and the press, and let the woman enjoy herself.

Rant 3: Woman and sleep. So, there's this whole thing on the Huffington Post about women not getting enough sleep and that's the hot new year's resolution. The New York Times then did a story on it saying that women didn't get enough sleep because they're expected to do more than men. To which a number of men wrote back and basically said, well, that's because women are stupid. (See, we're stupid because we choose to do housework and have babies and pick partners that don't help us enough.) Yeah, there's no pressure from society to do most of the housework and take care of the kids. None at all. And if you don't believe that, do this experiment: watch television commercials for an hour. Just flip around. Count the number of men doing the cleaning, watching the kids. Sorry, no credit for the guy screwing up the cleaning, so the wife has to shake her head (with a smile) and show him how it's done. Yeah, that's all stupid women coming up with the conclusion that they should do the housework.

And you got me wanting you

As I poured sugar on my cookie sandwich (the key ingredients are white bread and brown sugar) with my side of mashed potatoes and rice, I realized that, yes, I have let carbs (along with an extra few pounds) back into my life. And I'd love to say that I have the self-control to cut back or limit the carbs, but I always find that if I open the door a crack, eventually I'm back to the old habits.

I hate that my personality is such that it's all or none, but, especially with food, it seems that all or nothing works the best for me. So, as of today, it's good-bye to the carbs for a bit.

I have a time limit in mind. I'm keeping it to myself, but I figure I have a fighting chance if I can see an end. Then, I'll go from there, taking "vacations" or whatever will work for a while. But, for now, good-bye delicious Snowballs and Jo-Jos.

The Journal of Helene Berr

Recently I finished "The Journal of Helene Berr". Who was Helene Berr? She was a Jewish student in Paris during World War II. Anne Frank 2? No, she didn't go into hiding, and, well, unlike "The Diary of Anne Frank", this wasn't very good. (and God makes another mark in the "Hell" column.) Let me defend that statement. This is a journal, kept mostly for herself, so there are passages where it's just a cryptic statement about her day (I just opened the book randomly and there was one: "I received two postcards today." Nothing more. I don't want to read that. It's filler. It adds nothing.)

I completely blame the editors and publisher. The part of the book that is the journal is less than 250 pages, fairly large type, with plenty of spaces. A good portion of it is just day-to-day, described in a way that requires you to have a reasonable amount of knowledge of what went on in WWII, as well as a willingness to not care about who was whom throughout the journal. They had a choice: (a) edit it down and make it a one of those long, interesting articles in "The New Yorker", (b) do the work and give us lots of footnotes, explain who there people were, what happened to them, give us the complete story, or (c) (lazy choice) throw it together and just go with it because there are enough fans of Anne Frank that would read this book without the work. They chose (c).

There are some beautiful parts. There is a section on the anxiety of writing, when she realizes that others might read this, that really touched me. "There is the considerable repugnance I feel at thinking of myself as 'someone who writes', because for me, perhaps mistakenly, writing implies a split personality, probably a loss of spontaneity, and an abdication (but maybe these are prejudices)." This is lovely and touches me, but there isn't enough of it (which goes back to the idea of this as an article rather than an entire book.)

It is interesting to read it, knowing what happens. Knowing what was actually going on. At one point her father gets arrested and they are sure that the Germans will be fair. (When the family is asked to send along warm clothing, there is a part of you, while reading it, is thinking, "oh no." Surprisingly, he actually is released, only to be arrested again later.)

She doesn't survive. This isn't really a spoiler as it's on the back cover. She dies 5 days before the camp is liberated.

I guess if you're a real geek about this sort of thing, you should read it. Maybe get a used copy or something. Read the background information that (for whatever random reason) they put at the end first. Seriously, that's where they explain the organizations that she's a member of, why her dad gets released, etc. Oh, those editors.

And it poured sweet and clear

Today I wished someone happy new year and they said that they hoped next year would be better. And I started thinking about my 2009. Do I want next year to be better? And after thinking about it for a bit, the answer is no. No way. Because although it's been a year of crazy highs and lows, I know that this is what I want. I want to look back and think, holy crap, a lot went on there! And, you know what? Most of it was good stuff!

Sure, there are things I never want to go through again. There are things I'd like to take back, things I'd change. There were periods I thought I'd explode due to stress. There were times I wish I could have just hit fast forward. But I'd go through it all again for the rest of this year. Because the good stuff, it was really good.

