Her jaw aches from wanting and she's sick from chlorine

My middle name is Margaret. I'll confess that when I was a kid I didn't like the name. Margaret was old-fashioned and too long for a middle name. My friends' middle names were light and delicate, names like Ann or Lynn, grace notes to their first names, not this long, 8-letter thing that turned my first two names into a sort of a chant: An-ge-la-Mar-gar-et. Not only did no one my age have that name, with the popularity of "Are You There, God? It's me, Margaret?" no one wanted that as a name. I did everything I could to hide my middle name. Although I loved the book, I didn't want to be associated with someone obsessed with getting her period.

It took me a while to appreciate Margaret as a name. I was named after my mom's favorite aunt who died young (so I never met her), but when you're seven, being named after someone doesn't mean much. You don't realize that it's an honor, an extra dab of love placed on you. But as I got older and listened to the relatives who knew Aunt Margaret talk about her so fondly, telling stories about how wonderful she was, I started thinking that it was pretty cool that I had her name.

I must admit, I didn't really start to like Margaret until I found characters named Margaret in books I loved. I find that in literature, Margarets tend to be my kind of gals: Margaret Schlegel ("Howard's End"), Margaret Hale ("North and South"), Meg Murry ("A Wrinkle in Time"), Margaret Ibbotson ("Deerbrook"), just to name a few. They're smart, sensible, no-nonsense, strong women. They're not flighty or weak. Margaret isn't the pretty sister, but she's the interesting one. Margaret gets right boy in the end, but you knew all along she'd make it work out; you just know that she's going to have a very happy life. I want to be those Margaret's. I like to pretend that we're all a part of this awesome sorority. Our mothers named us knowing that we'd be worthy of this group of women.

Now I love Margaret. I'm proud to have it as a name. Because, in the end, we Margarets will make it all work out.

Hey ladies in the place I'm callin' out to ya

There's some fuss going around the internet about the New York Times book reviews: who they review (mostly white guys) and how they review them (they *love* white guys). I've got a few thoughts about this. (It should be noted that there are some really interesting pieces out there, so if this catches your attention, take a few minutes to google about.)

Women do behave differently than men. I see it in the workplace where the women will all tell you about their kids and the crazy things their husband did and how they've got to leave early because they have to pick up Little Susie from daycare, while with most of the men I work with I'm not sure who has kids and who doesn't. I understand that a lot of the childcare responsibility falls on women, and in many (most?) cases, that's the choice of the couple.

But do women behave differently because there's something different about us (nature/instinct) or are we expected to behave a certain way (nurture/social pressure)?

I'm always torn with these women vs. men arguments. On one hand, it isn't fair out there, and most (if not all) women have been treated differently (at work and otherwise) just because they're women, but on the other hand, women do sometimes bring it up themselves. A couple of us were looking at a website of this (female) corporate coach and she had a page specifically dedicated to her personal life. Would a man put information about their partner, pets, and home on their professional website? I'd say it was less likely.

Look at your facebook friends' pictures. How many women have their kids or pets or hubbies as their profile pictures compared to the men? I know that facebook is supposed to be social, that it's not a professional site, but it does speak a bit as to how women and men define themselves. Are women comfortable just being themselves or do women (perhaps overly) define themselves as wife or mother?

It is a bit of the chicken and the egg. Women often take the lead at home, which, of course, would lead to a person talking about that part of their life. But are women taking the lead in dealing with the kids and housework because they want to or because society shoves it down their throats? (If you don't think that society still views Mom as the one who takes care of the kids, just watch a handful of the back-to-school ads: see who's sending little Jimmy off to his first day of school. Spoiler: it's not Daddy. I don't know why, but this year it's just pissing me off more than usual. Really, ad agencies? You can't have ONE dad drop the kid off or take her to the bus stop or pack a lunch? Because Dads do sometimes buy the Wonder Bread in real life.)

Do the experiment: watch tv commercials for an hour. Just flip around the stations, get a good mix. You'll easily have a hundred images of women doing the housework, taking care of the kids, shopping for groceries while the men grill and work on computers and maybe try unsuccessfully to help out around the house (but thank GOD Mom can save the day!) Even if you say don't agree personally, that your man does more than his share or you're fully liberated, how can that not be a part of what's in your brain? (Even the damn Dyson commercial -- sure, the guy invented it, but they person they show actually vacuuming is a woman.)

So when the NYT doesn't review women writers as often or as gushy, it's sending a bit of a message. All those images are with us. And this may make us believe that maybe we do deserve different treatment. With the images of vacuuming and doing the wash with your heels on (it's in the current Color-Catcher commercial -- I'm not making that up. Pisses me off every time. She's all happy in her goddam HEELS to be doing her hubbie's wash with hers -- she no longer has to separate the laundry!) women may feel that we do need to apologize for something if we're busy writing books instead of doing the dishes.

