This one is for Pete
I don't write here as much because I've been busy giving young boys dirty
advice, and chasing around a one-year old. But, really, all the stuff I would usually type here now goes onto notebook paper and gets shipped off to Iraq, to my brother.
My one rule when writing my brother is, I promise myself I won't care what he thinks. He's a judgemental bastard, but I try not to think about it, and I write anyway. I tell him almost everything, even my rambling thoughts on death and faith, even what Elmo was thinking about that day. Then I send it out into the void. And because I have a bad memory, I forget about it.
I get very little validation back. He's busier than I'll ever know, and stressed, and hot, and pumped, and when it's dark and quiet enough, probably afraid. But sometimes, he emails.
***
Back when I didn't know what a short story was, I wrote into the wind all the time, and I thought I was a genius.
Zoetrope fixed that, and so did my file of rejection letters. Most of all, though, my success fixed that. I had one success, big in the small scheme of things, minor in the grand scheme, and pathetic in the historical scheme. Now, I cringe to hear about it, and Mister Aran stubbornly brings it up whether I like it or not - "She had this great success five years ago!" - at parties.
After that happened, I stopped writing, and I stopped reading. For a year I tried not to think about it. I only read
Allure. Actually, I only looked at the pictures. When people asked me what I did, I was relieved to be able to say I did data entry, a respectable profession that required no explanation and garnered no bullshit questions. The conversation could go on from there, to the bigger or smaller things, politics or shoes, anything but, "Oh really! What do you write? Do you have any books? Oh, you were published
there? So it was, like, a sex story? Wait, so it was about sex, but it wasn't a sex story? Metaphor, huh? Where's the cheese plate?"
I've already typed about it here, so I won't go into it. The point is, for the first time in years, I get to write as badly as I need to, about whatever I want, and send it out to my audience of one.
I got that from Vonnegut. His audience of one was his sister, and when she died, he felt the pain of it in his writing. I understood that. I've always wanted to impress my brother. Well - I always want to impress everyone, but my brother is the hardest.
***
Two or three times a week, I stuff an envelope full of Cookie Monster observations and reports on The Bug's growth and weird fears, and send it out. Sometimes, very rarely but sometimes, I get something back, like a message in a bottle:
Anyway, thanks for the letters. They are always a good read and I hate getting to the last page.
It's enough.
Four amazing meals later, I can admit it: Rachel Ray is good.
My friend Michelle hates her, and I admit I hated her, too. The Bug loves her, though, will watch her show like she's a muppet, so I've sat through several 30-Minute Meals, never considering actually making one. Then, I saw her section at Borders - yes, she has enough books to warrant at least her own shelf - and I bought a cookbook. I'd been spending agonizing hours every day wondering what I was going to make for dinner, and meals had become boring.
I made three meals from the 365 - No Repeats book, and one from the Express one (with the super easy ones), and they have all been great. Delicious. Mister Aran didn't even have extra spice suggestions, which he always has.
I'm eating the leftovers now from my turkey burgers from last night. It is so good. I can't believe I made it. I mean, I ruined my own mother's meatloaf. It's a meatloaf I made hundreds of times while I was a teenager, yet I managed to botch it so badly as an adult that we had to have sandwiches instead that night.
Rachel Ray wants to teach people how to make cooking intuitive. I'm not there yet. I even have to (sadly) admit that her little Rachelisms are growing on me - though EVOO, Yumm-O, and Delish are still annoying.
I went to Borders today. I picked up lots of books and read the first pages, then just hugged them to my chest for awhile. I love books.
I didn't buy any because I bought shoes and clothes. I did that even though my weight's been steadily rising, each week on the Weight Watchers scale. It's okay. I'll figure it out.
Wait, I did buy a book. I bought a cookbook. For that amount of money I could have bought two of the novels I wanted so badly, but the cookbook is pretty desperately needed. Every day, I hate figuring out dinner. Now I have some choices.
And there's always the library.
A guy at my Weight Watchers meeting this morning had a shirt with "Mister Brewski" written on it, with a cartoon character, and underneath it said, "Hooray for beer!"
I just really like Weight Watchers, man.
I've been stuffing one-point popsicles, almonds and chocolate rice cakes down my throat all day for energy, when I should have just gotten a two-point latte or a zero-point nap. I made it to nearly five p.m. and The Bug and I crashed together. I still can't wake him, although I want him in bed for the night in an hour. He's asleep in my lap now, with his head pressed uncomfortably against my chest.
***
I want to massage again. It's been years now. I've been wanting to make extra money, and now that Celeste wants to take my massage table, I want to try again. My 24-Hour trainer (MUSCLE MILK!) asked if I would work on her and I just laughed. She looked at me like I was insane, and I am. So I'm trying to clear a little space for the table. I'm worried about getting my strength back, and whether I've forgotten everything.
***
I applied to a community college today. I'm still confused about what comes next. I don't even know what classes I want to take, or if I'll even have time. But the application was so easy, it was right there in my browser window. I just kept pressing "next" and then it was over. Then I looked at it like, "What did I just do?"
The cat cries all the time. She cries at me in the kitchen and I say, "What? You have food and water and a medium-clean shitter. Go! Eat! Drink! Shit!" But what she wants is love, to be picked up and petted and nuzzled and played with. And I can't do it.
***
I'm supposed to be in the shower. The black ninja anxiety is back, and so if it's dark I remember that I'm going to die. Me! Me! It's impossible. The trainer at the gym asks what my goals are, and I laugh. I laugh because I've been working out a long time, and I've had many great trainers, and he isn't going to be one of them. He's used to girls coming in, wide-eyed, looking sheepishly at the cannisters of Muscle Milk and the silver packages of high-fat high-sugar energy bars, sliding their beep cards across the counter and whispering that they'd like to be thin, please. I say, "I want to live a long time," and he is visibly startled. When I have my personal consultation, I will go into more detail. I want more balance and flexibility. I want to know my way around the cables better. I want to be sure of proper form on the free weights. I want a healthy back and a strong core. "Can you do that?" I'll ask. I know he can't, not really. Any real, licensed trainer worth their salt in Southern California doesn't have to work for 24-Hour Fitness.
I'm just bitter because my wonderful, beautiful gym went bankrupt and closed its doors out of nowhere and now I have to go to the jam-packed 24-Hour Fitness with the in-house educated trainers and the cannisters of Muscle Milk - I mean, really. Gross.
***
Anyway, I'm sitting here mildly sweaty because I don't have the energy yet to take my shower and do all that post-shower nuttiness that's required. It's the ninja stuff. Mister Aran says it's not that I'm lazy, it just takes so much energy to be scared all the time. After I had The Bug I'd just lay in bed with the heaviness of it pressing me down. I couldn't get up. It seemed hopeless.
***
I have a warrior now, level 19. I like that sprint thing.
