Gray Sheep

hey, the last number of the year changed!

2012-01-12T20:05:00.000-08:00

Sorry this post is late. I know the earth stood still and you held your breath for a long time. But it's here, right?

As I've mentioned, I'm not into dates that imply passage. Into a higher age, expectation of romance, remembrance. I'm not loving 2012 so far, but it's different from 2011, which also kicked me places i don't like to be kicked. I don't like to be kicked anywhere, 2012, so i'd appreciate it very much if you and everyone in you (i.e. everyone) would refrain from kicking. If you and everyone in you must kick, please take off your pointy shoes and maybe hold back a little. I'll forgive.

I don't have all that much to say. Maybe because I lost my voice again for, like, the billionth time in three years. And it's irritating for a number of reasons. One of which is that I'm reading at a series I really like. Another of which is that I am hosting my own series on Saturday night and it would be super-awesome to have sound and words come out of my mouth at both.

I should not complain! I had a great time in Austin, I have a lot of boots and sweaters and I love boots and sweaters very much. My cat is very cute. My book in a book is coming out in February. It's mid-season of Top Chef. I got a free massage last week.

I once said something to a friend and she made it her Facebook status or something and I don't remember who it was, but it was something like texting is the death knell of relationships. I didn't say death knell, but it was awhile back, and I have to say, the text message is not the best mode of communication. Especially when much of it consists of a lot of smileys.

OK, so, the new year. I have no resolutions. Except I do. I am going to exercise! I am going to cut back on sugar! I am going to be neater! I am going to write more and better! I am going to not hate myself if I do not achieve all of these non-resolutions! Because they should never have happened. I need to take better care of myself. I need to do it on February 11, June 14, December 21. I will be a little easier on myself. That's one I can hang with.

My wish for you this year: Be kind to yourself. I'll try, too. Happy New Year.

things that rhyme with sequitur

2011-12-27T20:26:00.000-08:00

I'm going to do something I don't do, as a general rule. I'm going to name names. I'm going to name one name.

My friend, Laura Ellen Scott, wrote a wonderful book called Death Wishing. It's funny and fantastic and makes readers think about the power of actions, behaviors, thoughts. How we can alter the way we exist and relate to one another. So, she has this great site with people's death wishes. The wish they would make while dying. She was nice enough to include my death wish, which is kind of a cheat, because I include myself in it. But my death was theoretical so I think the cheat is OK.

So, yeah, also the new issue of Corium is out. As usual, it was painful to create (the technical part), but a delight to share. I love editing. I've said it before and will say it forever: I am a better editor than writer. I don't know if I would want the opposite. Another thing I've said before and will say, not forever, I hope, is that I am not good at saying I'm good at things. But I am an excellent editor. And a good writer. Maybe a very good writer, but I cannot say that. I come from a family of narcissists. They are exceptional narcissists. I do not want to be that kind of Becker. Though I wouldn't mind being a more confident Becker.

In keeping with the non sequitur nature of this post, I am sleeping again. And writing again. I think I'm sleeping pretty well. I'm not sure about the writing. Last night, before I went to sleep, I started reading a book of stories by Grace Paley. Have you read Grace Paley? If not, stop reading this self-indulgent post (redundant) at once and READ GRACE PALEY. I'm sorry to scream, but you will thank me.

So, I'm falling asleep and need a bookmark. I reach into one of my drawers from hell (also known as a drawer in my bedside table, which contains, among other things, safety pins, dried out highlighters, spare buttons for clothing I no longer own, receipts for things bought three to five years ago, some really old Ambien, some older hand lotion samples) and pull out a postcard. It is from my friend, Ross. Sent to an address six addresses ago. It is from 1996. Which is probably the last I heard from him.

I can't tell you more because I had a thought. That became a sentence. Then three paragraphs. Then I went to sleep. It took me awhile to find paper and a pen. Those things are not in my drawers. I didn't look at it today, but I think I started writing something. And I think I pretty much finished something else. I still sleep with pepper spray and a hammer under my pillow, but the sleeping and writing are pretty cool.

My favorite friend and I have a bet. We will each complete a novel by the time of the AWP (the big writers' conference, for anyone reading this who is not a writer. Or anyone reading this. Is anyone reading this?) a year from this one, which starts in February. So, by next February or thereabouts, we will have around 70,000 words of story. If either or both of us have not, I and/or she will wear jeggings and bedazzled t-shirts at AWP. One year, we bet on something where the loser would have to carry tater tots in her pocket, like Napoleon Dynamite. I don't remember the bet or who lost, but we were both too nice (and sanitary) to force the issue. We are quite obsessed with jeggings. Mostly, we like saying it. Go ahead. Say it. It's fun, right? Wearing them would not be. We are motivated.

Who the hell needs logical transitions, really? I have a fun fact, as my friend R. likes to call random entertaining information. I looked up non-sequitur to see if the opposite might be sequitur. I do use logic, on occasion. The answer appears to be no. However, the Merriam Webster Dictionary provides words that rhyme with sequitur. How awesome is that? I guess songwriters might find this handy. Some of these words include: candidature (huh?), caricature, discomfiture, distemperature, divestiture, entrepreneur, expenditure, literature and miniature. OK, they are listed in alphabetical order, but, really, candidature before miniature? I would like to hear a song about candidature. Not really.

So, I am going to Austin, Texas on Thursday! I might have mentioned I am tired of being Oakland's noun that rhymes with itch. What with the home intrusions and attempted break-in and theft of two wallets. And ill-fitting jobs, relationships and proximity to some of the most exceptional Beckers. (I know I sound mean. Two of them live within ten miles of me and did not call, text or message me on Facebook about my recent traumas. This is not the first time they have left me hanging in seriously bad situations. Still, I love them and would call, text and message any of them on Facebook if they were in trouble.) Anyway, I am going to Texas with purpose. To have fun with my friend, M. And to see if it feels like a better place to live.

And that's all I have to say right now. Except to wish y'all a happy new year. Yeehaw.

a great miracle did not happen

2011-12-25T21:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel guilty when I didn't do anything. Like last night. My friend and I went to this bar near my house. The same one where my wallet got stolen. And something else was stolen. By him. He stole the dreidel.

He's not Jewish. He doesn't feel guilty about stuff he didn't do, I don't think. So, for whatever reason, some guy brings in a menorah and a dreidel. Which, if you don't know what it is, it's a little spinning top with Hebrew letters on all sides. They stand for "a great miracle happened there" or "here". I don't remember. Hebrew school was a long time ago. Anyway, this guy and some other people were using the dreidel for a drinking game, which I don't think the Jews who did all the fighting and stuff would be totally happy about. Ok, yes, I played a few rounds. They played a lot of rounds.

So, we're leaving and my friend says he wants to steal the dreidel. And he did. And the drunk people were like, where's the dreidel? As if drinking was an unsanctioned activity without a symbol we sang of in kindergarten. And the bartender points at us and says they had it. Or something like that. And we left.

My friend fell asleep on my couch. Before that, I chastised him a number of times for stealing the dreidel. I felt guilty, especially with the bartender girl pointing at us like criminals. Ok, he was a criminal. But I was the victim of a theft of a wallet with money and credit cards in it that were used and they didn't seem to care too much about that. But, I am Jewish (higher propensity for guilt, bigger noses) and these were two separate incidents. So he leaves this morning and ... he did not take the dreidel with him. So, here's this thing accusing me like the bartender. And I can't throw it out and I can't return it to the bar. I can give it back to my evil friend and he can deal with the fact that he stole something that reminds me of my innocent childhood. As I write this, I am growing more indignant. He's getting a faceful of dreidel next time I see him.

In other news, I am very fat. I have gained some weight. Probably because of all the stress of the attempted break-in and my obsession with competitive cooking shows. Likely added to by the fact that Trader Joe's now offers its seasonal treat, Pumpkin Cream Cheese Spread, which is pretty much the best food ever. I feel gross. I should start watching tv shows with really skinny 19 year-olds. But that might make me feel grosser. And I would miss Top Chef. And Iron Chef. And Chopped. I can't wait for the next season of Hell's Kitchen.

Life is complicated.

fistful of pepper spray

2011-12-16T15:00:00.000-08:00

I started writing this last week. Some other stuff has happened.

I don't sleep at night anymore. I sleep a lot in the day. Somebody has been in my apartment. At least a few times. They were not invited.

So, I've had this feeling for a couple of months that this had been happening. I'd get home and a light would be on that I didn't think I had left on. Or the top lock wouldn't be locked and I thought I had locked it. I barely mentioned it. I guess I didn't want to think about it.

The other day, I went downstairs for 15 minutes to get my mail and look for a book in my storage space. 15 minutes. Still there. I went upstairs and every single light in my apartment was on. It was noon. And sunny. And I never turn on every single light in my apartment. I guess I turned off all the lights and went to my dentist appointment. I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. I forgot. I denied. I've been denying for awhile. It's human nature to write things off as innocuous, if possible, it seems.

I got home and my neighbor from two doors down, who I've never met (I've lived in this 8-unit apartment building for a year and a half), arrived home to her own apartment, door ajar, all lights on and inside doors closed. Our in-between neighbor and I went in with her. There was nobody there. Nothing was taken. I couldn't deny anymore.

I'll make this part short. There are 7 tenants in this 8-unit building. One has a kid and one lives with her boyfriend but hasn't moved out completely or given notice. The 8th unit is empty. The landlady and her son use it as storage, I guess.

We don't talk to each other. We come and go at different times. Those are past-tense. We had a meeting. Things were not ok. That night, new locks were put on the doors. The neighbor two doors down would not stay in her apartment. I stayed, but didn't sleep. We had another meeting with the landlady and her son. She admitted the hollow wood doors were 54 years old. We agreed she would buy new steel doors and make some other security improvements.

Here's where the new part starts, I guess. Monday morning, someone tried to break in. I was here. I screamed and ran out. Two of my neighbors, with whom I had now interacted and become friendly, came to my apartment immediately. Though both in their sixties, they came in while I called 911. The rest is a blur. Actually, I'm not entirely certain of the chain of events. We might have had the meeting with the landlady Monday night. All I know is last night I slept some for the first night in many. I mean substantial sleep. With the lights off.

My eyes are bruised like he punched me. I say he because I'm pretty sure the person I saw charging into the flimsy back door to my balcony was a guy. And I'm pretty sure the person coming into my apartment when I wasn't there was a guy. I don't know why. Let's just leave it at that, ok?

I have new doors with new locks. I'm very careful. I have barely left my apartment. I am scared to come back in. I am scared to be here. He might try to break in again while I'm here.

My body is unused to rest and wants more. I could sleep the rest of the day. The day is beautiful in this city I loved. I really loved Oakland. But I'm pretty sure I'm leaving. Oakland has kicked my butt for six years and it's time to admit it doesn't love me back.

I'm going to Austin soon. I might be a Texan. I lived in Houston from when I was six weeks old until I was two. Not a significant time in my memory. I'm pretty sure I slept and felt safe. I'm pretty sure I felt ok leaving my house and coming in.

At the very least, which is not a least at all, I will have fun hanging out with my friend there. At best ... I don't know.

A friend gave me pepper spray about a year ago. In the past, I carried it sometimes, often didn't know where it was, even if it was in my bag. Usually, I didn't bother. I know where it is now. It's under my pillow. It's in my pocket. It's in my bag. It's in my hand. I'm ready to use it. I hate that.

A couple of weeks ago, Oakland Magazine ran an interview they did a few months back. An outdated love letter.

Oakland is not a bad place. There are so many things to love. I would hate to leave. But I wouldn't. That's the part I never expected.

please don't steal my wallet

2011-11-28T23:56:00.000-08:00

Someone stole my wallet last Wednesday. It was a hideously ugly wallet. Black and white very fake leather with a big silver ring snapped on with a piece of red fake leather. The purpose of the ring? I do not know. I bought the monstrosity at Ross for $7 four or five months ago. After my other wallet was stolen.

Things have been hard lately. I have been sick. I have some big decisions to make, career-wise. I have other stuff. Disappointing, embarrassing, disheartening, scary, paralyzing. I dig deep. I try hard. I try to be good to people. I try not to let people down. Enough about that.

I wrote some stuff. You can read it if you want.

This one's at Wigleaf, one of my favorite journals. Wigleaf does postcards. I love postcards.
I finally wrote this one for The Nervous Breakdown.

I don't write much lately. My head hurts. I'll try harder. I'll keep my wallet close. I'll finish things I start. I'll stop making excuses. I'll stop buying sweaters. I won't smile weird for my new driver's license.

I'll see you soon.

everyone should be asleep

2011-11-13T02:49:00.000-08:00

We should all be sleeping. Not all the time. Now. It's 2:50am Pacific Standard Time. We should all be asleep now. Ok, everyone in the U.S. If you're in a country where it's 2:50pm, you should not be asleep. Unless you're napping. Napping is decadent and magnificent.