Dipping in the pocket of her raincoat

What do you do every day? Besides sleep, eat, brush your teeth, is there something you do that is maybe something that not everyone does? I was thinking about this the other day. I am on Day 347 of my 365 experiment. (Just to clarify, I am in a Flickr group where we take a picture a day for a year.) The year is coming to a close, and I'm not sure if I will continue forward with this.

There are things I am doing every day to push myself to reach inside. I started writing in a journal at the beginning of the year, and I do that every day. I love doing that. I think about the past day, I revisit little things that bugged me and sometimes I can actually sort them out. I have a page to fill, to analyze my day, to just vent or shout with joy. This isn't my first go-around with keeping a journal, but it's been about 15 years or so.

I have also started this other daily ritual where I list five things a day that bring me joy. I started thing because I sometimes feel that I'm a negative person and this is an attempt to help me shake this. I need to remind myself that there truly is so much to be thankful for, that I have a lot of really awesome things in my life. It's very Oprah but it actually seems to work on most days. I try to not repeat myself too often, but there are days that my only thought is "thank God for coffee!" But even if I list coffee (again) I still have to come up with four more things those days. Reflecting on the good things in my life is not a bad habit, so I'll stick with this one for a while.

I was blogging every day, but that got to be a bit much. I feel like I should be posting more than I am (I thank you for your patience), but, to be fair, I'm also doing other writing which is just more private. Maybe I should have a blog posting on my every day list, but, for now I want to be writing when the spirit moves me.

There are things I should do: exercise, eat five fruits and vegetables, drink eight glasses of water. I start to think of all these things and wonder if I really started adding all these assignments, will I have time for the unexpected parts of my life? I shouldn't fill my life with assignments. I should let things happen without a schedule. (Yes, this is the reason I won't go running or eat those green beans. It's all about the creativity.)

Until September 1, taking a photo is on my everyday list. The question is: will it remain there? Should it remain there? Do I still want that obligation or should I free myself from the camera? There is something freeing about taking a picture when I want to, not because I need to. I don't want my life to be a series of checking off the list. But is removing something the best way to get more? I have two weeks to decide.

Where mocking birds used to sing

I recently went back to New Orleans, and had to make a stop at St. Louis Cemetery (#1, if you're getting specific). I love cemeteries. I can spend hours in even a small, local one. I love the peace, the history, the unknown stories that are all around. But there's something extra special about St. Louis Cemetery. It may be the way New Orleans wears religion and death, voodoo and a crucifix, like they all belong together. People leave flowers at the graves (fake, with bright, almost unnatural colors; the real thing wouldn't last very long in the New Orleans heat), and they also leave bottles of Tabasco, tubes of lip gloss, beads (of course), a pair of glasses. They leave bits of their lives, bits of the everyday. They draw the "XXX" on the side and make their wishes or give their offerings.

St. Louis is an unusual cemetery, especially for those of us used to the the tree-lined cemeteries where people are actually buried in the ground, in individual graves, clearly marked with stones or markers. St. Louis has vaults, where the bodies are placed, unembalmed, sealed away for a year as they decompose. After a year, there's nothing left but bones, bones that will mix with the other members of the vault. Some vaults are families, some are groups: workers of a certain union, the poor Spanish. St. Louis has no trees, so I find myself walking around in the bright sunlight and heat, the sounds of traffic in the distance. And yet there is still that cemetery vibe all around. People talk in hushed tones, they pause at certain places, saying silent prayers.

Some of the vaults are well-maintained, some are crumbling into piles of bricks. There are simple ones and ones with gates and statues. There are the famous, much-visited sites and there are the ones off in the corner with a few simple flowers. There is a statue of a child angel, beautiful against the cloudy sky, labeled simply with the oddly-adult name "Larry" and "1947-1949." I walk by all of them, wondering who is there, who is still here, thinking about them. I wonder who the last person was that placed their hand on the vault and whispered that they missed them.

Toward the end of my visit, a black cat crossed my path. For a moment I wondered what sort of omen this might be: is this a good thing? But as he rubbed his head against my leg, I knew that all he needed was a scratch or two behind his ears, which I happily gave him. He wasn't good luck or a bad sign; he was just a kitty, at home among the voodoo priestesses and former mayors of New Orleans.

Short a few credits

Recently I had a blip on my credit rating (a credit card that we [me and the former Mr. HP] thought we had canceled was not, there were late charges, bill got sent to an address neither of us have ever had, bill was unpaid. Bill is now paid.) One little blip, easily explained, taken care of immediately. But my credit rating plummeted, and will likely remain much lower for up to ten years! No, that isn't a typo.