This year was technicolor. This year was an adventure. This year was more interesting than I'd ever hope, usually in a good way. I learned so many things about what I could do. I look back on this year and I'm pretty impressed about everything I did (if I do say so myself). And you know the best part? Most of it is just the start of better things to come! Isn't that exciting?

Of course, you always hope the next year is better than the previous year. How could you not? But this was a damn good year, challenges and all. I'm tempted to go back and read my postings from last year at this time, but that would be a cheat. I know it's better now. My life is richer right now. And I'm crying tears of happy right this very minute.

Happy New Year!

Not very Christmas-y

Warning: this is not a Christmas post. Of course, it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for Christmas travel, but if you want heartwarming today, well, come back some other time. It's a minor, bitchy story of bad service and wrong answers.

Wednesday I drove up from Maryland to the parents' in Ohio. I wanted to get about half way before I grabbed lunch (I left after a half day of work) and also wanted to avoid the crazy in Breezewood. I dive down the PA turnpike a while and get to a stop about 50 miles later. I'd like to point out that this travel day was December 23, a day one would expect a lot of folks on the road, right? I'd also like to point out that I did not get off the turnpike, I stopped at one of those places that are meant for travelers to quickly get in and out. So, fast service is not asking too much, is it? Now, I'll admit, I picked the Chili's-to-go, which I knew probably wasn't going to be as quick as the hot dog place, but still. In a rest stop, not the sit down experience.

There are three of us in line. One cashier. Okay, still not a huge deal. But then there's an order up and she has to leave the register with a tray full of food and find the people who ordered it and deliver it to the table. So, no cashier. Now, I see a couple of workers off to the side, running in and out (one an older woman). But no one to cover the register. Eventually, the cashier is done delivering and comes back. When I finally go to place my order, I asked her if there was anyone else working the register and she told me the other girl was on break, do I want to talk to the manager? And she goes to leave and maybe if I wasn't tired and cranky and had been stuck in traffic I would have said, no, that's alright, but I let her get the manager. And out steps this older woman, who I had noticed hadn't been helping earlier.

I swear, I kind of just want to defend the poor girl behind the register (who was great, if the CEO of Chili's is reading this.) So I asked the manager (Joan, by the way, CEO) why there wasn't anyone else working on this obviously busy travel day. Okay, let's role play. You are the manager of a Chili's in the middle of Pennsylvania that probably gets crazy-busy about four times a year. What is the correct response:

1) I don't make the schedule.

2) This isn't the busiest day; the day before Thanksgiving is.

3) Didn't you see the line?

4) I apologize for the wait. We'll have to be more careful when we make the schedule for these busier days. (or something along those lines.)

Apparently, if you're Joan, all answers but 4) are correct. And, oh Joan, you picked the wrong chick to pull out the ornery on. (By the way, I'd like to point out that after I talked to Joan, suddenly she decided that helping out behind the register would be a good idea, so I must have been on to something.)

I understand that it must have been a crazy day. I also understand that if they were understaffed (which they were), there's not a lot you can do at that point. But if a customer wants to talk to you, at least pretend to be nice. Yeah, I'm probably not going to be back anytime soon, but that's part of being a manager. Just be a little bit nice, don't make it worse.

There was no god in that Chili's that night.

Pretty things get in my car

Let's play a game. Let's pretend that all jobs earn the same amount of money. I have waved the magic wand: poof, we're all equal. Okay, what are you doing for a living? Here's the rule: you gotta work for someone. Oh, and you can't change your job every week or something like that. You actually have to stick with it for a while. Okay, are you still doing the same thing?

The thing is that if I played that game, I'm not really sure what I'd be doing. If money wasn't the issue. I'd love to say that I'd still be doing the same thing, but I'm not so sure. But, that said, I'm not sure what I'd do. What would fulfill me? What would make my heart sing? Does my job have to make my heart sing? I'm not so sure it does.

For now, I am happy doing what I'm doing, but keeping myself open to possibilities. I am enjoying the things that surround my job. I am happy with my hobbies and my non-job activities. I am working on balance.

(See where we were.)

We all have our stories to tell. But that's just it, isn't it? They're stories. They're our version of the events, a weird blend of nonfiction and fiction. What we saw, what we remember, what we were feeling when it happened. Our version of the story is what we own. It's not all "facts be damned" or made-up lies, but it's not history either.

When I write about things in my past, my stories, I'm giving you my memoir, not my autobiography. There aren't any endnotes, there was no fact checker. It's my version: right or (probably at least a little bit) wrong. I try to tell the truth, but I am sure I am coloring it with other things: emotions, other stories that I've mixed up in there, new perspective now. I'm not crosschecking or interviewing other participants or getting the whole story; I'm just telling mine. Perhaps it's a bit selfish, but it's what I have for now.