But it's close to 3am and I'm up, having made great (meaning large, grand, many) plans for today. I planned to complete unpleasant and/or boring tasks today. Yesterday. I had brunch. I got a scarf and a shirt at a thrift store on Mission. I'm wearing the scarf. It is cream and brown with a chevron pattern. Brown is my favorite color to wear and chevron is one of my favorite patterns. The shirt is blue.

My friend had this thing called a Groupon and we got this ridiculously huge brunch that costs $60 for $30. We had to pick many items. It became painful. We had pumpkin pancakes with some kind of bourbon marmalade and maple syrup. Fabulous. Three types of bread - a jalapeno cornbread, some kind of scone, and a ham biscuit, macaroni and cheese spring rolls. Oh, no. We're not done yet. Then there's the crispy chicken sandwich with kale chips. And, dear lord I totally forgot, the pumpkin bread pudding. We took large boxes home. We didn't eat any of the sandwich and left that poor bread pudding virtually untouched. I wish I had it now. We had Bloody Marys, too.

Not to go on about brunch, but one last little thing is a former Top Chef contestant is the chef at this place, so I got all geeked out and asked if he would come say hi. I love Top Chef more than anything. Anything televised, I mean. You know what I meant. Anyway, he didn't come over, but that was ok. I was just going to be a cooking show nerd and say I loved you on Top Chef! And he'd go, thanks and go back to the kitchen and maybe feel bad that he didn't win. A fun fact about my love of competitive cooking shows (Chopped, Hell's Kitchen, Master Chef, I could go on ...) is that I don't cook. I can. I have. But I don't. Because I am one person and I'm sort of lazy and I like cooking as an activity. But I really do love the hell out of that show.

One other fun fact is that the book that my book will be in is now on sale for pre-order right here! My book is called Things About Me and You and the whole book is called Shut Up/Look Pretty. It will be out in January from Tiny Hardcore Press. I didn't expect for this to happen. I was very fortunate. And two close friends and two other friends I don't know as well also have books in this book, and I believe it will be kind of great.

Writing has gotten kind of weird. I don't submit as much and people ask for things and I don't write as often, and I don't want to let people down or lose opportunities. So I am here instead of writing those things or being asleep. I am a super-genius.

The fall issue of Corium came out! It is wonderful - wonderful writing and art. I am lucky to do this. I am lucky to feature such wonders. I love it and will keep Corium alive as long as it will stay alive, which I hope is a long time. Sometimes I wonder if editing other people's wonderful work is impeding my own writing progress. Then I think, no, it isn't. I am lucky and if I don't write, it is because I am distracted by things I don't love. So please read the issue and love it like I do.

I wrote this thing for The Nervous Breakdown about being present during my friend's vasectomy. Someone said it was sick. I don't get it. Unusual? Yes. Deviant? No. I was his ride, then I was his support. We're friends. I care. No sickness there.

It is 3:36am. Seriously. Go to bed.

i hope you still like me

2011-11-08T22:45:00.000-08:00

Maybe that "still" is presumptuous. I hope you liked me. Or like me. I guess I'm ok with indifference. Not really.

So, I learned how to Skype recently. It was fun. It was helpful. I got some hand-holding on an unpleasant task from Connecticut. Thanks, hand-holder. Now I need someone to help me make my apartment warm by putting the saran wrap-like stuff on the windows. The person who was supposed to help me gave me about a 15 minute window during which we could go to Home Depot and put the stuff up. To which I said I would do it myself. But I didn't. It is a long story that ends in me getting frazzled, coming home, putting on a lot of clothes, and ordering another space heater. If I promise to help you do something, I will try really hard to keep my promise AND to give you a realistic amount of my time in which to accomplish this thing I'm helping you do. Especially if it involves eating cookies, as I like cookies very much.

I'm going to do something I rarely do, but I am feeling it, so you shall benefit or not or whatever. Ok, so I'm a single, heterosexual girl. Recently, I have dated a 24 year-old kid who looks like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I swear, when I met him, I reached out to touch his wallet with absolute knowledge it was one of the Velcro kind. And it was. And I'm not psychic. And I'm way too old to date 24 year-olds. End of Spicoli, Jr. Then there was friend of friend who I hung out with a few times. More age-appropriate, yet felt the need to mention the end of a very long-term relationship and his subsequent twice a week relationship therapy group on a very regular basis. He mentioned the word "dating," which freaked me out, as we were not, and proceeded to allot me approximately 15 minutes to assist in my pursuit of warmth project. Now he avoids me like Chernobyl tap water. I think his relationship group told him he should do that. It's ok. I did not want to be DATING him. But I'm super grateful to him for making me feel kind of bad about myself. Then there was a guy I met and kind of liked, but he lives in Chicago. Then there was the guy I met for a drink. He was the human Eeyore. He was so dejected I could barely stand it. He is a nice person and I hope he finds his Piglet or Pooh or something, but I'm not Piglet or Pooh.

There is a story I wrote where I say something like - you call me compelling and captivating. The words are precursors to difficult and irrational. My appeal does seem to have a short half life. Or whole life.

So, I am reverting to spinsterhood or spinsterdom or whatever. I am backing off. I will be compelling or difficult from afar. You might be thirsty, but it's probably a good idea to steer clear of radioactive beverages.

Keep an eye out. A compelling and captivating person is going to do a guest blog post. I don't know when, but it will happen and it will be so good you will probably say, hey Lauren. Please give your blog to your guest blogger. I hope that doesn't happen. But if your relationship therapy group prefers her, and it will make you like me (still or more), I might have to do it.

time is mean

2011-10-27T00:12:00.000-07:00

An editor once sent me that as an apology, along with a rejection of a story submission. It's ok. He's a good guy and the story ended up exactly where it should and time is mean.

Here are some ways in which time is kind of a tremendous ass:

1. I got sick and my journal is behind schedule and there are writers who are waiting to see their wonderful work and have people read it and I need to make that happen.

2. It's the end of the month and I do this job where the end of the month matters in a way that is not enjoyable in any way.

3. It is turning cold and it was just warm and this will be my second winter in this apartment that is very cute and well-located and my rent is ridiculously low for those things but there is pretty much no insulation in the walls and floors and I have those old-fashioned louvered windows that leave about an inch of space for cold air to come in and make me very cold. That was the longest sentence I have ever written. Anyway, I found out about this saran wrap-like stuff that you put on your windows and use your blow dryer to seal it and it keeps all the cold out. And I'm going to get some of this stuff and buy two more space heaters. Because I don't want to wear sweaters and fuzzy slippers and too many blankets to bed this winter. I am next to one of these windows now. I need to get ready for the cold.

4. It's late and I should get to work early tomorrow but I don't want to go to sleep. There are things in my head.

5. A friend of mine wrote me an email about some terrible things he is dealing with and some funny things and I read it again and I wish he didn't have to deal with those terrible things, especially all at once.

6. My phone stopped receiving text messages two or more days ago. I know about some of the messages I missed. The phone people are sending me a new updated phone because it's some software error. Meanwhile, I hope people don't think I'm ignoring them. I won't be text-able until Friday or Saturday. Nobody likes to talk anymore. Including me.

7. A bunch of other stuff.

Today, four people called me beautiful. One doesn't count because he doesn't. One was being very sweet. The other two have only seen pictures so they don't really know. I would like to meet a person who knows how to take compliments and even believe them and I want them to teach me. I don't really. Really I want people to not say those things. Or maybe the first thing. I don't know.

can i sit by your fireplace?

2011-10-19T21:13:00.000-07:00

So, how are you? I haven't asked in a few posts. I really want to know. I'm feeling a little better. There are things I'm not totally happy about. Or even partially happy about. But I'm ok. Thanks for asking.

I wrote something! I submitted to one place and it was rejected. The response included the word "love," as in "we didn't love it." I thought that was unnecessary and sort of rude and I don't plan to submit there again. Not because they didn't love it, but because they felt the need to tell me.

I am thanked by 20-30% of writers whose work I decline. I say decline, not reject. I do not reject work on people's birthdays. I am a writer. I don't want to be rejected. I want birthday cards on my birthday. Here is a note I received from a new writer:

Dear Lauren:

Thanks for your kind words--this is the most sincere, real-sounding, and human-feeling of all of the rejection letters I've received so far, and just wanted to say I appreciate it. As a result, I will be likely to submit again to Corium in the future.

Take care,

(person who wrote story/note)

That made me feel good. Really good. This writer did not feel rejected. That is important to me. Very.

I sent my story somewhere else. I was interviewed there once, but haven't submitted. I like this journal. If they decline the piece, I would really appreciate if they didn't express the level (non-level?) of their affection.

Enough about that. So, how awesome is fall? I love fall for a lot of reasons: boots, tights, sweaters, crispy leaves, a new season of Top Chef. I love down comforters and fireplaces. I don't have a fireplace, but I love that smell of fires in fireplaces when you're outside. You just want to knock on the person's door and ask if you can sit by their fireplace. With a steaming mug of something. Smelling the smell of burning wood, the fire the only sound. Just sipping and feeling warmed.

the things between

2011-10-13T00:41:00.000-07:00

I was reading some things I wrote. Before. Awhile ago. And I've been thinking how I don't write much anymore. I can't, really. Today, my friend said he noticed I haven't had anything out in awhile.

So, I read these things I wrote, and I thought I was becoming a better writer, but I don't think I have. I think I'm stuck and that maybe saying I am a writer is a fiction. I miss things.

My job does not make me anything. There are things in my life that make me less. I am doing a reading on Saturday. The story is one of my newest and it was published five months ago. I've written a few things. Some people liked them, but not enough. I feel invisible.

I don't have much to say but I think I have too much and there's no beginning. It's all end and I'm tired of endings. And I feel like I should apologize to you for wasting your time, but I can't because I don't know why you're here.

forbearance

2011-09-27T22:14:00.000-07:00

I am spent, like an old dollar. I'm tired. So I'm taking a break from all the social networking stuff. I think blogs are social networking. I should know that. I'm pretty sure they are. Anyway, I'll be back soon. More sturdy. The kind of dollar that vending machines won't spit back.

In the meantime, it would be nice if you thought about pre-ordering Shut Up/Look Pretty, from Tiny Hardcore Press. It's an anthology I'm in with four other writers. They are wonderful.

The book will be out in January. I should be in vending machine condition by January.

there was no cake

2011-09-22T00:48:00.000-07:00

My birthday just ended. It didn't end with a zero, but it's still one of those days that makes you think about where you are and if you like it there. I don't. But I guess I can't keep pulling all that "how are you?" stuff I've been doing. Because you already know how you're doing and are spending time here, for reasons unknown to me, so I should probably say stuff about me. I guess. Thanks for coming here. I will try to be more interesting sometime soon. And peppy. I should get some pep. That is a stupid word. Sorry. I will be happier. You can do that, you know. Make people think you are. But you already knew that.

So, this blog stuff changed. I guess you can't tell - it's behind the scenes at blogspot. And Facebook changed. And both are annoying changes that make me want to ... do something. I don't know what. Probably just whine. Everything is always changing. I would like for it not to, sometimes. Except for all the things I wish would change.

Somehow I managed to get through my birthday with no cake. That is not a good thing. I love cake. A lot. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Yes. I will track some down tomorrow when there's not so much pressure.

Some people are mad at me again. I try not to disappoint or anger people, but I don't seem to be very good at it. Maybe I should wear a warning sign or something. I think I might seem better than I am at first glance. I'm going to establish low expectations. Ready?

I'm going to bed now. To sleep, not to dream. To sleep, not to think. You know what works best for me? Listening to books on this audiobooks app on my phone. There is this one English woman with the best voice ever. She reads me to sleep, like a mom. I am pretty sure she'll be reading A Little Princess to me for a long time.

read the post below this first. i mean it.

2011-09-11T03:40:00.000-07:00

Wow. So, after I wrote the post below (which you read first. If not, read it and come back and this will make more sense), I see I have a message on Facebook. It is from a guy. I met him maybe two years ago. At the holiday party he hosted with his fiancee. And I was like - are you fricking kidding me? I just posted this thing and this guy I barely know is sending me an email suggesting, but not saying outright, that he wants to try this crap on me? Seriously, this is not ok.

So, I looked at his page and he is single. So that made me not feel even more like people - not just men - are disappointing and dishonest and just not good. It's ok for him to send me an email. I'm not interested for a number of reasons, most having nothing at all to do with him. But what he did wasn't wrong.