This sort of thing just plays on my biggest fear: if I make one little mistake, if I stop paying attention for one moment, it'll all fall apart. And after it falls apart, it'll be so hard to fix. I just hate that feeling and things like this reenforce this fear.

But it did show me how flawed the credit system truly is. When I went to fix all this, I (obviously) checked my whole record and it's nothing but a series of green checks. Years of on-time payments of mortgages, credit cards, etc, not a scratch on the record, except for this blip. But as a result of this (explainable) blip, there goes 100 points. Oh, I also got dinged for opening new accounts last year: a new mortgage and new solo credit cards. But I moved and got a divorce! No matter, says the credit agencies -- you are clearly some sort of crazy risk to us.

I understand that the agencies exist for a reason. But that number should be a guide, not the be-all and end-all. Because mistakes happen. Moving and changes in people's lives happen. People have bad times in their lives, they get back on their feet, but maybe they let a couple of things slip. It shouldn't follow them for ten years!

As a result of this blip, I decided to get a new credit card (I tend to use one card for pretty much everything) through my bank. The bank I have been with for over 15 years. The bank that I have a fairly large sum of cash in savings with. The bank where I've never had an overdraft, never had any sort of issue with. I'm a fan of this bank, really I am. But I when I applied for this card: rejection! I called and got an approval for a small-ish credit limit (a few percent of what I have in the bank with them, I'd like to point out), but it was embarrassing and annoying.

I'm lucky. When something like this happens to me, I have back-ups. I can go to other places to pay for things. But if I were struggling, if I had waited to buy my house, if I lived paycheck to paycheck, this would have been a huge issue. For me, for now, this is an annoyance.

Modern medicine falls short

When I was a kid, I was terribly shy. This was not just simply a bit awkward in front of strangers. This was wishing-to-be-invisble shy. Wishing-to-disappear-into-the-floor shy. I didn't want to be called on in class; I didn't want to be noticed at all. It didn't bother me that I felt this way. I didn't want to be pulled out of my shell, I didn't want to have a spotlight. I was fine with my books and the couple of friends I had. I saw people around me that needed that attention, and that was fine by me.

As I got older, I saw some the advantages of not being shy. With my shyness, I found when I was noticed, I was almost too petrified to react, like a deer in the headlights. If I fought my shyness, maybe I could fit in a bit better. I realized that sometimes you had to put yourself out there. It was a scary thing for me. Maybe I cared too much about what other people were thinking about me. Maybe it was a sort of vanity, that people would even notice if I mispronounced a word or if I said something that didn't quite make sense.

I wonder about being shy. Is this one of those things that everyone feels now and again or is it just some of us? I look at some people and think that they've never felt shy for a moment. I see some people who always want to be noticed. I see people who are comfortable being the center of attention, who would go on stage in a minute. Me, I am always fighting that shyness on some level. There are moments that the shyness comes over me like a blanket.

True shyness is an emotion that only kids can have. A shy 4-year-old is cute in a way. As an adult, you have to interact with strangers, even if it's just to pick up the cleaning or paying for groceries; you have to give that presentation at work. I suppose as an adult (especially these days), you could craft an existence where you didn't have to interact with anyone, but then you'd be that weirdo cat lady who never leaves her house.

The fact is, these days I usually want some interaction with people. Sure, some of them get on my nerves, but that's not a shyness thing. I feel like I conquered that shyness I had. But there are times it sneaks up on me, and I just want to run away and hide for a bit. And I guess that's alright for a bit, but then I have to go back to fighting.

Through the lens

As I pass Day 300 of the 365 project, I am wondering what should happen on September 1, the day I hit 365. Should I go for 730? Just to clarify, I'm in a flickr group where you take one picture and only one picture to represent each day for a year. To see what I've been up to, you can go here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/acampbeldavis/sets/72157622350477058/

It's been fun and interesting, and it's made me a bit less shy about whipping out the camera and grabbing a shot. It has taught me some things about how to use my camera (how to frame shots, super-cool filters for photographing the sky, things like that) and a tiny bit about editing my photos. I now carry my camera pretty much everywhere, just in case there's a shot. I look around wherever I go: maybe there's something interesting happening that needs to be captured. I see more sunrises and sunsets, flowers in bloom, writing on the wall, individuals in their worlds.

But I do worry that the camera sets up a barrier between me and the world. Watching the sun set through the camera is not the same as just watching it and experiencing what's around me. With a camera, I've got a limited piece of the sky. I can put on a filter that gives me some extra pinks and oranges but it's not the reality. I'm trying to get the best bit of the sky, spinning around as I look through the veiwer. What am I missing by trying to capture the world in a 4" x 6" picture?