There's a great story in the afterward of my copy of "Autobiography of a Face" (or maybe in "Truth and Beauty" -- either way, both very good books) where Lucy Grealy was at a book signing and someone told her how amazing it is that she remembers all those details from when she was a child. They asked her how she could remember all of that and she replied, "I didn't remember it, I wrote it. I'm a writer." Exactly.

While I looked around for my possibilities

Today I was thinking about everything I need to do, all the stuff I want to do. I want to write, I want to chat with people, I want to sort my photos, I want to wrap the presents. I want to get sleep (ah, that's the one that gets you every time.) There's so much to do, so many possibilities. And, for once, this didn't stress me out. For once, I thought to myself, isn't that great? Isn't it wonderful to have all of these things to do?

I guess I need to do more of that, I need to embrace the positive. I need to keep in mind that being busy is a good thing. That having all this stuff is great! It's fun! Who wants to be bored? Who wants to be at home in the evening thinking, there's nothing to do?

I am choosing to not be overwhelmed. I am choosing to decide it's a blessing. And I am smiling, looking at that stack of presents that needs wrapping.

Apple: Bite me

Hey, Apple: today, I am a hater and it's going your way. Here's the deal: today I get an email from Apple. Free on iTunes: a Christmas sampler. Yay, right? I mean, who doesn't dig some free holiday music? Just upgrade your iTunes, and it's all yours. No problem, I've been getting that "hey, you need to upgrade" message for a while, so this is what I need to actually do it.

I go to upgrade, and the stupid thing acts like it's a whole, new application. Which involves dinking (yeah, I said dinking) with it for a while. Finally, it seems to go. But wait! If I want to access the iTunes store, I have to upgrade my Safari, which involves a search for software upgrades. Of which none are actually Safari. So I search for the Safari upgrade, which I find and go to download. Which, after waiting to download, I get the message that I need to upgrade my whole operating system. Excuse me?! I don't think so.

So, now I'm stuck with a new "improved" iTunes where I can't access the store. Oh, yeah, I still don't have the free holiday music.

I say it again: Apple: Bite me.

The power of the words

So, the original plan was that I would write the 50,000 words and set it aside for a few weeks, then start to edit. It seemed like a good plan. But we all know about the best-laid plans.

I really wanted to stay away from it for a while, to actually miss writing The Book. I wanted to really need to write and I figured it would be at least a couple of weeks until that would happen. But last weekend (only five days later!) I really wanted to add some things to The Book. I suppose that's a good thing, but I'm already breaking the little rules in my head.

I have a copy of what I've written so far printed out. It's ready to be edited. If I'm being honest, I'm a little bit afraid of it. I'm not thinking it's the Great American Novel or anything, but I don't want it to be awful either. I'm a little afraid that when I read it, I'll realize that it's not very good. Or interesting. Or, even worse, I'll think that it's good but anyone else who reads it will be less than enthused.

I have people who believe in me, which I completely appreciate, but not one of these people has read a word of what I've written, so their belief is completely based outside of this exercise. It's wonderful to have people who trust what you do so much, but I do have a bit of a fear of disappointing them. That they will read it and, in an attempt to be positive, offer praise like, "wow, those margins are straight!"

But, let's be optimistic and say that I somehow get it to a point that I have strangers read it. I don't know if I'm ready for that. Ever. I'm not sure I could take the criticism from a person who doesn't have a reason to be nice to me, to sugarcoat the issues they might have with it. ("Look, these margins are crap!") But getting to that point, that point where I think someone else might appreciate what I wrote, that's both horrible and kind of exciting to me. Am I ever going to be at that stage?

Hey Grandma!

When it comes to technology, sometimes I am so hopelessly behind. Sure, I can play the game. I have the blog, the twitter account, the facebook page. I maintain my calendar on Outlook, I'm connected to the internet. But, beyond all that simple stuff, I'm at a dead end when it comes to technology.

I use the wrong terms. Someone told me that they've RSSd me, and I am smiling and nodding (but I have no idea what that means.) Another friend asked me about sms-ing and I was, um I don't do that but you can text me. (Oh, how I wish that wasn't a true story. And that it happened more than a few weeks ago.)