By the way, these things that have happened to me ... they don't happen every day. I am not an irresistible supermodel. Which makes me wonder why irresistible supermodels aren't breathtakingly disappointed. Maybe they are. Maybe they don't care. I don't know any supermodels, though I know gorgeous women. I will have to ask them if they are breathtakingly disappointed. Or if breath even makes a difference.

enough about you

2011-09-11T03:21:00.000-07:00

So, we were talking about you. I'd rather do that. You are fabulous. You get up in the morning and it is your dream. You think "this is my dream." You think "I love my life." You do not think of this dream life ending. It won't. You will love your life every minute of every day of every week, month, year and dying breath of your life.

I know you don't. And I would still love you if you did.

So, I had this dream last night. I was riding a red bicycle. A cruiser, not a fancy ten or 12 or 28 speed. It was so cute. I rode it somewhere and don't remember where I put it. This is relevant because I couldn't find it and believed it was stolen. Or, knew it was stolen, because you can know things in dreams without having actually having been through that part of the story.

I was in this cool place. Like a loft or something. Maybe there was a reading. I was on the couch with this guy and we were holding hands and being all snuggly and stuff and I know this guy. He hit on me hard awhile back before he figured out he liked me -- you know, as a person to talk to and all -- and found a way to slip his girlfriend into the conversation. I think he still likes me. We were never snuggly. I don't do things like that. Even if people don't respect their own relationships, I do, and I do not want to hurt anyone. Get out of your relationship if you don't like it. Don't bring me or anyone else into it.

When I woke up, I knew exactly what both things meant. Now I don't remember what I thought the bike meant. It probably meant that I am especially aware of the things I don't have, and I don't want to become attached to anything, because I will lose it or it will be taken or something. I have this really cool ring with a deer on it. Or I had it. I'm not sure. I loved it and I put it somewhere and now I don't have it. Sort of like that.

The guy. I know what that was. Recently, I found out that a friend of mine cheated on his wife. With someone I know. The girl is not a close friend, but there are some things about this that make me pretty pissed at her. And I am really sad and disappointed that my friend did this thing that is in no way ok.

Yeah, this is not something I need to mull over. Not ok. And don't try that crap with me, guys who have tried that crap with me and future guys who might try that crap. Including guy who professed his love the day before his marriage and guy who talked me into a relationship, insisting too soon on commitment, whose work schedule was erratic enough to get away with me not knowing he was MARRIED for several months. Do not do that to me. Do not make me part of your messed-up ethics. And don't do it to anyone else. And don't do it to the person whose feelings should be your concern, not mine. But they are. A lot. So, don't do it.

When I woke up, the whole thing still made me feel sad, so I went back to bed and I don't remember any dreams after that.

i mean it this time

2011-09-04T02:29:00.000-07:00

I do this thing where I say I don't care. And when I say that, it means I care the most. But tonight, I really don't care. And it feels amazing. I might do it again. Soon.

"Everything everybody does is so -- I don't know -- not wrong or even mean, or even stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless and sad-making." J.D. Salinger.

tell me everything

2011-08-31T20:40:00.000-07:00

Ok, so life has been not the best lately. I could go into detail and get all woe is me, but, really, I don't need to talk about it. We never talk about you. How are you doing?

I hope you are doing great. Like, life has never been better. You have an amazing job, you are in love, your house is clean, you look fantastic. Really. Those jeans look great on you. You have genuine, giving friends, you are planning a trip to somewhere you've wanted to go your whole life, you just got an oil change.

There is money in the bank, there is food in the refrigerator, you glow with good health. It was 78 degrees with no humidity today. Your pet is adorable and does not pee on things. You have the most comfortable bed in the history of beds.

You are the life of the party. Hell, you are the party. The party is rescheduled if you can't make it.

Today was the best day of your life. Tomorrow will be better. You don't remember what tears feel like. You have endless reserves of the antidote to hopelessness. To loneliness. To cellulite. To failure.

You are the subject of this blog post. You are the subject of interesting conversations. You are the subject.

You are stunning. I am stunned. You smell so good. Rub your wrist against mine. Even your absence smells like the best nothing else I have ever smelled.

The party is starting. But it's not. They're waiting for you. Go.

found

2011-08-21T23:23:00.000-07:00

I have sort of a bad memory. There are some reasons for this that aren't particularly interesting or relevant. So, for purposes of this post. This RIGHT NOW. I am telling you that sometimes having a crappy memory is a little bit awesome. Because I find forgotten things. Like, I'll see a book on the shelf or at the library that looks good. And I read it and it feels familiar, and I remember that I read it before and loved it. It's like when you tell someone about a meal you had or a movie you saw, and you are a little envious that their experience lies ahead.

My memory is not that bad. The books I forget are books I read five years ago, not yesterday. Sometimes more recent. Sometimes I find valuable things I forgot I had. A pair of earrings, a cd, a picture. These things are not new; they are findings. And findings can be just as exciting, I think.

I found a story. It was in the "unfinished writing" file on my computer. The one that feels accusatory at times. It has a lot of bad writing I should delete. I don't. It has some things I intend to finish. I haven't. And it had this story. This complete story that I think I might love. I haven't looked at it in a long time because I thought it was unfinished. It was in the file. I assumed and you know what happens when you do that, if you remember third or maybe fourth grade. It should have been in the finished file. It is finished.

I read it maybe five times. I changed a word. I won't change more. It is not new. It is better. It is my discovery; it is my finding.

lucky and luck

2011-08-11T23:45:00.000-07:00

We are tired of the debate about print versus online publishing. I will not pose the question. All i will say is I have mostly avoided print because I like when people read my stories. And this one was in a beautiful journal. I'm very happy to have my work there. It's one of my favorite stories. It would be nice if a few more people read it. So, here it is, if you feel like it.

I Am Very Lucky
The Los Angeles Review
Volume 9, Spring 2011

I bought the dress at Thrift City. Cream satin with lace overlay. Floor-length, empire waist. Subdued. I would wear my hair up. I must have known; I swear I didn’t.

It had long sleeves, of course. When I was in the hospital, they stopped by. They acted like the doors were not locked after they were let in and out. That I was not muffled and dark with tears. They told me of the engagement. Isn’t that wonderful news? they asked. Yes. It is wonderful news, I said. My face felt wet. It was wonderful news.

They looked out the windows and saw the ocean I saw every day. They told me how pretty it was. How lucky I was to be there. They said how nice it was for me to have a view of the beach.

The nurse came and they left me with my books and sweater. I heard my mother ask my father, do you know how to get to that restaurant Barb told us about? I knew the one. It was near the hospital. It had a Michelin star.

They picked me up a week and a half later. They took me to my apartment, where I could not see the ocean. They said isn’t it good to be home? They said how nice it would be for me to sleep in my own bed. Yes, it’s good to be home, I said. When they left, I locked the door from the inside.

Three months later, my brother got married. She has my name. She is very nice. Isn’t she nice? they asked, when I met her. Yes, I said, she is very nice.

When I arrived at the wedding, my mother said doesn’t she look beautiful? I thought she meant me. I saw her and she looked beautiful in her white dress, with bared arms and shoulders. I took off my coat and asked my mother where to put it. She did not tell me.

My brother’s bride started toward me with a bride’s smile. She looked at my dress. She would tell me I looked beautiful. She went to my brother and said that I had to leave. He turned to my father, who walked me toward the door. My mother handed him my purse and coat and walked back toward the rest of the wedding party. I heard my name, but it wasn’t mine.

Outside, my father opened the small white clutch with pink seed pearls and found my keys. He put me in my car. He said you’re very tired, aren’t you? You need to go home and take a rest. I said yes, I feel very tired. He said go home and get some rest. He said we will stop by tomorrow. We’ll go to the beach. Won’t that be nice? I said yes, that will be nice. I haven’t seen the beach in a long time.

(That's it. Told you it was short.)

I've been told that hearing it read gives a different sense of the story, maybe a different meaning. I did this reading before it was accepted and published. There were a few minor changes, but it's pretty much the same. You don't have to watch it if you don't want. Of course. Like I have to tell you. Thanks for reading my story and maybe watching the reading.

(Non sequitur warning.)

I think someone's mad at me. I'm disappointed in someone. I haven't been around people that much lately. Mostly I like people. Two in particular. One I've known a few years. I feel very lucky for that. The other is a new friend. I feel lucky for that, too. They are both quite remarkable and make me connected to the world when I forget. They live in other places, but they can still do that. And I thank them for being awesome like that. They know who they are.

you are formally invited to read this text

2011-08-09T23:27:00.000-07:00

So, this friend of mine received a text from her ex, telling her he finished his Ph.D. in physics, was going to Oxford for his post doc, and wanted to say a "proper good-bye." She said she would go to DINNER ONLY. By text, of course. So he keeps texting and she keeps putting him off, and finally, he thinks he's being all sneaky by suggesting that they meet at her house for that proper good-bye. She says no, and he calls her a lesbian. In Spanish. (He's from one of those countries where they speak that.)

That's all I've got because I'M GOING TO BED AT A REASONABLE HOUR!!!! And I ate three semi-normal meals today. And I kept it all down. And I sat in the enormous beanbag and watched Master Chef. I plan on sleeping hard tonight. Buenos noches to all, whatever your sexual orientation may be.

today at 6:55am

2011-08-07T22:24:00.000-07:00

My stomach hurt. Quickly, I dumped the trash on the floor and barfed into the trash can next to my bed. I barfed again a couple of times. I went into the bathroom, cleaned and disinfected the can, and put it next to my bed. I went back to sleep.

Thursday, I barfed at work. In the bathroom and in the bushes. That's a lot of barfing for one week.

Here are some additional things:

1. I am not pregnant. Yes, I am certain.

2. Thursday, I was poisoned by a burnt burrito wrapper at work. I was taken to the worst hospital on earth, where they blew eight veins trying to put in an IV. I guess I was really dehydrated and that's what happens. So, it hurt and I remained dehydrated and unhooked to monitoring, which sucked, because the nurse was mean and lazy, and left me behind a curtain by myself for 30-40 minutes at a time. When I asked if they were doing anything or if I could leave, she advised me I was being observed. I very nicely pointed out that I was not being observed and that I would like to know why I was still there. She said my insurance would not pay if I left against medical advice and that I wouldn't give them any blood so there was nothing they could do. It should be noted that, after they blew eight veins, she advised me that they would have to go in through my neck for blood. I declined. The next time she came back, I asked to see a doctor. A few minutes later, a physicians' assistant came and told me I could go. My diagnosis on discharge: Vomiting. (BTW, not a diagnosis, geniuses.)

3. I have now been sick, in some way (mostly two), for nearly two months. I would like to feel better.

4. I am a little peeved, as I am sort of scared to eat and am not eating much, and I have not really lost much weight. I am a lot peeved at myself, because I know I am not drinking enough fluids. I have a delicious neon green glass of Gatorade at my elbow as I type, and I'm not allowing myself to get up before it's finished.

5. I haven't been talking to much of anyone lately, so I am telling you (anyone who might be there) that I barfed this morning. You don't have to care. I just want it on record. I don't know why.

Enough about the contents of my stomach. The Gatorade's not gone, so I will tell you more. Somebody did a review of this thing I wrote that played with a thing that a friend wrote and the review was vague and non-committal. In context of the rest of her review, which had some concrete compliments, I inferred she did not like either of the pieces. Which made me feel bad until I realized she must be sort of stupid or not a good judge of talent if she did not like my friend's piece. Because it's amazing.

In other writing news, there was this Venn diagram of "internet personas" on this popular website for/about writers/writing that put me in a circle entitled "menstrual". I think it should be "pre-menstrual" if I understand the guy's meaning. But, really, I don't think there was any meaning, other than to provoke, and it really did get some people in a snit. I was sort of surprised to even be on the diagram, as I am not much of a persona. Also, I think it was more a sad commentary on the guy who spent the time to make the diagram, because it looked like it took at least an hour. It would have taken me several days, but I am not much of a diagrammer. Also, the postings on this site tend skew toward the aggressive/hostile, so it was not a huge surprise to see something like this, except, as I said, to see my name included. I think maybe I am supposed to be flattered, but I mention it mostly because the Gatorade is not finished.

In other random news, I went downstairs to feed my neighbor's cat and left a bag of garbage next to the door, so I could dump it when I left. When I came out, it was gone. I know I didn't bring it into her apartment, so I thought I must have left it upstairs. While heading upstairs,I saw my weird neighbor outside smoking, looking at me like he wanted to say something. I said hi and rushed upstairs, as always, because he is weird. The bag wasn't in my apartment. I think he threw it out. Or kept it for a weird ritual. Or whatever. He irritates the crap out of me.

I finished the Gatorade. I'm sorry it took so long, and that you had to hear about barf and snits and misappropriated garbage. I'm tired and partially hydrated now. You're free to go. Be safe and keep an eye on the microwave when heating burritos, please.

stuff

2011-08-01T22:34:00.000-07:00

No creativity left. Therefore, I give you "stuff."