There is a woman in the 365 group who is taking a picture a day of her baby and I wonder if she is missing out on something by waiting for her daughter to have that pose for the day. Does she get frustrated if she misses out on getting the picture when her daughter does something especially cute? Does she get annoyed if her daughter is having a cranky day and won't cooperate for the camera?

Sometimes it's best to just capture the moment in your own memory. The other day as I walked to work, a fox passed by. For a moment, I wanted to grab my camera, to get that shot, but then I decided against it. Instead, I just watched him pass. We looked at each other, nodded, and he went on his way. There was something a bit magical about that moment. I'm glad I didn't break the spell.

Religion and Morality by me, age 7

 

When I was a kid, I had some ideas about religion and I thought I'd share them with you. (I swear, I truly believed each of these.)

What is the best way to talk to God? You have to pray. It's kind of like dialing a telephone: you have to do the sign of the cross and all that. If you really want to get through to God as directly as possible, it's best to pray in a church. He really listens there.

What happens when you die? After you get buried, you go up to heaven to be with God. 

What happens to the money that's collected at church? That's God's money, so, obviously, the best way to get it to Him is to bury it. I'm pretty sure there's a special place behind every church where you bury the money that's been collected for God.

How do you become a saint? If you're a really good person, you become a saint. You have to really, really believe in God, too. When you become a saint, you get one of those glow-y halos around your head, like Jesus and Mary have. That's how you can tell someone is a saint. There aren't any saints around these days.

How old is Jesus? Well, Jesus wasn't like you and me. Jesus was born on December 25 and by Easter, he was a full-grown man. That's how they knew he was special.

How do you become pregnant? Once you get married, God knows to give you a baby.

What about people who become pregnant that aren't married? God sometimes makes mistakes, like when people get sick. So, sometimes people become pregnant that aren't married. 

My first true love

I don't remember when it was I fell in love (I was so young!), but I fell hard and it was for life. Oh, Washington Local Library, you own my heart and soul. The library I fell for wasn't the most beautiful library nor was it very large, but it was the library I grew up with, so it will always be my first, the one I remember with the most love.

The library was filled with so many possibilities. So many books! (oh, it smelled so wonderful. Every library has that amazing scent to it. Don't you want to go into every library and just take it in?) I wanted to read every single book. A library is perfect for an obsessive kid like me: I will read every single "Little House" book. I will read every "Ramona" book. I will read every book on this shelf. And the next one.

When I was a kid, I read and read. But when you had a kid's library card, you had a limit to the number of books you could check out. I would check out as many books as I could every single time. With a little luck, I could maybe talk my dad into checking out a couple of extra books for me. I loved the summer, when I could spend hours reading. ("Go outside!" my mom would beg. "You can't read all day!" Oh, I think I can.) Like every relationship, there were bumps in the road. One summer I signed up for one of those reading programs where they would display the number of books each kid read. Piece of cake, I thought. After the first week, I brought in my first stack of books to the librarian. "I've read all these," I declared proudly. The librarian replied, "You have to read the whole thing, not just the back cover." "I know. I read all of these." I was so excited. I thought she'd be so impressed. Instead she insisted that there was no way I read all of those books. I realized that I didn't need a stupid program to read books. I took my books and never told her about a single one the entire summer.

The library was where there were some of my first milestones of growing up. One day you went from the children's card to the "adult" card. You knew you were growing up when you stopped reading the books written for children and start reading the books that were simply just written. When you got your books from the adult side of the library. When you learned the Dewey Decimal system. I started feeling like a grown-up in the library. (Is it any wonder that the library was the place I'd sneak kisses with a certain boy when I was in high school?)

I didn't always treat the library right. I wasn't always the best about returning my library books. I'd always have a book or two that got lost under my bed, in the back of a closet. I'm not sure why I couldn't get it together, but it was like this crazy thing I had to do. "Here's all your books back but this one!" Maybe it's my tell. Maybe some day I'll commit the perfect crime except I'll leave one overdue library book at the scene. But I'd like to think that the library wouldn't actually let me down.

You can save this post and show it to me in 30 years

Dear all of you who have a flexible schedule (you know who you are) (Don't make me say it.) (I don't want to say it, but: retired folks, stay-at-home moms, ladies who lunch),

I understand, you have a life as well. I get that. I really want to respect it. I know, one day I'll be in your shoes. But I ask you, no I beg of you, can you please try to consider time of day when you do things? You have all day. You have the luxury of time. (Yes, I am jealous. I'm sure that's not helping my mood here.) You can go to the grocery store at 2 in the afternoon. Heck, you can go at 2 in the morning and nap during the day. Why won't you please take advantage of that? I know you have complicated prescriptions. I know you need to talk to the pharmacist. But do you really have to do it at 5 o'clock when those of us who have been working all day just want to quickly pick up their prescriptions?