My hard drive on this mac is almost full and I know it's because I have some junk on it that I could just delete and free up a ton of memory but I have no idea how to do it. (I probably have, like, 4 versions of Word or something kicking around.) I can't get my ipod touch to pick up the internet anywhere, not even in my house. (And, yes, I have the wifi on when I'm trying to find it -- I've since shut it off as that I don't run my battery down to nothing.)

I feel like if I got somebody to sit down with me and teach me, I could do it. Clearly, I have some capability. But talking to an IT guy, forget it. They use weird words and get mad when I try to explain that I clearly don't get it. Or they go about 10 steps too far ("here's how you can connect to the internet while water-skiing in the Bahamas and competing in a Magic tournament!" No, I just want to connect to the internet in Gaithersburg.) Or they want to tell you five ways to do the same thing ("you can connect though this button or this command or by spinning the computer three times in the air..." Just tell me one way -- stop confusing me!)

I feel like if I could figure it out, my life would be more efficient, more sleek. It's like finding the perfect handbag. It would pull everything together.

BCS BS

So, have you heard this one? Congress (yeah, our Congress) is discussing a bill that would mandate a college football play-off system. I know what you're thinking; you're thinking, thank God they're taking the time to address this important issue. Because, as you know, everything else is going so very well: no issues with the economy, war, health care: not a thing to worry about.

Look, I happen to like football. College football, even. And I even think that they way they determine who is Number One is kind of stupid (the system favors the big schools and certain leagues, for example), but, really, so what? Basketball has a play-off system (and, frankly, that's a sport where it makes a little more sense because you can play more than one game a week), and you still sometimes end up with a champion that people argue over.

Look, there's no one perfect system. And I actually think that having a little controversy is good for a sport, gives you something to argue about over beers with buddies. Look at Nascar: Jimmy Johnson is over there dominating, and they're all up in arms about how boring the sport has become. There are people who think the sport should be changed to get rid of the domination, but most of us are just bored. I personally like it when there isn't that obvious winner all the time.

Hope

I may be a cynic, but I always hope for the happy ending. To an unrealistic extent. Like, when I was watching "Milk" (oh, hey, spoiler alert), I was thinking to myself, maybe in this version he won't run into Dan White. Maybe someone will see Dan White break in and stop him. The crazy thing was that there was a part of me that really truly thought this was actually a possibility.

And, yes, every single time I reread "The Diary of Anne Frank" (and, believe me, it's been more than a few times), I hope that they can stay hidden for a few more months. Or maybe she'll get a little more to eat so she can survive the camps.

I just want it all to turn out alright. I just want everyone to have a chance.

I suppose there are worse things than having hope. But, of course, that means I'm disappointed sometimes.

Oh Christmas tree

Today I bought a Christmas tree. I got a fake one this year, which was the right choice. Yeah, a real tree smells nice and everything, but it's a lot of work. So, lazy wins this year (and, since it's gonna last, lazy will last for years to come.)

I wanted a just a plain, basic tree. Do you know how hard it is to find a tree that doesn't have lights or fake pine cones? And looks decent? Why are they all coming with lights these days? I know it's easier, but lights burn out. And sometimes you have special lights you want to use. Or maybe one year you want colored lights and the next year you want all blue lights. But if you don't want to buy a tree with lights already on it, that eliminates about 75% of the trees.

And, because you don't want lights, clearly, you want ugly, fake pine cones. Maybe the logic is as follows: don't want lights = must like "natural" things; pine cones are natural things; therefore, you must want the pine cones! Um, no. Not at all. So, now you're left with about three trees to choose from. One is just wimpy and ugly, one is one of those skinny trees, so you're left with that one, I guess. So, I bought that one.

I'll take a picture, I promise.

I swear I didn't make this up

A question for you. Or, not a question, exactly, but maybe you can explain this. Give me a reference or something. Some time when I was in my 20s, I had heard that, in general, Catholics use colored Christmas lights, and Protestants use white lights. And, I swear, it was presented to me like, yup, this is the way it is. I must have heard it somewhere. It's a stupid stereotype. There's no good reason to have it. But now that I'm trying to confirm that there's some truth behind or something, I can't seem to find any confirmation. I've googled a few things, but, for the most part, nothing. I wouldn't have made this up, right? So, why is this in my consciousness? Any help out there?

Oh, and can you tell me why the church doors in Philadelphia are red?

Is that all you blighters can do?

Last month I wrote over 50,000 words. For a novel. Yeah, really. That’s a lot of words, even for a babbler like me. It required a few things: whenever I had a chance, I wrote; no editing at all; just throwing those ideas on the page -- no pondering or thinking out those ideas or putting them in any sort of order; and using “down time” (such as walking to work, that sort of thing) to focus my thinking on ideas for “the book.”