Why am I so very, very, very tired? Well, first, I'm just really tired because I don't sleep all that much. Second, I put out the new issue of Corium today, and, as usual, I ran out the door when I had to, leaving about a million things undone that I would have liked to have done. The issue looks pretty good, the writing is great, and, as always, I love it after it's published, as I sort of hate it just before it's done. I don't hate it. I love the editing. I'm not crazy about putting it together. I'm just not very good at it. I hope you read it.

I have a little piece up here. It's kind of funny. I know. I don't usually do funny. And it's NOT about me. Just as I mentioned in my last post that I am not 19, I am also a little older than 22. So, no, guy who asked if it was really about me. It is fiction. But I am glad you liked it. Really.

Story I love has now been rejected by two places. One of the two kindly rejected it AFTER I withdrew it several weeks ago. I know mistakes happen, but rejections are not enjoyable, and I pulled the piece for a reason. So, I get it, but will probably not submit there again. I joke with my friend, E., with whom I trade edits and stuff, that the more rejections it gets, the more likely it is to move up the food/journal chain. It's happened before. At about 10, I'm aiming for Tin House. At 15, Paris Review. At 20, New Yorker. At 22 or so, it will be made into a major motion picture immediately. Still, I am not happy about the rejection. I'll get over it.

I am not quite sure what to say now. I have been living on cereal and chewing gum. Orbit White, Bubblemint. It's minty bubblegum. I don't know about you, but that is pretty much the most perfect gum ever made. Fresh breath. AND bubbles! I am content with little things. Sometimes. Bubblemint makes me happy.

Tomorrow I am going to see my friend, Ben Loory, read from his book, Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day, which you should read. I know, I name-dropped. But he's a good guy, and a wonderful (and wondrous) writer, and I think I can probably even call this self-serving because I published one of the pieces in it when I was fiction editor at another journal, and there's a possibility that it contains a piece I published in Corium. But it definitely has some of my favorites, including the story, The Book, which I guess sort of encouraged our friendship. But then we got to be friends and we're just friends because we are. My friend, T., and I might take the ferry from Oakland to San Francisco, and we're both excited, as neither of us has ever taken the ferry.

That is about it, except I might go to Austin in September to visit a writer friend, who is an awesome writer and new friend, but she is very nice and genuine and fun, and I have always wanted to go to Austin and I think it would be a good adventure. So, yes, I will most likely, almost definitely go. It will be my birthday present to me.

Here is the end. The end of stuff. Oh, I almost forgot. Another thing that's not huge in the big scope of things, that makes me irrationally happy: the new season of Project Runway. That's all the stuff I've got. I'm going to take my stuff to bed and dream of riding the ferry across the Bay, smelling and tasting its salt, feeling the warmth of the sun in my skin and bones and hair in a way I need so much I can only whisper.

i never

2011-07-24T01:21:00.000-07:00

So, I was doing a little self-chastising. I never put anything here anymore. You know how people don't really think in complete sentences? Well, I did. I thought, dammit, I never put anything here. I should have been ashamed, argumentative. I should have insulted myself back. Then I remembered that game "I Never". Which I'm pretty sure I never played. And am pretty sure nobody over the age of 19 should play. Perhaps it should be banned altogether. Or whatever. I am not an arbiter of right and wrong. Civil liberties are good. Play the game if you must. I'll probably just watch.

Being over the age of 19, I made up a little version that doesn't involve doing shots of Jaegermeister or using incredibly bad judgment that will make me hide from other participants for the rest of my life. Yeah, I'm really, really not 19. I like not being 19.

Anyway, the don't-hate-yourself-in-the-morning version is less shocking, less interesting, and more telling, which, to me, if you were to play and I were to read your answers, I would find more interesting. Because I am free to be a nerd. Don't infringe, please.

I never:

wash my car
cut my own hair (again)
put ice cubes in whiskey
put ice cubes in water
run (unless chased. by someone with malicious intent.)
cook
tweet
go to bed at a reasonable hour
use washcloths
talk during movies
write enough
wear a fanny pack
pay retail
get through a day without spilling, knocking things over, or colliding with people or furniture
drive slowly
eat mushrooms
receive or make marriage proposals
catch up on doing laundry
vote with a hateful agenda
cut my hair short
look at notes I write to remind myself to do stuff
know what to say when complimented
drink non-diet soda
recognize things in a certain drawer in my refrigerator
fail to repeat mistakes
take my vitamins
try to hurt feelings
eat Cap'n Crunch cereal (tasty, but tough on the roof of your mouth.)

I guess it's not so much a game, as a list. Maybe a listing game. Anyway, it reminded me of some things. Maybe they'll fall off the list. Not the fanny pack thing. Or probably the car-washing thing. I'd like to start cooking. I might stop putting things in that drawer of the refrigerator. I should stop writing myself reminder notes altogether. I'm tempted to drop that last one tonight. Crunchberries sound excellent.

yay?

2011-07-09T15:02:00.000-07:00

A friend and I were going to talk on the phone today. She lives far away and I miss her sometimes. She is in love. She is overjoyed. Like, joy is spilling out of her body. Joy smells good. I close my eyes and imagine it. I tried to smell joy for my friend, but I can't breathe that well.

I sent her a note saying I can't really talk because I'm being drop-kicked from all sides, so she should email me. Being drop-kicked is a bad thing, right? I think it's a football reference and I don't know too much about football. But it really sounds like you've been picked up and let go, and then kicked as hard as possible. It's why you can't breathe. You're surprised and it hurts and you're maybe not all that surprised anymore. Someone's practicing.

So my friend answers "yay! sounds good." I don't think she knows what drop-kicked means, either. I don't want her to know. Or remember. She was drop-kicked pretty good by her ex-husband, and I don't want her thinking about football. I want to hear about how awesome this man is who loves her. I want to put her in a bright spotlight that feels like afternoon sunshine. I want to use exclamation points. I want to say yay. I will do these things. Soon. After something, or some things, happen. When I am rested. When I can give her all of my attention. I will stand next to her across states. And we will breathe.

being a person

2011-07-04T00:52:00.000-07:00

Thank you to friends, known and otherwise, for the good wishes. I'm feeling ok. Better. Close to pretty good.

Today was pretty great, actually. Neko Case played a free concert at Stern Grove in San Francisco. She was amazing and I met new people and there were people giving out chocolate milk when we got there and I don't even like chocolate milk, but I liked being offered chocolate milk, nonetheless. It was a gorgeous, warm day in SF. It is rarely warm in SF. But it was. It was hot, even. And I was with friends, sitting on a hill, surrounded by redwoods. There are lots of restrooms for women there. The line for men was longer. They looked sort of stunned. Turned tables are enlightening. Sort of like being sick. Complacency is a luxury. It's a good luxury. I like it as much as anyone. The waiting guys will forget and I will also forget this time, I hope. Forgetting is a luxury, too.

Something kind of funny happened last weekend. I did this live-writing thing at a reading. I didn't win, but I wasn't feeling so great (no excuse) and sort of felt like the prize was a little like punishment, especially with the piece I wrote. The winner has to finish the story and go back and read it next month. I liked that a very good playwright who performed told me he voted for my story.

That's not the funny part. There was this guy I talked to a little before the reading started and he was sort of hyper and flirty and seemed harmless. He disappeared when the readings started. Turns out he was the feature and he did some rant-y poetry or something like poetry. It was meant to be provocative, but I wasn't particularly provoked. He had charisma, which is always nice to see in a reader. So, he finished and decided I would be the lucky one. The girl who got to worship him, among other things, for the evening. And he put this into action quickly. And I politely tried to get him off of me, 'cause he was seriously ON me. And he kept saying something about sexuality. Maybe just the word. Then he said something like "you're a girl scout. Sell those cookies," which he thought it was hilarious. Yes, dude, you are provocative and hilarious. I thought maybe it would be interesting to get him to recognize me as a PERSON. You know, a thinking person. A thinking person who chose to remain clothed and unmolested during our special time together. I tried to tell him my name at one point and I swear he said something like names were not important and then probably "sexuality" again. I noticed on the program that we had something in common, but he was not interested in that, either. It dawned on him, at last, that I did not intend to sell him my cookies, and he was done. He went back to talking with his friends about where they would go to have drinks. A little later, I saw him outside talking to a friend (from whom he was trying to score some cocaine, I learned later), and couldn't resist asking, "so, am I disinvited?" in sort of a naive tone, to which he said I was still invited. He looked distressed. I felt sort of sad for him. I walked away, talked a little with some friends who witnessed the silliness, and went home.

I do things like feeling sad for people like that. I probably feel things too much. I was in emergency rooms twice in the past two weeks. The first time, the woman behind the curtain next to me died. Before she died, she called out for Jesus and wanted a blanket. I became very upset. I couldn't do anything about Jesus, but I tried to get her a blanket. She died alone. And cold. Soon after, a really nice nurse saw me crying and got me to a room. She said I was a good person. I want to think the "good" part is true, but I guess I just think things like that are part of being a person.

don't forget

2011-07-01T23:48:00.000-07:00

Haven't been here in awhile. Or much of anyplace, really. I've been sick - some chronic stuff and some stuff that got pretty well resolved at the emergency room the other night, but not before knocking me on my butt, and some sort of nebulous, potentially scary stuff that doesn't seem real and probably isn't.

I've had a lot of blood taken. I don't know what junkies' arms look like. But the insides of my elbows are all tore up. I've come across a few gnarly phlebotomists. I'm not kidding. It's getting really hot here and I'll be wearing long sleeves for a few days, at least.

So, I jumped off the hamster wheel. Or fell. I have doctors' notes. I couldn't work most of the week. I postponed the next issue of Corium. Haven't written or done much of anything. I've been reading a book written by a friend. I won't name it or the writer because you know I don't do that. It gets too messy being an editor and writer and friend and having a reading series and all that. Reading used to be simple and I did it a lot. Probably three to five books per week. Now, I read a few a month, maybe.

I've read more short fiction over the past few years because I write short fiction. Before, I read novels, almost exclusively. I love novels. I'm reminding myself.

I have had to remind myself of other things this week. Pain, the unknown, lack of sleep, too much sleep - they can make you forget. They can make you feel like you'll never feel well again. Like you'll always feel bad and scared. Like you might as well give yourself a new name, buy new clothes, move somewhere else, and be this different person.

I felt more like myself today. I will stay me and live here and wear the same clothes. And rest. And heal, and maybe more. I need to lay low this weekend, but I'd like to be outside a little, maybe by the water, maybe see some fireworks. There is an MRI tomorrow. There are some friends to see. There are some bills to pay. There are some books to read. There are things to remember.

longest

2011-06-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

I sent this in longer form to a friend last night, and had a dream in which he asked, "what is this? some kind of crazy blog post?" And in my dream, I realized that most of it was. I was sort of delirious with food poisoning all weekend, but I'm feeling better and it still makes sense. So here is the e-mail, revised for a crazy blog post:

it's still light outside. i was reminded the other day that tuesday is the solstice - that the days will get shorter. i didn't even notice them getting longer. when you don't notice, you can't acknowledge, i guess. i don't know what i would have done differently. i don't feel guilty, even though you think i take on more than i should. i just wish i saw more.

this place doesn't get that warm. summer isn't what i'm used to, even though it will be my fifth in northern california. i am taking note of days. i lost this whole weekend. i give away chunks of time. i stay in my house and i don't know what i do. i don't write. i don't produce. i consume without giving back. for that, i feel guilty. and sad. somehow i got here and here is not really all that much.

i called my dad today for father's day. i didn't send his card yet. the one i bought at target the other night, when i got sad. after we talked, i fell asleep again and i dreamed i was there, and i gave it to him, with the stamp on it and all. but it wasn't at their house in san diego. it was in denver, and there was construction going on. i had to watch out not to step on nails. when i called, he said my sister and her family were there. they had all gone to some art show in la jolla and now everyone was in the pool. i didn't say i wanted to be in the pool, too. i did. a lot.

[a bunch of stuff irrelevant to this post cut here.]

that's all. a few minutes of consciousness in my day today. it's dark now.

where is your life?

2011-06-08T02:41:00.000-07:00

I was at a party Saturday night. It was fun and then it sort of wasn't, and I had had a few glasses of wine and didn't want to drive, but I wanted to be by myself. So I grabbed my purse and coat and went out to my car. And I was pissed because I couldn't find my keys. And I dug through my purse and pulled things out, one of which I guess was my wallet. Then I went back in the house and found my keys and I must have stayed awhile. Then I left and I was still sort of aggravated and decided to go to this bar near my house. But my wallet wasn't there. So I had to go back to the scene of the aggravation and look for my wallet. It wasn't there. Don't leave your wallet on the sidewalk in Oakland -- or probably anywhere -- and think it will be there whenever you come back for it. Because it won't And your lovely burnished teal Coach wallet with $110 and your life in it will belong to someone else.