I'm trying to help. Really. I think we'd both be happier if you weren't shopping when I'm trying to knock out a couple of things right after work. I know I'm no charmer after a day of work. I know I'm not the only one. And when I see someone in their just-from-the-pool gear blocking the aisle while they talk to a friend who also clearly had the day off, I might be a tiny bit snappish. Just a tiny bit. I don't want to be. But when I see your tan, your relaxed I've-got-all-day attitude, it sort of rubs me the wrong way.

I know that sometimes you have no choice. You go to make dinner and, oops, a key ingredient is missing. It happens. But when I see you with a cart full of food, as you slowly walk up and down every aisle, I'm thinking this wasn't that quick emergency.  

Like I said in the title, you can pull this out when I'm retired or have flexible hours. Really. It may be that I need a gentle reminder as well. In the meantime, please check the time and if it's rush hour, maybe you can put off your trip to the store until tomorrow at 10.

Sometimes I forget what I'm doing, forget what I want

I love a list. I love making a to-do list and then crossing those tasks off. (I have a confession: sometimes I add tasks to cross them off. You know, you can't just put "take cat to vet." You put: "make appointment," "take cat to appointment, " "pick up cat's meds." Now you get to cross off three items instead of just one.) There's something amazingly satisfying about those blacked-out tasks. Even better, when you have so many of those tasks crossed out, you have to start a new list.

I make a list before I go on a trip. Well, actually, I usually make two: a list of things to pack and a list that tells me what I have to get done before I hit the road. There are sub-lists: books, electronic stuff, what goes in the backpack versus what goes in the suitcase. (I may have a problem.) If I have a long weekend, I make of list of things I hope I get done. (Oh, I hate it when something comes up that wasn't supposed to be on the list. Flat tire!? Oh, man, that's not on the list!)

I usually have a long term list going at all times, the oil changes, the yearly doctor visits, that box in the extra closet that needs going through. It always has those things I mean to do but can't seem to get to. Maybe if I put them on the list, I'll eventually cross them off. But I can never cross everything off that list. There's always that item or two that just can't seem to get crossed off, that I just don't really want to get to. I've been carrying "write a will" for years. I look at these items and think, one day, soon.

I made a list for this weekend. I have great expectations. I am filled with optimism. I come home, ready to start crossing things off.

I have left it at work.

Let's see what happens.

Fitting the pieces together

I have friends who have places they can go that feed their soul. They go to these places and they are revitalized. They spend hours, just sitting, pondering their lives. Or they simply arrive, look around, say, "yes, this is it," and settle in. They just fit there. I suppose the closest thing I can call it is that feeling of home.

Some people are lucky enough to live in these places. There are people feel this way about their hometown. They never leave, sometimes sacrificing opportunities, but it doesn't matter to them. This is where they want to be. Money or a job won't replace this feeling. When I was younger, I had a harder time understanding this. I thought that they might feel trapped or resentful, but as I get older, I see that it's simply a different choice. It's the sweats over the tight jeans. Sure, the tight jeans make your butt look amazing, but those sweats are what you reach for when you just want to be comfortable and relax.

I know some people who didn't feel this way about where they grew up, but moved to a place that fits them. They came home in their twenties (or later.) I have the Midwestern roots, but there is a part of me that is more at home being an East Coast gal. (My graduate advisor used to always laugh when I would remind him that I was from Ohio; he said he would have guessed Brooklyn.) I like the pace, I like that you can be left alone. I know this isn't for everyone, but I want the kid at Target to ring me up, bag up  my stuff, and send me on my way as soon as he can -- no conversation or chit-chat needed. That said, I still haven't found that place that I would call home. I don't have a place that I need to visit or see or touch.

This is not to say that I'm unhappy where I'm at -- not at all. I really do like it here, and I really loved the Philadelphia area while I was there. But the feeling of fit, well, that's a bit more than I have. I wonder if it is something I can work on or is it something that just happens. Perhaps I need to do it bit by bit: first, a room in the house, then another, then the whole house. But shouldn't a part of of this feeling just happen? Shouldn't that place be reaching for me as much as I reach for it?

Of course, another thing I have come to realize is that home is within me. That I bring the sense of wonder and love and peace to the place that I am at. Perhaps this is what I need to focus on these days. Perhaps the friends of mine who have found home or those places they need to visit have simply tapped into their souls, allowing this to happen.

I am coming home, soon. I believe it.