Why did I do it? It was a crazy time at work and there’s really no good reason, but I guess I wanted the challenge. Maybe because it was a crazy time at work, maybe it helped me think of something other than work. I can’t be grinding my teeth about this nut-so work project when I’m trying to think of what to write in the next chapter.

There were a few times I didn’t think I’d make it. There was a point at about 20,000 words that I thought, okay, there’s no way I have any more to say about all of this. Story is over. I was stuck with a short story. But then I had this weird little burst of creativity that kept me going until about 47,000. And maybe because it was near the end, both word count-wise and time-wise, those last few thousand were killing me.

The NaNoWriMo site has all sorts of tips to help increase your word count, but they seem like cheats to me. Like, have your character think something, then say it. (For example: “John thought he should order a pizza. ‘I should order a pizza,’ said John.”) These strike me a bit as cheats. Look, if you’re going to commit to 50,000 words, make them as real as you can get them. Don’t pad just to pad (that said, I’m sure I did some, but I tried not to.) Or another thing NaNoWriMo does is they give you “dares” (such as “we dare you to put a submarine in your story! Then sink it!”) Oh, please. Just write your story. If you really want people to write a novel in a month, then the silliness needs to be set aside.

So, what's my book about? Yeah, I'm not ready to tell you yet. Sorry. It's been such a stream-of-consciousness sort of thing that I have no idea if it's any good or if the ideas fit together or anything like that, so it's still a private thing. If it makes you feel any better, I haven't shown any of it to anyone, so it's not you.

But I have a book. A short book and an unedited book, but a book that I wrote. For now, I've set it aside, at least for a couple of weeks. Then I'll get out the editing hat and see if there's anything there. I'll keep you posted.

Made it!

Dear Loyal Viewer,

I made it to 50,000 words. Too tired to detail it for now -- don't worry it's coming. And December is for you. I swear. I miss you all.

For now: enjoy the Rocky stairs.

So far

A quick update for those of you who stop by now and again. NaNoWriMo is coming along. I'm at the halfway point time-wise, but slightly behind word-wise. I just hit (Seriously, like, 5 minutes ago) 20,000 words for the month, which, frankly, kind of amazes me. It's been a busy couple of weeks, so I'm pretty happy that I've been able to keep this pace. I know I'll have time in the next couple of weeks to catch up, so I'm pretty optimistic that I'll make the goal.

Since it's a crazy sort of pace, I'm just throwing the words on the page. There's nothing wrong with that (for now) and I'd like to think it's freeing me up some. I only have so much time to write, so I just have to go with what's in my head. No time to edit, no time to process. There are days I feel like there's nothing there, but that word count needs to go on, so I do as well.

I'm looking forward to crossing that finish line and taking a breather. It's an exercise, I know, but I hope it works. The plan is to finish the month, then put it aside for a bit (a week, maybe a month?), then go back and edit. I'm sure I'll change a lot, but that's alright. It's about ideas for now. I'm also looking forward to having time to write here once December arrives.

Thanks for stopping by. Just wanted to give you the update.

The write stuff

(Get it? It's a pun!)

First of all, thanks to all who read. Sorry you keep checking back, only to find nothing new here. I've got a bunch of excuses: busy at work, lack of focus, lack of ideas, just plain lazy, but it all adds up to no new posts. Sorry about that.

In case you didn't know, November is NaBloPoMo (you know, National Blog Posting Month), where a post a day is encouraged. Here's my chance to get back on track! I thought. I will do that. It will be good.

But then someone pointed out to me that it is also NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month. Seriously? You don't have it on your calendar?), which is way more ambitious: write a novel in a month. A "short" novel (50,000 words!) but a novel nonetheless. I thought about the wordiness of November. For a day or so I thought I might be able to do both, but I decided that I should probably keep my job (new house and all), so I'm taking on NaNoWriMo. I have an idea for a novel and I kind of want the crazy challenge right now.

I'll probably start throwing down the words and hit a dead end, realize the idea won't work, there's a bunch of possibilities. Who knows, but starting tomorrow, it's fiction time. Which means little time for this blog (so I anticipate). But you never know; maybe I'll want to write anything but that damn novel in a week or so. I just wanted to warn you in advance that the postings aren't going to pick up any time soon. That said, I may make December my NaBloPoMo. Or I may use Garfield Statue to vent about how much I hate those 50,000 words.

Don't go away completely. Check back now and again. I swear: December is for you.