Another way to not feel like yourself is to lose your phone or not have access to it. My battery went all useless on me today. I tried charging and it just kept losing juice until the poor thing was juiceless. Remember when we used phones at home? And didn't have e-mail? It was ok then. We didn't know better. Now, it sucks very bad. Don't lose your phone or wallet. You will feel at loose ends. But then you will stop to buy a wallet with some cash that the nice ladies at Wells Fargo let you take out of your account using your PIN number, and you will also find a very cute dress for $8 and you will feel better. But your whole eating and sleeping at normal times thing is all screwy. Why am I referring to me as you? I am very tired. I just looked at all sorts of credit stuff, etc., and am extra tired. And my cat is ready for me to go to bed. And I was going to go to work at 6am tomorrow, but it is 2:30, and I'm thinking that's not happening.

If you look on the left side of this page, you will see that I've changed my recommended book to Pippi Longstocking. I read that book maybe 100 times when I was little. I found it in my parents' garage the last time I was at their house in San Diego, which was about a year and a half ago, because it was before our dog, Benny, died. They visit here all the time because my sister lives here and she has kids and that is very important. Back to the book, it was 95 cents and looks well-loved. I wanted a funny name and to have a monkey. Then I grew up. Now I just want a monkey. I miss Benny. I would take him over a monkey any day. I'm going to bed before I review many, many children's books and get sad about pets that are gone. Maybe I'll read a little Pippi first.

niceness

2011-05-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

Some nice things happened this week, writing-wise. I have a story up at Juked, did another reading that felt good, and some nice people said some nice stuff about me. I know I said nice a lot. I know some synonyms, but nice feels the most right.

I am going over to my friends' house to help build a backyard stage for their six year-old daughter, who freestyles like nobody's business. Another friend (who already has a backyard stage) puts on this sort of open mic sort of poetry reading thing that's really just a bunch of friends shivering in her backyard in a no-stress setting, reading anything and whatever. It is one of my favorite reading series ever. Later, I think I am going into San Francisco to see two friends dj.

I am trying to be around people more. I am trying to be less married to my computer. I think I'm going to divorce it, but remain very amicable friends who hang out regularly for mostly writing purposes. I need to leave my head sometimes, too. An inner life is not always a life, or enough of one. I will be a better friend. I will be a consumer and appreciator of this amazing area in which I live. I will try very hard to do these things.

That's all. I'm going to go help with that stage. Probably by pouring drinks, eating snacks, and playing with kids. I am not so handy with building or fixing. I am excellent at drinking, eating, and playing. Everyone should do all of the above during this long weekend. I insist. Doctors' notes required for non-participants.

Leave your head. Go outside. It's sunny and warm, and there are stages to be built. You can build them in your head, but you'll have to rebuild. Until you realize you don't really need one if nobody is there to see what happens.

everything

2011-05-21T01:14:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write something last night or the night before and I was so tired, so I thought I would do it later. I don't remember. And it's 11:15pm and I'm eating grapes for dinner.

So, that last post. I mean it. Every single word. Especially about not knowing and I don't think honesty was the word I was going for. Contradictory is a better word, probably. Because some things have happened lately that make me proud and I don't know if the discomfort outweighs the pride or if weight really has anything to do with it. So maybe I'll say some of those things.

But first I want to say that I love it when good things happen for my friends. Sometimes I am a little envious of writers who are both talented and prolific, especially young ones who know that this is who they are. But I am way more proud of my friends who are these things. They are the reasons I started a literary journal and run a reading series. Anyway, I'm going to stick with my no name-dropping thing because that's what I do, and I know that's not an explanation, but this is my blog, and that is. And one of my friends had a book release party last night that was so great and he was so happy and I saw some early versions of the book and helped edit it a little and it sort of overwhelmed me -- how much joy I felt for him. And another friend of mine who was there told me she won a trip to a writers' retreat in Portugal for something she wrote. She earned that and I hugged her a lot of times.

And then some good things happened for me. And I will put them here and not apologize, which is my temptation. I was on the longlist for the Wigleaf Top 50 very short fictions online last year. Third time a bridesmaid. In an excellent dress. Because the others on the lists -- both Top 50 and longlist of 150 -- i'm sort of just amazed that my name is listed with theirs. And this is not a Sally Field speech. These are some frickin' amazing writers. This bridesmaid's dress makes my butt look really good.

(Also, two stories that were published in Corium were on the longlist, which made me very happy for the writers, and very happy for my year-old journal. I think we did pretty well for a first-year publication and I will be proud of that and of them.)

And I wrote a piece that's a remix of an extraordinary story my friend wrote. And I was solicited for some work that was or will be published, and it's unexpected and, yes, it feels great. And I did a reading last night that felt really good and some people asked about my book, which I don't have. I don't have a book. And some people wanted there to be one. And I sort of will have one with four other writers who are wonderful, which will be released at the end of this year or beginning of next by an excellent new independent press. Not sort of. That will be a book with a lot of my work in it, and I will be able to say to those people, here is a book with a lot of my work and you should buy it and love it because look at these other great people in it. And me. I will be in it. And I need to turn in 10,000 words in 11 days and I think I might have 8,000. But I will write 2,000 more and they will be in the book.

I know some wonderful writers. I have read their work. I have published them in Corium and featured them at East Bay on the Brain. I have read with them and heard them read and edited some. And three years ago, I did not know I was a writer. I didn't know I was anything. But this is what I am and I'm just going to be it without apologizing, even if I might be crying just a little, tiny bit right now.

I am doing another reading this month and one next month. Next month, I will also be part of a cool thing this reading series does, which is to give four writers a prompt and 10 minutes to write a story, which the writers then read and the people there vote. And then the winner writes the whole story and comes back the next month and reads it. But really, I am most excited about the speed-writing thing. I wouldn't complain if I won. No, I totally want to win. But I'm most excited about the writing part.

And then, I will not do any readings (I don't do that many. They just come in clumps), and I will attend very few, and I will do Corium and EBOB, but mostly I will write as much as I can. Which might not be much. But I don't have any lower or upper limits. I'm just going to do it. Like I'm trying to eat and sleep at more structured times. Yeah, I know grapes at midnight do not comprise a structured, balanced meal. Fridays are transitional. And my friend is coming to visit tomorrow and I was going to clean tonight, but I didn't. I will do some tomorrow. I think that will be ok.

Oh, I remember what I wanted to write. The best thing that happened in all of this was last night. I was reading and saw this guy at the back of the room listening hard and it looked like he was feeling what I read. And he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall and I read for him. And he said something nice after and I thanked him. Those few minutes were everything.

The last good thing is I bought two shirts at the thrift store the other day. $4 plus tax. One is brown, which is my favorite color to wear, and the other is this really pretty grass green color. And I will probably wear the green one sometime this weekend, when it is in the 60s and sunny in Oakland, which I love. And I don't even know what this Rapture, end of the world, thing is because I don't want to know. I have 2,000 words to write and some new shirts to wear. There is a weather forecast. There will be weather and you will feel it on your skin and in your hair.

deeper, more

2011-05-14T16:06:00.000-07:00

I wonder if I bleed enough for you. If my veins are deep and blue turns red turns dry and dark and you remember that I did this for you. I wonder what I am supposed to do to be a writer. Do I write book reviews and literary essays and link stories and name names of writers I like? Do I think you should like them, too? I am asking. I am truly asking. Because I don't think I know how to do it at all.

I wrote something for a thing that someone does and I thought what I wrote at least circled the outsides of my organs. It didn't feel good and it wasn't enough. I cannot give everything. I will not. Does that make me irrelevant? Does it make me a coward? Does it make me a fraud? Does it make me a person who bleeds alone?

I do some writing and I edit a journal. Other writers thank editors and acknowledge others who were published alongside of them. I think I'm lucky to publish wonderful writing in my journal and don't expect thanks. As for others who are published in the same places, I am happy for them, but we didn't really have anything to do with each other's pieces being in the same publication, did we? Is it a courtesy? Is it self-promotion? Is it a way of getting the most Valentines in the paper bag you decorate and put at the front of the classroom?

I am really, really asking. Because I don't think I do it right. I know I will not go to AWP next year. I thank editors who ask me for work and like it and publish it. Sometimes, I read something that makes me want to tell the writer something that is really just me wanting to express something to that writer. Not here or any other mode of social media. I have received a few personal notes about things I have written and stories I have worked on with contributors. Those things mean something else. They are like being in a relationship. Being loved. The bigger is like being separate. Being loved en masse. I have never wanted that.

I'm not honest. I like being publicly recognized for my work. Nominations, awards, readings, solicitations for public projects. I don't know how these things happen. Sometimes I do and origins may lie very much in the sausage factory analogy used in public policy (and other areas, I suppose. I only know what I know). Politics rule process. This might be ugly. How much do you want sausage with your eggs? How much do you want other writers to love you? How much do you do it for that reason? And by "you," I mean the universal "you" or probably just me.

I could write more about it. I could bleed until I'm surrounded by dried rusty stains, meaning always. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I tell and sometimes I don't. This will make me less popular. There are people who do these things who will feel judged. Don't. I'm asking for explanation, not offering judgment. Not honest. There's some judgment. Of us, but mostly of me. For not getting it. For not doing it. For knives we hold and use or not. For calling these things knives. For not knowing the word.

i went away and i came back and am here again

2011-05-10T22:40:00.000-07:00

I have not been away for a long time. I went to D.C. for AWP, but that was not relaxing. I have talked about that before, so let's not this time. Yeah. So, I went to the central coast of California to visit my friend and it was really good. Because the ocean is right there. Like out the window. And then you can leave the house and go right up to it, into it. It's cold and foamy and it chases your feet like a little kid who pokes at you, then runs away, laughing, knowing with absolute certainty that you can't catch him. But he runs back because he knows you want him right there, even if he's poking at you. And my friend and I stood there and listened and looked at different things, but really the same. I looked at where the ocean met the sky; the sun and wind were reminders. I picked up sand dollars. There were so many and they were there and now they are here with me and my sandy pant cuffs and the things I will remember about being away. The elephant seals, the bourbon cookies, the wild sage and mustard, the Mexican Italian restaurant. But mostly just standing there feeling some kind of universal collision of earth and sky and person and not wanting anything else. It didn't last. Things like that cannot be sustained or memorized. I remember feeling choices. So many. You could walk into the water and keep walking until there was nothing to walk on and then you could stop. You could walk in up to your knees and feel the water come and go and be just as far away, feel the pull and be afraid. You could watch. Or talk. No choice was wrong.

i'm a little in love with my beanbag

2011-05-05T01:37:00.000-07:00

The six foot brown beanbag arrived. It weighs, like, 70 lbs. It is filled with memory foam. My beanbag remembers me.

In about two days, I am told, my beanbag will grown even larger. My beanbag is already a giant brown beany nest for me. My beanbag is already sad that I have to leave for work tomorrow and that I am going away for the weekend. I haven't spent that much time with my beanbag. Tomorrow night, we will watch Top Chef.

My beanbag and I love Top Chef.

insomnia is expensive

2011-04-30T00:07:00.000-07:00

I don't sleep much anymore. Not because I'm writing a novel (or anything, really) or I'm not tired or I'm creating Excel spreadsheets of important things or learning American Sign Language, or anything useful. I am mostly looking at ottomans these days. I wish I were lying when I say that I have stayed up all night several times. Ottomans serve an important role in home furnishings. Don't underestimate the ottoman. Also known as the footstool, the hassock, and the pouf. I do not mess around when it comes to shopping. I would get more sleep if I paid retail.

In looking for ottomans, I became intrigued by ... bean bag chairs. Did you know they make them with memory foam these days and they're sort of ridiculously expensive, especially when they're ridiculously large? Like the one I bought last night?

Yes! I am the proud owner of a 6' round brown bean bag!! And I may be delirious. No, I definitely am. But I cannot wait until the damn thing arrives. Because I'm going to sleep on it. It was all part of my late night plan. Not really, but I'm going to pretend it was. I would like if you did, too. I am very, very tired.

Here is a picture. Imagine the people are not on my bean bag. Yes, I should be embarrassed. I am. But tell me you don't want to sink into that thing. To be engulfed in that beany brown womb. Tell me that. And I will tell you that you LIE. You just have the good sense and adequate sleep banked not to act on it. You are well-rested and have good judgment. I am not and ... don't. You are the superego. I am the id. The very, very tired id. With a gigantic bean bag on the way. I can't wait.

don't write about your cat

2011-04-27T07:12:00.000-07:00

Some advice. People don't want to read about your cat. Even if he is adorable and you love him and he needs very expensive oral surgery. People will read if you talk about your feet or your hair or how you think your face looks when you're asleep. I think mine probably looks pretty funny. Because I've seen it when it's all tired and slack and it's not all that pleasant to look at. But I don't want to look pleasant. It sounds like a round little grandma. I guess pleasant is better than ugly. When the occasion calls for it, I refer to myself as "not ugly." It's about as close as I get to any sort of compliment about myself. I used to think I was a hideous beast, so not ugly is really, really good for me.