Tough love with the Scoobies

The other day I watched an episode of "Buffy" that's not a favorite, not by a long shot, but this episode has scenes that touch me deeply, and I found myself crying, again, at how well Josh, et al, could write about loss of love. And although you can get a lot about Buffy and Angel or how Buffy dealt with the death or her mother or Buffy's love for Dawn, some of the non-Buffy relationships touch me the most.

The episode I watched was "Tough Love" which is towards the end of Season 5. It's an episode that's mostly a set up for the season finale and gives us a glimpse into the next season. When I first was watching this episode, I couldn't remember if anything interesting happened, but wiki reminded me that the last ten minutes were the pay-off. A little background on the episode: the Big Bad this season is Glory, who is a god and therefore much harder to kill than your average demon. Oh, and she messes with people brains to stay strong (it's this weird thing where she turns them sort of insane and childlike.) At this point in the season, Glory is really just annoying. Other bits: Willow and Tara are together, and Willow is becoming more powerful as a witch.

In the first half of the episode, Tara and Willow get into a fight, which sets up Tara being alone when Glory finds her. Blah, blah with Glory, which ends with Glory doing the brain thing to Tara. When Willow finds her, the Tara Willow loves is basically gone. This, of course, leaves Willow heartbroken, and this is where I start crying. We've all been there: someone we love leaves us without warning, and all of the pleading in the world won't bring them back. When they are in the hospital, the doctor asks if Tara is her sister or... and Willow, holding Tara's hand, looking at her full of love and pain just says, "She's my everything." How could you not cry over that?

And after the heartbreak, the next thing is to get revenge on what caused so much hurt. Despite Buffy's warnings, Willow goes after Glory. It's pretty amazing. Willow, who was always mild-mannered and level-headed, runs completely on emotion and witchcraft. Glory sees her enter and just sort of laughs; after all, up until now, no one has been able to do much of anything to her. And Willow, chanting and floating, eyes black and intense, announces to Glory, "I owe you PAIN!" And, it works! Of course, Glory recovers, there's a short battle, but Buffy comes in and saves Willow (after all, there are still a handful of episodes left in the season.) But isn't that what you want to do after a heartbreak: lash out at the thing that caused it. You owe it pain!

Another heartbreaking story of love gone bad was when Xander left Anya at the alter during the dreadful Season 6. In the episode "Hell's Bells", Anya and Xander are about to get married, and Xander is confronted by an older man who claims to be the future version of Xander. This man shows Xander his future, which is, frankly, dreadful. The two have grown to hate each other, blaming each other for ruining each other's lives and destroying each other's dreams. It is later revealed that this man wasn't really the future Xander, but the current Xander doesn't care. He realizes that it could be his future, and he can't bear to put the two of them at risk for such awfulness. He leaves Anya, and she is absolutely heartbroken. So heartbroken, in fact, she goes back to being a vengeance demon.

By the time we get to "Selfless" in Season 7, Anya is a shell of herself, willing to inflict incredible pain on others, just because any heartbroken woman wishes for it. When she causes the (very bloody) deaths of an entire frat house, she realizes that she has gone too far, and wishes for her own death. Instead of her own death, she loses a friend as well as her demon status -- she's human again. It's not a major story, but it is interesting to watch her regain herself over the rest of the episodes in the season.

This is what would always draw me in with "Buffy"; the relationships in the series were all very real, multi-dimensional. See, you can write about kicking vampire butt and love!

Movie reviews of movies I haven't seen

Let's talk about the movie "Killers." If I see it, it's going to be one of those things where it's Saturday and I'm sick and there's not a "Law and Order" to be found but, hey! look what's on Lifetime! I'm sure it's harmless, but I'm not going to seek it out either. But I do have a couple of questions: first of all, Katherine Heigl as kooky? Really? Ashton Kutcher is the smart one in this relationship? And, if we really do want to see the kooky blond girl with the secret agent type, won't we just wait for Cameron Diaz and Tom Cruise in "Knight and Day"?

"Sex and the City 2." We're over this, right? If you're going to this, it's because you have this weird sense of obligation to the series, not because you actually think it's going to be a good movie, right? Because I just don't get it. Do we like any of them anymore? This isn't a prude thing, but I just kind of find them gross. Maybe it's the different economy or something, but the shoes! the clothes! The fabulous adventures! -- Just kind of gross. Love you, John Corbett, but couldn't you have waited for the "Northern Exposure" movie?

Here's a head scratcher: "Kick Ass" is still at the local theatre.

Ma Bell

It's hard to believe, but there used to be a time when it matter where people lived when you called. Do you remember when it mattered if a phone call was "long distance"? I was thinking about this the other day, how we so easily pick up out cell phones and make a call; it doesn't matter if the person is one mile away or across the country.