I wish I might

When I was about 12, we went on a church retreat in Michigan. I don't remember too much about it, but I remember it was cool, like it is now. And at night it got very dark. When you live in a city, you don't realize how dark it can get. And this was the type of dark you can only get when you get away from the city lights.

I went to the top of a hill and there were so many stars. More stars than I ever remember seeing. I remember lying on top of that hill, and there were stars all around me. I was surrounded by stars. And after a while it felt like I was floating. It was the strangest feeling. It didn't even feel like I was laying down. I could have been standing; I could have been drifting away. It was amazing and a little bit frightening. I was almost afraid to move, afraid that the ground wasn't there anymore.

It's called a jawbreaker

Wanna get me all riled up? Let's talk Roman Polanski, shall we? Can someone please explain to me who thinks that this is appropriate behavior: (a) Find 13-year-old girl (b) drug 13-year-old girl (c) rape, etc., 13-year-old girl (d) admit to doing so in a court of law (e) don't show up for sentencing because things may not exactly go your way (f) flee country and specifically avoid certain places in order to not end up back in the country to be punished for crime you have admitted to committing and fleeing from that very crime. Seriously, the guy is a pedophile who won't pay for his sins. Why are people defending him?

No, you do not get a pass because you produce art. Sorry, that's not how the system works. Does this mean if he were a mediocre director he could maybe rape an 18-year-old? Or rob a liquor store? The crappy directors, well, maybe they can beat up a guy in a bar.

And, shut up everyone who says that even the girl forgives him. No, that is not true. She wants to put it behind her, that's what she has said. And you know what might help her put it behind her? Seeing her rapist punished for his crimes. Having him serve his sentence with so it's not still news. And, frankly, what's she going to say to get him back in the country? "I want that bastard in jail for the rest of his life"? That ain't gonna get him back in the USA.

Oh, it's been 30 years? Is there a reward for getting away with something for a long period of time? Did I miss that memo? And what is the required amount of time? Was 20 years enough? 10? Oh, wait, he's 76? So what? Go. To. Jail.

And news media, I am over you referring to him as "Oscar-winner" or "award-winning director" or whatever wonderful thing you want to call him. I have yet to see one refer to him as "convicted pedophile" or "child rapist." Even the crime itself: he will have to "face justice for having sex with a 13-year-old girl" like they were on a date or something and he got caught. Yeah, it was just "having sex." Oh, and Jacek Bromski, you really need to shut up. Yeah, Polanski's career really suffered there.

This man is a pedophile. He should be in jail for the crimes he admitted to committing. I'm sorry you had a rough life, but this one you've got to own.

Ironically, I can't think of a title for this one

The other day, a friend of mine called me creative. I said, thank you. She pointed out that not everyone would think it was a compliment. I wondered, who wouldn't think that was a compliment? Doesn't everyone want to be creative?

But then I thought about it a little bit more. Being creative is scary. It's putting yourself out there. It's saying, I'm doing things a bit different and I'm standing behind it. Or, here's something from my very own brain, I hope you like it. And, to me, that one is the scary one. Because, although I might like it, I might think that it's clever or funny or touching, someone else might see it and think, boy, I really hate that. Or maybe not think about it at all.

I guess I will accept that I am a bit creative. But I don't think I'm as creative as I could be. I know that comes from a lack of bravery, a fear of letting go. It's hard to put yourself "out there." I can't stand to watch people read anything I've written. I've distanced myself from my writing at work in order to survive those criticisms. Luckily, everyone has been nice about the writing here. But I'm still a bit shy to actually talk about it. I like that I can write here, someone else can read it miles away, and I don't have to watch or even know they are reading.

This adds to the list of one of the many ways I wish I were braver. I'm working on it, but don't expect me to waving a short story under your nose anytime soon. And, I suppose, in many ways, it may be easier to not be creative. But it's got to be kind of boring.

But I guess I'm already there

Well, most of the boxes are unpacked, but I'm not sure if I'm completely moved in. I'm at that weird, in-between stage. That stage where everything is in places, but I'm not sure if they're in the right places. Where I have certain pictures on the wall because the hooks are already there, that picture fits, but I'm pretty sure it's not the right picture for that spot. And where should I put my bills? My receipts?

I look around and, yeah, it's my stuff, but it doesn't completely feel like it's mine. I'm still working on the rhythm of the new place. It takes a bit longer than I think it should to get ready to go every morning. Where did I put my keys? That bill I meant to pay? My book? I am getting used to having to run up and down stairs every time I need something, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

The good news is that every little thing helps make me feel more at home. Yes, that looks better over there. That basket can be used to hold those papers. Lamps are on tables now, not on the floor. It's coming together. It should be home soon.