When I was little -- like, really little. I was very short until I hit a very late growth spurt that continued into college -- my mom (who was and continues to be beautiful) did a fashion show with my sister, who was tiny and adorable. Long, light brown, wavy ponytails. They looked perfect walking down the runway and I thought my mom would be embarrassed to do a fashion show with me. But that was my own fault. She didn't think that way. She just didn't think to tell me otherwise. I look at pictures now. I know I would have been not ugly, wearing that blue dress, walking with my mom in her blue dress. I didn't know.

See? I had cookies. I was happy. I look happy. Cookies still make me happy.

So, that's my mom, and my brothers and my sister. They look different now, but I won't put their pictures up because I don't have their permission and that's not cool. They are all not ugly.

I know I do this sometimes. Put up pictures of myself as a kid. I think I put that one of my mom and me up another time, even. Even at my age, I want to see that she loved me. That she does. Moms are complicated. If I had a daughter, I would probably be complicated. But I would make sure she knew that I would do a fashion show with her. She would know, not implicitly, because kids don't know things that way. I would tell her a lot. I wouldn't wait until she thought things like "She is my mother. Mothers love their daughters. She must love me." I know I sound like I am but I'm not blaming. I am sad that I was a sad kid.

So, I think we should change the subject. I started writing again. I've written four things. That one was turned down, with love, AGAIN, from the place that always tells me they love it, but no. And it's at another one of those places that will probably love it, but not enough. And I love it and it will be someplace special that I love. Like this other piece that I wrote really fast and my friend who is with a really great journal I love, who asked me for something awhile back, he likes it a lot - maybe loves it -and he is showing it to his editor, and even a dictator editor like me takes stuff that my associate editors love, unless I really dislike it, which I think happened once, so I am hoping this editor is the same. I said love a lot in this paragraph.

A little randomness? Why not? I have this pretty weird neighbor who lives in the apartment below. He once told me he was worried he was making too much noise, so I would say no, I probably was, and then he said, you know, you might want to get some rugs. I found his passive-aggression to be sort of funny, but mostly felt a little bad for him. It seemed like it might have taken him awhile to think of how to say that. Another time, he asked if he could use (i.e. steal) my wifi. The other day, I found the vaguest note EVER on my door, asking me to call him, as something important had come up.

Naturally, I did not call him. I am an avoider. He is passive-aggressive. It mostly works for us. Then, I was on the phone Monday when I got home and he knocked. I told my friend to stay on the phone with me, so I didn't have to talk to the neighbor for long. I told him his note was vague. He told me there was a strange van parked somewhere and he wanted me to be aware. I was all, dude, how is that not appropriate to put in a note? I said that in my head, but, really, a little specificity would not have been a bad thing. Something bad could have happened during my avoidance period. Nothing good ever happens in vans. Mini-vans are a different story. But he said van quite distinctly. I am pretty sure there were no soccer balls or juice boxes in the scary van I never saw.

I'm going to get ready for work now. My cat says hi.

my cat, part 2, & other stuff

2011-04-12T23:05:00.000-07:00

Noah is ok. His diabetes is not back. His liver and kidneys are excellent. And I get to spend up to $1000 for his teeth! But, he might have a thyroid problem. The vet called me today and wanted me to spend $100 to have their lab test the blood THEY ALREADY HAVE for something more specific or something. Because his test was borderline. I couldn't really get her to tell me what the hell that meant. So, I said, look, I will pay for the test if you think I need to, but I just paid for an exam and labwork, and am looking at spending so much on his teeth, I am going to pry his mouth open every day to admire them. I'm going to teach him to smile. I am going to make my cat's mouth my Facebook picture, my picture on this blog, the jacket picture on the book I might have someday, a bumper sticker, and a t-shirt. I am going to have address labels and checks made with pictures of his shiny, white teeth. I am going to set up one of those Kickstarter accounts. If you donate $50 or more, I will name a tooth after you.

Digression, thy name is Lauren. So, I said, how about if I feed him more and keep an eye on his weight for about a month and we revisit? She asked if my scale showed tenths of pounds or something like that. I was like, lady, (Dr. Lady), I do not have a scale. She wanted me to get on the scale and WEIGH MYSELF (ha!), then get on the scale with him and subtract my weight from our mutual weight to get his weight. Ummm, can't he just be on the scale by himself? She was not the perky vet. I haven't met her. I'll bet she's skinny.

She said that would be ok. Listen to me, being all glib about Noah now, after telling people to shut up in many different ways. I'm not glib. I'm tired and relieved and I have to laugh about how much money he is costing me or I will probably sort of cry. Or at least tear up a bit. I love him and am very happy he's ok. You have no idea.

Speaking of my telling people to shut up in all kinds of ways, which, according to the number of comments the post got, is what happened, I decided -- right now, as a matter of fact -- that I am going to stop swearing. I said "shoot." I said "darn." I will say "fudge" or probably something that sounds like it, because that word makes me hungry.

I was watching this TV show about this fashion stylist named Rachel Zoe. She is so skinny, you can see the bones of her sternum when she wears plunging necklines. It's rather disconcerting. She should probably forego the plunge. Anyway, she says "Shut the front door" instead of "Shut the ..." and I like it. I'm looking forward to someone saying something that calls for the strong suggestion that their entryway be shut.

I have a lot of stuff to do. But I am singing at a reading in a week and a half and my friend with whom I am performing (I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't wait til it's over.) is a perfectionist of gigantic proportions and we are practicing pretty much every day. We did an open mic last week and are doing another on Tuesday. And it's good he's a perfectionist, because I am, too, about this kind of thing, and I mostly do not want to look like the biggest idiot alive. I can say idiot. It's not a swear word. So, I was going to do my taxes, my laundry, and some other stuff tonight, but I sang, answered some emails, and am posting this. I am scared to do my taxes, even though I made practically no money last year. I am hoping the IRS will contribute to Noah's teeth fund. I am hoping they will not be taking from the fund, at the very least.

I'm also doing a reading next Thursday. I suggested the theme and am unprepared. I chose "Birth and Death" because I wanted to force myself to read the story about my grandmother, which makes me cry. It takes three minutes to read. I have 10. So, I'm going to write a story about birth, because I have another story about death, but if I read both, I will be over my time by about three minutes, and I don't want to cut the story about my grandmother, because, you know, that was the whole reason for suggesting the theme and all. Darnit. I guess I'll have to write something. About birth. I have something from a long time ago. I think I should find it, cringe, strip it to its bones and start over. I've been meaning to do all that. I've been meaning to write this story. It might make me cry, too. I feel pretty ok with that. If people don't like it, I hope they will be nice, maybe smile and clap politely, and keep their front doors weatherstripped, reinforced, and quadruple locked.

my cat

2011-04-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

I took Noah to the vet yesterday. Just for a check-up. I didn't take him for one last year. I was broke and he was fine. I am less broke and he seemed fine, but I get scared sometimes that something will happen to him. He's around 13 or 14 and we have an agreement that he will live forever, but we both forget things sometimes.

When I got there, the vet tech told me it was two years to the day since his last check-up. I thought that might be a sign. Good, I thought. Or bad. Because if I had taken him last month, it would not have been two years and I would not be as neglectful. She weighed him. Last time, he weighed 15 lbs. This time, he weighed 10.

He had diabetes when we first moved up north. I had taken him to the vet right before we left; two months later, he became diabetic. He weighed 17 lbs. I used to give him insulin every morning. He lost weight on the special, super-expensive food I still give him, and he got cured.

The vet came in. She looks 14 and is very perky. She showed me that his teeth are bad and he needs to have them cleaned. It's not like with people. They have to give him general anesthesia and he might need extractions. It could cost as much as $1000. I will pay.

I'm not going to apologize for loving my cat, and if you think I'm silly or crazy, you probably don't have a pet. I wouldn't pay that much to have a malignant tumor removed or hip replaced or anything to cure a disease or condition that would keep him alive for a little while longer, causing him to suffer because I could not let go. It's his teeth. If he doesn't have the procedure, he could get an infection that could make him sick, especially if his diabetes is back. I'm pretty sure it's not. The weight loss is the only sign.

Still, I might not get the chance to pay for his teeth. He lost 1/3 of his body weight. He could be sick. He doesn't seem sick. I put my ear against him and rubbed under his chin and on his belly and felt him purring. I don't think sick cats purr. I don't think sick cats get so excited about eating they get in the way of the bowl in preparation. But I felt his bones when I felt him purring. I have felt his bones. It's part of why I decided it was time to take him for an exam. But I didn't notice he had lost so much.

I am guilty and scared. I'll get the results of his labs tomorrow. The perky vet was not so perky after she saw Noah's chart and examined him. She might not have said everything and I didn't ask. She told me to wait for his tests, then worry about the teeth cleaning. She might know it's not necessary.

So I don't care what you think. For real, this time. I will care what you think of my writing or my journal or my reading series. What I wear and how I look and pretty much everything. But I will care about it later. Tonight, I don't care how big my ass is. I don't envy Noah for losing so much weight. He weighed 10 lbs. when I adopted him, around 13 years ago. He was about a year old. Cats can live to be over 20, so shut up if you feel like telling me he's old and about to die anyways. Shut up if you feel like saying he's just a cat. He's my cat. He curls up in my spot when I get out of bed, and sleeps on my stomach at night. I know he's not a person. He's better than one sometimes. If you have a pet, you know exactly what I mean. You could know what I mean if you don't have a pet. If you don't know what I mean, if you think this is ridiculous and I am ridiculous and that my cat's life should not be so important to me, you really just need to shut the fuck up.

definition, high and otherwise

2011-04-02T23:28:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine sent me a link to Urban Dictionary, which is never such a good thing. He said he found the definition ironic. I clicked, and found this: "Lauren: a beautiful girl whom makes you go crazy." [misspelling in original.]

OK, you know how irony is pretty much something that means/is the opposite of how it sounds? So, this is someone who used to be a really close friend, and some stuff happened -- like, maybe there were some feelings on one side -- and we stopped hanging out and he got married. We used to have hooky days. I wasn't working full time and he had his own business and I'd go into San Francisco or we'd go to Berkeley and have lunch, do some music, go to a divey bar and drink whiskey and play pinball. I miss hooky days. And him. I miss his friendship.

I sent him an email about his email and haven't heard back. And said something like I know you know what irony is and I know you're not mean ... and he's not. I know that completely. I know that 99.9%. No, I know it 100%. He would never say anything with the intent to cause harm. He is one of the best people I've ever known.

I am not Urban Dictionary Lauren, today more so than others. I still have my lovely amoxicillin rash, though it seems to be fading. And I worked on Corium all night and threw some clothes on and was still late for work, so I am not so much at my best. Yeah, I'm maybe 75% not at my best. I don't know what that means.

(The above was written a few days ago, but I wanted to continue that thought. And I'm lazy. Here's some follow-up. And you didn't have to wait, which is one of the best kinds of follow-up there is.)

First, I heard back from my friend, who assured me he wasn't mean and joked that he knows he should watch the way he uses words with me. And told me he misses me.

Also, as mentioned, the new issue of Corium came out. People seem to like it, or are pretending to, which is really all I require. Not really. Because this is about the writing, which is so very good it makes me happy that I got to put it in the world. Yes, that was treacly. And I've never used that word before, and writing it sort of made me happy, too. You should read it. The journal. It's right here! Go now. I'll wait.

(This is from the other night, too. It's here and I try not to delete stuff, so I'll just comment on my own comments from now on. Like a conversation with myself. I live alone. I am familiar with the concept, and am almost always an interested and attentive listener.)

Someone just called me from Los Angeles. 213 area code. I didn't answer. Was it you? It was not you, unless you're my friend, B. I haven't talked to him in awhile. You would like him. I do. He's pretty great. I can't call him back because I am going to bed really, really soon. Maybe I will call him tomorrow. Maybe I will call you tomorrow, B., if you're reading this. OK? Because I might go out with some people from work, but only if they don't talk about work. That's the best part about having your own car.

(Let's just say I was home by 8. I love my car. Dammit. Have not returned B.'s call. Apparently, I am turning my blog into a to-do list.)

So, now that Corium is done and all, I am going to take a break. Getting off Facebook, probably won't write much here, but will check in. I mostly don't want to do the social networking stuff. It wastes time and I need to write, not read about other people writing.