I remember having friends at other high schools, too far away for local calls. (We actually wrote each other letters! Remember those days? I still have a box of those letters that I pull out now and again, laughing at the silly bits, trying to remember certain names that were being discussed with such intensity.) A phone call was a rarity, maybe for a birthday, but they were to be short and to the point. And since it was a Big Deal, both of us would be awkward: "How are you?!" "How are you?!" "Good, good! What else?" "Um." (Thinking, thinking -- what can I say? I've only got five minutes. There must be something!) The casual feel of the usual chats weren't there. The minute you hung up, there was a flood of things I wished I had said. Once in high school, a couple of us snuck in to use a faculty phone so we could call a friend long distance. We spent half the call saying "Guess who this is!" and the other half just giggling about what we though we had pulled off. (Clearly, this was the crime of the decade!) We barely stayed on the phone for ten minutes, terrified that we would be caught.

I remember when we'd have family vacations or school trips, wondering if we'd pass close enough to make a local call. Could we stop for a few minutes, when it would only cost a quarter to call? Even if we didn't stop, there was a sort of thrill: we're in Columbus now, who could I call if I had the time? I'd have a mental map of my friends: Pacman lives here, Terri is the next town over, is this close enough to Donna's? I'd bring my address book, just in case.

Even now, just last week, I drove near Pittsburgh and thought of a couple of friends I could call as a local call, as if I didn't have my cell phone handy, as if it made a difference. I sort of laughed to myself, remembering when long distance was a Big Deal. And in some ways I miss it. I kind of miss it, that these calls are no longer a special occasion.

Falling back in time

There are things that will suddenly throw me back in time. A certain scent, maybe the feel of the weather that morning, maybe seeing something I haven't stumble upon for a while, all these things play at my subconscious. Maybe it's that, after a bit more than a year of so many changes, I am now looking at the anniversary of these events. Some were small at the time, but have become important; some were important at that moment and remain that way. Some were pieces of a larger puzzle that is still coming together.

It's not deja vu. No, these are actual memories, coming back to remind me. There is no vagueness about what I am feeling when this rush of emotional memory comes over me. It is there, so very real. My mind is throwing me around in time, pushing me towards the past for a short while.

I both love and somewhat dread these moments. I feel these moments so deeply, I may even gasp. When I feel those emotions, my mind adds to the memory, once I have allowed it to enter. ("Wasn't it colder that night?" it whispers. "No, that happened one street over," it may remind me.) Many of these memories are good things, but they're also reminders that I've moved on. There may be reminders in my path, but I am still going forward.

Do you get these moments? Are you ever overwhelmed by memory? I think have had more lately because of all of the changes this past year. When you live in the same place for six years, you can't remember when it was that certain moments occurred: was it a year ago? Four? There have been many springs, many falls, it's hard to remember which holiday it was. But last year at this time, I was living somewhere else (although in the same neighborhood). It's still fairly close, still clear. My life was at a different place. And when I walk to work these days, past the places I've been passing this year, spring in the air again, the sun rising earlier and earlier, I get this rush of the feelings from last year. They're good but I remember wondering, what's up ahead? How will the story turn out? Will everything be alright?

Everything is alright. The story is still unfolding. The path ahead looks amazing, but it will probably be even better than I could imagine. Isn't that just the best?!

Close your eyes

I'm not so tough. I like to think I am. I like to think that I am self-contained, that I don't need to know what you think. But I do care, probably more than I should. I am thinking about this as I prepare to send some of my writing off in a competition. I will be judged. No, I remind myself, this bit of writing will be judged. I will still be me; I will be fine. But the writing, yes, will be read and evaluated.

I have been surrounded by so much support. I am so thankful for that. I wouldn't have even gotten to this point without the encouragement and positive thoughts. This is a gift and I know it. I treasure it.

But I am fearing the "thanks for playing" letter. Or, even worse, the silence. (Oh, I hate the silence. "Did you read it?" I wonder. Is it so bad you want to pretend it's not even there? I try not to think that.) Maybe you've been busy (I hope.) Maybe someone decided to submit an old Salinger story that he wrote with Updike back in the day. Yeah, that must be it; no way to compete with that.

I need to be brave and just do it. I am amazed by those who submit all the time. Those who take their words and put it out there: here you go; tell me what you think. That is a place I am not at just yet. But I am here: ready to close my eyes and jump.

The blank page

I suppose that it's not really a page nor is it truly blank. After all, there's all these formatting tools, the buttons that allow one to publish, to delete, to start over. (Don't we wish we had these for all parts of our lives? Wouldn't those be useful tools? But that's not what today's post is about.) Today I am thinking about writing. What I need to do to get those words on the paper (or the electrons rearranged in cyberspace, as it were.)