Not there to soothe your soul

This Thursday, I went from "getting a divorce" to "divorced." I got the phone call at work, all very casual. "Well, it's official." I'm still not sure how to react, how, exactly, to feel about all of this. I'll admit, my first reaction was to cry a little bit. Of course I knew it was coming, and, yes, it was my doing. Or at least my finishing (we're not getting into a discussion of all the details here.) But, now, it is over.

Thirteen years. That's how long we were married, almost exactly. And, poof, it is over. How do I view those years? If I say I was happy, then why did I end it? If I say I wasn't, then why did it take so long? But I was happy. And then I wasn't. But it wasn't just good/bad, yes/no. I suppose it went from one shade of grey to another. And I'm still not sure why the shade of grey became something I no longer wanted, but I know it wasn't the shade I was planning to live with the rest of my life.

I know that when I tell people I feel sad about about the whole thing, some of them wonder if I regret doing this. No, I know this was the right thing to do. But that doesn't mean I don't miss some things. That I don't have some good memories, and, yes, some of these memories are fairly recent. I hate that, in some ways, I have to pretend that those 13 years don't exist. They do exist; they are a part of me. And I'm still trying to decide what to do with those years.

3 sixty 5

I have joined a 365 club on Flickr. One photo (and only one) per day, every day. It started September 1 and I'm already surprised as to how much of a challenge it is. The first change in behavior is that I'm starting to carry my camera everywhere. Or at least I'm trying to bring it. I forgot to bring it to Sam's Club today and I immediately thought, "well, there goes some of today's possibilities."

Another change is that I find myself looking around a lot more. Looking for something interesting or specific for that day. I've resisted taking pictures of the cat although I'm sure he'll show up on a day where I've found nothing else. I have to do less looking for lucky pennies and more looking for good shots.

I have some days where there are a lot of shots. Yesterday I went to the National game (a come-from-behind win! very exciting) and there were a bunch of shots. Of course, the guys dressed as presidents won (although the Teddy shot shown here did not get the shot of the day. Abe won.) Those days you hate that you only get one picture.

I am enjoying seeing other the other pictures in the group but I see how much I need to grow as a photographer. There are some really beautiful pictures in this group. I am thinking of this amazing one of a tomato with a fork in it. So simple, yet perfect.

So, it's Day 7. Wonder what I'll see today. Maybe the trip to the grocery store will bring something.

Mama Leone left a note on the door

Don't believe the hype: moving sucks. Even though I've been looking forward to actually getting a place to call my own and get my stuff back from Pennsylvania, I have to say that a really, really hate moving. I'm trying to put the good spin on it: at least this is "mine" (well, in 2029, it'll officially be mine!), at least I now have everything in one place, I can try to get organized, but, seriously, I'm exhausted by all of this.

I really do love the new place. Good space, good neighborhood, yep, I made the right choice. But I am really looking forward to the day where I'm not working my way around a box or two every time I go to the bathroom. Or where I can actually find everything I need when I cook a meal.

The good news is that I'm starting to feel like it's going in the right direction. The parents came out last weekend and help whip the main floor into shape. Yesterday I was able to get all the way into my closet ("oh look! There is a back wall!") The internet is up and running ("hello, my pretty.") Yeah, someday this will all be a memory.

For now, it's a little bit at a time. Every box I can get rid of is a little victory. Every trash pick-up makes me happier. I still have way too much stuff, (oh, you have no idea) but it's starting to get under control. Maybe soon I'll invite you over.

Sorry I've been MIA

Just a quick post to explain the absence. It's mostly been moving. I have a lot of stuff, in case you missed it in previous posts. And, currently, I am without internet (quick shout-out the the neighbors who aren't protecting theirs. Oh, can you get a stronger signal -- it doesn't always come in when I need to steal it from you. Thanks!)

I promise more soon. Really. Don't go away, tiny audience of mine.

This is not a happy post

There are days that I just feel like I'm a jerk. That I'm selfish and all I care about is myself. All I think about is my needs, what makes me happy, without really thinking about how it affects someone else. And I hate myself a little bit for that.

I didn't want to hurt Mr. HP. I really didn't. And I hate that I had to hurt him to get to where I am today. Look, I know there were a lot of factors, that we both played our part in this falling apart. I get that. But I was the one who pulled the trigger, who made it all happen. And there are times when I think about his hurt, and I can't believe I could be so awful, to intentionally do this to a person. I think of him alone and I almost gasp that I was capable of causing this.