I wrote a few things. They're very short, but they're complete. I'm not always so good at finishing things. I'm going to send one tonight to a place that has rejected a number of my submissions, with the slight, but reasonable, belief that it might not this time. And if it does, I believe that someplace else will publish it. I thought about whether I would publish it if I received it as a submission, and I thought yes. You might say well, of course you'd say yes. It's you. But I have sent out stuff I haven't loved, which was published. And I would have assessed it as such had I thought to frame it that way. It hasn't happened in a long time. I am much more cautious. I wait until I love them. When you read this in ***, you'll agree. That was a joke. Laugh. Maybe the slightest of smiles.

I think maybe I'll write more here, actually. I've written about 1/4 of the number of posts I had last year at this time. I should do better by you, reader(s). That was sort of a joke, too. Which is related to something I found interesting. Not that you will, but you might, and, on that chance, I will tell you. OK, there's this site called Alexa that ranks sites according to web traffic. After the issue went up, I checked in and found we have a good readership. Good. Some smiling might have occurred.

So, I plugged this -- my neglected blog of randomness -- into the magical space, and discovered that the neglected blog of randomness is ranked twice as high as Corium. No smiling. I don't smile when befuddled. Yet another interesting fact is that they give you some top search term queries that lead people to your site. And, in edited form to protect your delicate sensibilities, and so as not to drive that traffic to this site, here are some that lead to Corium: "Corium Magazine" and "Corium" (together, approximately 38%); holds her "h*ad ... she s**ks" (almost 5% ... huh?); and "uri*ne sm**ls of lasagna" comes in with almost 3%. I don't think there were any terms that ... unusual that led people here. I have no idea.

Something else that befuddles me: remote controls. Specifically, the two sitting on my coffee table. I am happy to report that I have cable again. I dropped it when I was broke. I missed it, but made do with a little Hulu here and there. I missed Top Chef most of all. Dammit, I will use the word ironic again -- this season of Top Chef ended last week, I believe. Back from detour. The TV is new. The cable is new. Cable guy came today and, when finished, was in a hurry and did not give me my lesson in remote usage and etiquette. He left. I turned off the TV, which I guess you're not supposed to do. Ever. When I tried to turn it on, all sorts of ugly things happened. Basically, it didn't work. None of the beautiful TV shows came into view. I called cable guy. As soon as he answered, I hit a button that made things work. I apologized and went about my business. Then, I realized that no guide appeared when I pressed guide. I took a nap.

I realized today that too many of my sentences start with "I went out with this guy ...", in reference to a number of guys that is well over one. This does not mean I begin every other sentence that way. I did not lie when I said I am not Urban Dictionary Lauren. I really meant that I think I'll just watch TV for awhile.

me plus everything

2011-03-30T01:18:00.000-07:00

I am allergic to amoxicillin. I know this because I got a rash on my hip. Then on my other hip. Then on my front, then on my back, then, on my way to the doctor today, on my arms and legs. I took amoxicillin for the barking cough. I saw that doctor on March 14. Then I took 10 days of pills, then I got the rash. I was sick for at least a week before I saw the first doctor. This rash should last another 7-10 days. It doesn't quite itch and it doesn't quite hurt. But it itches and hurts a little.

That's all I'm going to say right now because it pretty much sums things up.

sometimes it seems like

2011-03-22T06:10:00.000-07:00

things are permanent. A bad mood, a bad haircut, a barking cough, a long, long time where things go wrong. And then they don't and you remember. And you say to yourself hey, stop doing that. It ends. Make a note or something. Get a tattoo. Put it on your blog. Rename your blog - Hey Stupid, It Ends.

I'm leaving the post. Today was better. Not the best day of my life or even my month, but better. I had a story accepted. I sang with my friend, T.C., because we are doing an open mic next week in preparation for doing music at a reading, of all things, next month. And I sound kind of bad because of the barking cough, which, by the way, was so bad yesterday and today, my stomach muscles (which I did not realize I had) seized and made me barf a little. That will make a person unhappy. But it will pass.

So, one of my student clients has sort of gone of the deep end and I thought something else happened, but maybe not. Probably the puking. But it's better.

I wrote that all yesterday. It's 6:05a.m. I didn't sleep. But I saved it up all weekend -- my nuts for the winter -- and should be able to live off the savings for a day. Diet Pepsi and sugar will help.

I remind myself again, without the anger. Don't forget. It ends. You can use it as a reminder if you want, too.

old dog

2011-03-21T01:51:00.000-07:00

I stayed in bed this weekend. Almost entirely. There were lots of things I should have done. They remain. I used to be good at excuses and I have some that are legitimate. I am pretty sick. I have a bad respiratory infection. Again. I bark like a seal. At times, I can't stop. I heaved and hurled the other night. My co-workers resent the relentless noise, but are too nice to say. Four offered me cough drops last week. I have my own. I want to tell them to go away, but not so nicely. I want to tell everyone to go away, not so nicely. I want to go away and I sleep. I can't blame it all on being sick. Don't offer to help. I won't accept. Tell me what you. I'll try to give. You might take it anyway.

Mrs. Lauren Walgreen's Clerk

2011-03-10T20:57:00.000-08:00

So, today, I'm having a sexy morning filled with shooting pain in my right wrist and forearm, and I saunter on over (you know, all sexy-like) to the Walgreen's for a wrist brace or Ace bandage or something. You should see me grimace. It's HOT.

I slink back to the braces and canes and bedpans section (all right, now. settle down.)and discover that wrist and knee and ankle thingies are buy one, get the second for 50% off! I purr like a kitten while deciding just which wrist support product I will buy AND which thing of equal or less value I will get at half price. And I can't decide because, really, I just need one little black number to slide over my thumb and around my wrist, secured with the whisper of Velcro. I check various sizes of things I might, you know, NEED, and decide on a slinky flesh-colored self-adhesive Ace bandage. Old school sexy. For when the black number doesn't match my outfit.

Grabbing a few Cadbury eggs (come on, that's just too easy.), I head for the counter, shaking my hair with joy, when I realize -- I need some of that hairspray that makes boys want to bury their noses in my hair, then pack up their things and come live in it. So, I pick up one bottle (pouting a little. It's not on sale.) and head to the register. My friend! The clerk!!! I might get another Hershey bar! The pain subsides a bit.

He lights up. I tone down. I know that look. Hershey bars are never free. He asks me my name. I dim my radiance as much as I can and tell him. He shares his exotic name with me. I take his outstretched hand and shake quickly. He is from another country. I do not know its betrothal customs. He totals my selections, intimate under his gaze of admiration. He knows I like a good deal. I see him reach for the candy. He waves two at me while he pulls out his receipt. He's a peacock.

I can't say no. It's the only place in walking distance of work where I'm fairly certain I won't be mugged. And ... it's free. He drops his sweet bait in my bag and wishes me a wonderful day. I wish him the same.

Walking back to work, showing off my sexy pepper spray, I lay my hand on my cheek, wondering who I am. Did I just allow a man to picture me in my wrist brace for the price of a few pieces of candy? Yes. Yes, I did. Does that have betrothal implications in his country, as well? I frown like a little girl. OK, it's a pout. He can't choose me like that. I get to choose! I tumble my hands through the bag, digging urgently for the receipt. I will return to the Walgreen's and thrust it at him, demanding that he charge me for the things he gave. My hand comes upon something that yields my private smile. Slick brown paper in the way of what I need, I peel it.

Back at my desk, I mold the brace to my aching wrist and put it to my chin. I imagine his country, warm and filled with chocolate.

like dancing with myself

2011-03-02T01:24:00.000-08:00

I'm not really dancing with myself. More shivering. And sort of arguing. Like "It's cold, idiot. And you're tired. So, maybe going to bed might be an excellent idea." Yeah, stuff like that. It is cold. Seriously, this place is freezing. My nose is cold, like a dog's. I heard someone read the other night and he used so many similes, it was like he was in love with similes. Ha. I am like a funny person who is cold and tired and having internal conflict about going to bed.

What's the best thing that happened to me today (yesterday. whatever.)? I haven't done that question in awhile. It might be that I put up a thing on Facebook that I haven't gotten a postcard in awhile and I would really like one. And some of my friends said they would send me postcards. And I love postcards a lot. Oh, and the guy at Walgreen's is incredibly nice. One time I was buying some toothpaste and he told me to go back and get two because they were on sale. Then today, I was buying some of those Cadbury eggs -- the ones that look like egg inside -- and he asked if I wanted to buy some chocolate bars for 3 for $2 or something. And I said no, thanks, because I was already buying my eggy goodness and he says something about giving him another dollar and he'd give me two or something. And I wasn't really paying attention and I said sure. And then, after I paid, he tells me he gave me four because I am his friend. I did not need four chocolate bars, and I have only been in that one other time, when he was also very nice about the toothpaste, so, you know, that was a good thing that happened to me. So, I'm just saying, it's easy to fixate on the evil person at work, but don't forget about the nice Walgreen's man.

Yeah. I just realized I'm moralizing about how we should remember our nice Walgreen's clerks. I'm a little mortified, but not enough to delete. I mean, he's very nice and I appreciate free chocolate. Really, the best thing that happened is that a friend who is more valued to me than I can say told me I said something that made her feel better on a not so great day. And me being the person who rambles about free chocolate and postcards and maybe lots of other stuff and maybe another friend joked the other day that I never let him talk and, you know, I'm always all angsty and stuff, I was glad that I was able to do that. And I don't care if that sounds like moralizing because yeah, be nice to your friends.

If you're reading this, I have to insist that you stop. I am out of control on the rambling. And I'm cold and tired and I cannot stop saying stupid things about free chocolate and similes and using titles that reference Billy Idol songs that may or may not be about dancing. I am like the crazy person who sits next to you on public transportation. I am like the sound of a toilet that needs to have its handle jiggled. I am like one of those persistent kids who comes to your door selling magazines. I am like a tired, cold lunatic. Clearly, I've run out of similes. I'm going to bed. And you need to close the door. Seriously. The kids will come back with the magazines if you let them keep talking.

yes, there is something you can send back to me

2011-02-24T00:55:00.000-08:00

Facebook won't let me in. And I wanted to post something. If I don't post something, nobody can like it, and I don't have any chance of saying hey, there are a few people who like me! Or who like this song that I wanted to post. Today, after work, which was not the greatest, I did a little shopping, which made me feel a little better. When I got home, I saw some crumpled clothes on the ironing board. I put them there so long ago, I don't remember not seeing them in that spot. I think it might have been December. I became motivated by my new brown boots. I ironed two things that might go with it. I can wear one of those things tomorrow and maybe look forward to my day. Or at least look down on occasion and admire the boots.

I don't have a real stereo. I have a little round thing you plug in and stick your iPod (my iPod) into and put it on shuffle and it shuffles, except Leonard Cohen comes up ALL THE TIME and I only have one of his cds on there. I think it might have been a double. I checked it out from the library. I love Leonard, but I would like him to fall out of rotation periodically.

More about boots. Somebody else I love is Bob Dylan. And, prior to LC dominating tonight's musical ironing accompaniment, I sang with Dylan about someone leaving me to go to Spain. He didn't want to feel guilty so he kept asking what type of gift I wanted. I wanted him to stay. He didn't. After he had been gone awhile, he sent me a letter saying he didn't know when he'd be coming back. And it was time to ask for something. And I asked for Spanish boots of Spanish leather. I tried to find him singing the song so I could post a video link on FB. Because that would make me likable. Or not. Maybe everyone would leave or be silent and I could ask for boots, but I wouldn't get them.

Anyway, before I ever heard Bob sing the song "Spanish Boots of Spanish Leather," I heard Nanci Griffith do it much justice. She has this really beautiful, plaintive voice that suits the song. This is her singing it at a tribute concert to that guy who wrote it.

I want to write more. I'm so tired, but I want to write about how I wonder if he likes when people sing his songs. I think he might. I think he is probably happy when people -- especially people like Nanci Griffith -- sing his words and make them theirs for a little while.

I am speculating, but I think Dylan is good at sharing. Non-musician writers? Not so much. We are protective of our words. This is not accusation or judgment. I am, too. Someone I like once took a sentence from my blog and used it in a poem. It was sort of painful. It was about my family. I would have said yes if this person had asked.

Anyway, I never said and it's long over. The reason I raise it is because I have talked with a few people in the area about doing a reading with maybe 8 of us or so, where we read something that one of the other readers wrote. Some people love the idea. Some, yeah, really don't. But ever since Mel Bosworth read a story of mine and I recorded it, too, because I loved how differently he read it, I have been pushing for it. Yes, I was lucky to have someone talented read the piece and interpret it in an interesting way. But even if someone messes up,I think it would be very cool. And it would be good for me and my selfishness. Because once you put those words out, there's not much you can do to keep them just for you, especially if people like them, which is sort of the point, right?