Clearly, I am not the most dedicated blogger. I have had periods that I've forced myself to write in the blog, which has been good for me, but lately I am blogging when I feel the need and/or desire. Sometimes it's just a matter of having the time and a subject at hand, so I go at it. I do feel like I'm ignoring the blog somewhat these days. That isn't to say I haven't been writing. In fact, I've been writing more than ever these past few months. Just not here. I've been keeping a journal, writing letters and notes, writing fiction even. And let's not forget that I get my paycheck from being a writer.

I read this today: "It is so easy to be virtuous, to be perfect, upon paper." It's from the book I'm reading for book club ("Deerbrook"). Frankly, I find that to be the opposite. Perfection on paper is so difficult. The words can be arranged in so many ways, and, even if you think you may have it right, then they can be interpretted so many more ways, ways the writer never intended. ("When I said that I love chocolate pudding, this didn't mean that I didn't like the pie that was served at dinner last night!") And virtue, well, I'm not even sure how that can be put on paper and not in the mind of the reader. Can a writer really defend her own virtue if the reader doesn't believe in it?

I find I struggle with the starting of any document. I might have a bit of an idea but sometimes it's hard to determine the best way to get to it. Do I jump right in or do I let it unfold? How long do I leave the reader hanging, wondering what the point of all of this could be? Sometimes I don't even have an idea, just an itch to write. Sometimes I just have to dive in and hope the words flow and come together and make something.

Finishing is difficult as well. Not so much with the blog posts, but with other things. Does it need another edit? Do I need to expand here? Do I go on too long over here? Is this story making any sense to another but me? No, seriously, I probably need to edit it again. Well, maybe it's over-edited now. How do you know?

Writing still scares me and thrills me. I feel like it's a new room that I'm still exploring. I want to get better at it, I want to develop my voice. I want to be ready to fill the blank page.

OMG! 4COL, YMMV. (LOL)

I went to a concert the other night. It was an excellent concert in a lovely venue: not boring at all. But, as it happens these days, I made an observation that makes me feel like I should have my grey hair up in a bun, one hand on my cane, the other cletched in a fist as a shake it, hollering, "These kids todays! Get off of my lawn!" Because, seriously, can't you put away the phone for the three hours during a concert?

Seriously, why all the texting at a concert?

When I was a kid, we didn't have all these fancy devices to keep in touch with everyone constantly. When we went to a concert, we kind of had to pay attention to the guys on stage and/or the people we came with. That was it. You were stuck with those choices, not that this was a bad thing. There's nothing wrong with waiting until the next day to call your best friend and tell her all about the awesome concert you saw last night. Why must you tell someone right that very minute you are at a concert? Are we tweeting the concert? Does your immediate opinion matter that much? And, please, if you must text, please, please turn off your screen light, because those flashes of light are just damn annoying.

And maybe it's none of my business, but when there is a very clear announcement informing you that photography is not allowed, and then, the minute the lights come down, there is a row of folks in front of you lifting their cell phones and snapping away, why don't the ushers do anything aout it? It just annoys the crap out of me. You're in Row Z! Seriously, if you need a picture of the band playing, there are hundreds of them on-line, most much closer and better quality than you could every hope to get. Just put the phone away and enjoy yourself for a few minutes.

Hey baby, are you free tonight?

During the past week, all that snow from those storms last month really started melting. And that was when I discovered my formerly-always-been-dry basement wasn't always so very dry. Not that there was a lot of water, but just enough to make a path of the carpet damp. Not a huge issue but an issue that was going to have to be addressed.

And a couple days after that, it was obvious that the previous owners had cats.

Clearly, the carpet had to go. As soon as possible. The phone calls to the contractors began. Here's the thing with contractors. Remember how when you were in your 20s and there was this completely hot guy that you were just hoping and praying would ask you out. And if he did call you, you'd be ready whenever he wanted you. Pick you up in an hour? Sure, you'd be there. 10 o'clock at night at that place across town? Let me grab my purse. When you're a homeowner, contractors are That Guy. He's got one appointment this week between noon and 1: you'll drop everything to be there. Although, in all fairness, these contractors have come through for me. A swear, two minutes after he hauled away the carpet, the house already smelled better. (If he's smart, he'll hold on to that carpet and, if someone's not paying him on time, just threaten to leave it in their house.)

When these things happen, you just have to be grateful when things get back to normal. I was so happy when my house stopped smelling like cat pee. It just smells like my house again! And now I get to trust a guy who's real name is Stony to keep my basement dry.

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.