No one wants to be the villain. And I know that I'm not the villain. But I'm not the good guy either.

C'mon up to the house

Next week, I wake up in my brand new house! Okay, it's not really brand new, but it is brand new to me. I am out of the apartment with its rented furniture and white, white walls. It's a nice apartment, but it's not mine. I could settle in some, but I never really felt like it was home (home-ish, perhaps.) My cd's were in Pennsylvania; most of my books were there as well. Although there are pictures on the wall of the apartment, they are those weird hotel-like pictures that mean nothing to no one. I want to put up the photos I have taken on my trips, the pictures my mom has painted, the family tree.

I want to settle in. I want to put up shelves, and put my stupid, little trinkets on them. I want to (at least think about) painting the walls different colors. I want to make a place that people want to visit; I want people to hang out. I want it to be a place where everyone feels comfortable. I hope it's a place that brings me joy.

I know that part of that will be my attitude. I will have to work on relaxing when people visit. I will have to enjoy their company and not worry if they bang a chair into the wall. It's just a spill; we can clean it up. I need to laugh at the jokes and not worry about the scuff marks.

But I'm really looking forward to taking a bath in that awesome tub!

I never weep at night

Today, after three hours at the DMV, I walked away with new plates for my car and a new driver's license. Oh, and I got my name back. For the first time in 13 years, the name on my driver's license matches my passport.

I never legally changed my name when Mr. HP and I got married. I was going to, but it's a very (very) common last name (not that common), and I just never really got around to doing it. When I got my driver's license renewed after I got married, during those crazy pre-9/11 days, all I had to do was show the marriage license and tell them that I was planning to change my name, and there you go: my driver's license had my married name.

I had two names for 13 years: my work name and my home name. It's actually surprising how easy it is to do this. Paychecks, publications, those are in my work (legal) name; home ownership, driver's license, checking accounting: my home name, Mr. HP's last name. Of course, when I travelled, that got a bit tricky; I had to remember to buy my out-of-the-country tickets in the passport name. When I'd go to check into the hotel, I'd have to remember which name I gave.

Mortgage companies are not big fans of the multiple names, even six years ago. I had to write a letter explaining why I had two names. I resisted the temptation to just write, "because it's not 1950 and not all of us take the guy's name."

I have a couple of things that still have the married name, but today I changed the major ones. It's a bit sad, but it's also kind of nice. No more explaining why my credit card name is different from my license. (An aside: it's shocking the number of businesses that ask to see the identification, and then just shrug off the fact they don't match. I had only one place that refused to take my card because they didn't match. Seriously, why did the others even check?)

Yeah, my name is common, but it's mine again. And I now only have one.

Yeah, I know that guy (or gal)

I think everyone who has worked has worked with That Guy. That Guy who has a higher level job than you and makes more than you, but, seriously, no one has any idea how they got there. That Guy (or Gal: let's be honest, it's sometimes a gal) has a great job. He goes home at a reasonable hour; he has a nice office; he gets to travel. And, yet, no one knows quite what it is he does, what he adds to the whole system. In fact, sometimes, he makes it more difficult.

I look at these people and I wonder, how do I get that job? What did I do wrong that I'm stuck actually working? I think I could do That Guy's job. In fact, I'm pretty sure I could do it better. Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

Fear of fiction

I have, on some level, accepted that I am a writer. I do get a paycheck as a result of being a writer (a specific type of writer, yes, but they do pay me.) I do this blog, which involves some writing, now and again. So, yes, I guess I have the ability to write. However, what I do not do is write fiction.

I read fiction. I love fiction. I love to tell a story. But those stories have to be based in fact, in actual events. I can't make up a story. Besides assignments in school, I've never written any fiction. And, honestly, I don't know if I could. Fiction requires a bravery I don't think I have. When you write fiction, that's all you. If I'm just telling a story, well, that's the way it happened and there's no changing that. When you make up a story, that's your mind, your heart, that's your story.

I'd like to think that some day I could write a story. But when I start to think about it, maybe to explore an idea, two things happen. One: it always seems like that any idea I have must have been done before. And, most likely, much better than I could do. But, maybe, I talk myself out of that, past that point, and I start to develop it in my head. Well, it just sounds so poorly written (almost "Twilight" bad!) I just can't do it.

So, all you fiction writers, I raise a glass to you. Thanks for being brave. Maybe, one day, I'll try to be brave as well.