I am going to do this one day. For now, I have to go to bed because parts of my brain are asleep and I tend to speak those parts (or maybe write those parts) and they're not really interesting. Just weird non sequiturs.

Here are Mel's version and mine of my tiny story called "Follow."

Mel

Me

There's something related, but I am about 7/8 asleep. Tomorrow, OK?

Proof

2011-02-18T00:58:00.000-08:00

I should be doing other things right now. I could start every post with that sentence. I should be doing laundry, washing dishes, editing a thesis chapter for a student client, looking at mail, finding my American Express card, making a doctor's appointment for surgery follow-up, making an appointment for my car to get lots of things fixed, learning to knit, getting pregnant (ha), writing something, reading Corium submissions. It's lucky I have a lot of clothes. I'll get to the rest.

Today. It was good. I learned I was a finalist for the 2011 Micro Award. I am happy but even more so because it's for the story I wrote about my grandma and dedicated to my dad. There were more than 300 submissions. My story was in the top 10. A few people went back and read the story. I did. As always, I cried at the end. It's one of my favorite things I've written and I can never read it at a reading because I cannot get through it without crying.

My grandmother was difficult. She made a friend late in life who changed her. She stopped commenting on my weight every time she saw me, her voice became softer, her smile became beautiful. She kissed me enough to make up for the time she didn't. She was happy. Have you ever seen someone become happy? Not in the moment, but for good? It is stunning. She died in April of 2007. I still cry.

I hate pictures of me. I go through dozens to find one I think is tolerable to put up here or on Facebook. Sometimes I look at them and think they are not me. I guess none of us really looks all that much like we do during those broken off pieces of seconds.

A friend took a picture of me with Noah. I like the picture because Noah looks gorgeous, which he is. And I look happy. And I am. It's kind of simple. I don't do a lot of simple.

I came across this other picture of me from AWP. I have a story in the new Los Angeles Review. When I picked up my contributor's copies, the editor asked me for a picture. I will never look relaxed when asked that question. But I came across the picture today and it's not that bad. So I'm going to put it up here, not because I want to show off lots of pictures of myself, but because sometimes those shards of milliseconds are proof. (I hated it. I took it off. It's different proof, I guess.)

This is another story based on some things about my family. It's one I'll never show them. They won't want to see it. That's pretty much what it's about. I'm the truth-teller. I don't say that to brag. Things would be easier if I weren't. It's not about anything sinister. I sometimes state the obvious. And sometimes they don't want to deal with the obvious. Appearances count. Keep up the act. We are a perfect family. We are far from perfect. Especially me. I really do love them.

What else? I walked through a brief hailstorm today. I had an umbrella but the hard pellets bounced off the black tights that showed between the tops of my boots and the bottom of my skirt. I held out my hand and caught one. It was so little. Then it was gone.

forget it

2011-02-12T20:57:00.000-08:00

I slept all day. I woke up periodically, had a popsicle, a Diet Pepsi, an eggroll, saw that I had rolled onto my phone and was possibly texting someone, read a book, thought I should get out of bed because it is the most beautiful day I have ever seen out the window of my bedroom, and from the kitchen, too, where the food was.

So, I tipped. I don't know when. Probably after around 10 hours. I tipped from that point where sleep is restful and good, to that point where the next six hours of sleep make you sludgy and heavy, with thick thoughts. Not much is passing through. It is after 7:30 and I am going to a birthday party later. I can fake a certain amount of alertness. I like the people who will be there.

I like a lot of people. Sometimes I get caught up in thinking of those I don't. The reason I don't like people is usually because they don't like me. There's a person who doesn't and we share a lot of friends and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why I would even register in her mind as someone to like or not. A few have hinted there is some element of competition or jealousy, but I do not have anything she would want. She is prettier, more talented, younger. If she wants, I will open my books for auditing. This is it. The crown is yours. It was never in my reach.

I will never be on any "under 40" lists. I will never wear a size in the single digits. I will not have razor-sharp collarbones.

I will not have a huge book deal. I will never say the right thing.

My flaws are not adorable and do not approach gently.

I assume that people do not like me until they actively do. It's a leftover from childhood, birth, before. It's a stink that doesn't wear off. I know some consider me confident. Sometimes I am. But don't think I don't think about how to make you keep liking me. To be interesting. To not be a liability to you.

To not be forgettable. I have been forgotten. I have encouraged it. It still feels bad. I have a story like that. Where she knows he finds her interesting, and she is interested, but she knows he won't continue to find her interesting, so she pushes him away and feels bad. The anticipated conclusion keeps her from investing and she remains in the familiar state of aloneness. I'm not just talking about romantic relationships here. I have done this with friends, family. I extrapolate to ridiculous degrees. In order to not look ridiculous? I swear I am trying to figure it out.

There are ways of ensuring your solitude, some healthy, some not so great. I'm pretty good at both. The girl in the story creates her own conclusion and regrets it. She chooses sadness, thinking she's saving someone from disappointment. I feel so bad for her.

Back to the liking/not liking thing, assumption is not the same as knowing. I know the person I mentioned before doesn't like me. Perhaps not actively and, really, sometimes we don't know why we don't like certain people, though I have some indication that there is awareness on her part. I don't really know what my point is. The brain sludge. I guess maybe that I let it color my mood for the last week or so, had this awareness of being disliked. I wish I could say it was gone, it doesn't matter. I don't want to say I dislike her. I won't say it.

I do not know if this makes any sense. Muddy brain. But I'm going to hit "post" anyway. I have no idea why. Maybe just this second, I don't care if you like me. But probably not.

AWP: We All Have Big Butts

2011-02-09T00:10:00.000-08:00

It was and now it's not. This was going to be my NAMES-NAMED! post, but I think maybe it should be smaller this year. Know what? Screw it. I like my AWP wrap-ups. If you were there and we had any sort of pleasant interaction that lasted more than a few minutes, you might be in here. And I don't care if I'm in your wrap-up or you post on my wall in Facebook. I cared even a few minutes ago, but there are some things floating around like potential shrapnel or dandelion fluff, or, I'm hoping, nothing.

OK, so I started writing this on the plane home. Not the one from D.C. to Chicago, because I ran into Tim Jones-Yelvington, sans sequins, and we yakked all the way to Chicago. I swear I did not recognize him, even though I knew him prior to the sparkly era. Make no mistake, there is a writer and thinker under the costumes. They enhance his talent, rather than comprise. You'd better recognize. As for his dancing talents, all I can say is, once again, our dancing might lead to the birth of a shiny baby. That boy has thighs I'd kill for. And wrote a song to match. I would not mind wearing shiny jeggings with a maternity waistband to have Tim J-Y's baby.

Tim helped me dig through my bag for my boarding pass. I lost things the whole trip. My phone, about 438 times. Hotel key, 300 times. Coat, 12 times. Etcetera. My mind and footing are probably still lost. Yeah, I'm feeling a little adrift, but this is the names post! And it's happy!

OK, so for like six months, I have wanted a brown coat. Warm, no belt. I did not understand why every coat had a goddamn belt. Two nights before I left, I bought a camel-colored coat with ... yes, it has a belt! Sunday was my last day in D.C. A girl passed me on the street and told me it was beautiful. It is a cute coat, even though all but one of the buttons fell off. Sorry, belt, I judged too soon. (Warning: Unexpected morals. Ignore them. We don't all need belted coats.)

I worried about what people would think of me this year, my third. I thought a lot about the size of my butt. I emailed a friend about my fear and he told me that everyone likes big butts. I thought - that's not true. But he is a brilliant writer and exceptional human being, and he makes me believe things when he puts words together in ways I might sell Baby Becker-Jones-Yelvington to access. I would tell him again how big my butt is. He would explain again, with different words and I would want to believe again.

I stayed with one of my favorite people on earth, Erin Fitzgerald. I was going to link things, but I probably won't because (1) I forgot to take pictures; (2) I am very lazy; and (3) I'll probably put some in, but they were going to be a surprise and you ruined it! No, not really. But there won't be many. (There is only one.) Anyway, Erin and I discussed my big butt fear and how pretty much everyone has a big butt. Some writers' blog posts I saw before AWP made me wish I had 100 hands so I could hold theirs. We have the collective "big butt." We made BUTT the password on our hotel safe. We didn't forget it.

We stayed in the best hotel. It had the best awning. Seriously. It was orange (or is. I think it's still there) and says Hotel Madera in the best font I've ever seen. I want to say it's like 1950's modern, but that's probably wrong. I was going to put up a picture, but the only one I could find was on Creative Commons and people get so nitpicky about their photos of awnings. The thing that was even better than the awning font was when I walked in after a long trip from Oakland, and a lovely man offered me a GLASS OF WINE. No, he did not offer me a GLASS OF WINE. He offered me TWO GLASSES OF WINE. I love that man.

Soon after, Erin got there and we squealed and had wine! Then we went to have dinner with Amber Sparks. She is as great as you think, but has probably the worst sense of direction on earth. I thought I could claim that, but she got us lost on the way to the Malaysian restaurant (yum) that was three blocks from her work. It was cold. Wind chill sucks. Amber wore leopard print heels and looked fabulous. I wore my camel-colored coat and looked miserable.

Then she took us to a bar. It was a cave. Pretty much. It was in the basement of some building and was supposed to have karaoke and it didn't, but we had fun anyway. We were joined by Ryan Bradley, Seth Fischer (I think. I'm having a moment. I'm almost positive. He's really nice. If he wasn't there, he should have been), Sal Pane and Sal Pane's posse. If you invite him somewhere, make sure you have room for the posse. Anyway, Sal looks about 15 and a half. Like he should have his learner's permit and maybe be allowed to stay home by himself when his parents go away for the weekend. But he's really all grown up! And does things like teaching writing, leading a posse, and editing fiction for Corium Magazine! (Fine, I'll go back and link other things. I didn't.)

So, we all had drinks (a phrase said a lot at AWP. I was very moderate. Seriously.) Then Amber offered to walk Erin and me back. HA. So, yeah, we took a cab. It was nice. We stopped for some free cookies our hotel puts out every night (Oreos. I thought that was kind of weird. But they were good.) and then we stayed up until 6:30am talking without finishing. We still haven't. I know I broke a grammar rule there, writers. Deal with it.

The next morning, not so fondly referred to as "Three Hours Later," we learned from Facebook that the Book Fair was in full swing without us. The nerve.

Got there and saddled Ryan with our bags. He did not leave the table the whole time. Once, we got him a candy bar and a Coke. I think that was all he ate. He is really sour and crotchety with me because I'm like a sister to him, he says. I'd be his sister. I like the crotchety bastard.

I will admit, with little guilt, that I attended ZERO panels and ZERO big famous people readings. Screw Disneyland (which I hate anyways). The AWP Book Fair is the happiest place on earth. Thousands of writing geeks walked around the tremendous ballrooms, filled with representatives from journals and writing programs and presses, small and big. I saw friends from Camera Obscura, Weave, Artifice, and more that I will name later because there is context. CONTEXT! I handed out Corium magnets, which were quite a hit. Many people mentioned their refrigerators, where they would place their magnets. I liked that.

I get all glaze-y at the Book Fair and usually end up wandering by myself. I saw friends and met some wonderful people. I am a hugger. If I know you or met you and you were not hugged at least once, I am sorry. If you want, you will receive extras next year.

So, as all (three?) of my readers know, I do not use names or list other journals or writers' blogs here. This is because I will forget someone. Or I will say something stupid and you will cringe when people Google your name and find you here. Also, my blog is not all that writerly. That said, this is the famed NAMES NAMED blog post of 2011! I am aware that I already named some. I am preparing you for more. Also, if I miss your name and you're totally sure I like you, please leave a peeved comment. I deserve it.

This is a long post. You might want to pop one of those big bags of popcorn. Not the little tiny ones I have where you have to pop two to get, like, a mugful. Crap. It's 9pm and I need to eat some Multi-Grain Cheerios, feed the neighbor's cat, and do the dishes that have been in the sink since before AWP. Gross. I should start my name dropping. I'll try to give some context. It might not happen.

Wait! Speaking of mugs, check out this little gem I purchased from the Rumpus. Even though I sort of know Isaac and Stephen, they did not give me a local girl discount. I forgive them because look at this mug!! Isn't it the very best mug you've ever seen?!! I thought so. (And look! There's my blog post behind it!)

I really need to go to bed but I want to keep this part because I like it. I realized yesterday that my first story was published 2.5 years ago. I thought it was more. So, I went to the 2009 AWP and the very best thing that happened there was meeting Erin and Heather Fowler, both of whom are still excellent friends. I would say more, but I won't. Yay! Last year I had a severe case of laryngitis (I won't repeat last year's post. It's in here somewhere.) This year, there seemed to be more dramatic undercurrents. Probably because I know more people. I do not know that many people and it's nice to be reminded that maybe I do. Yeah, that was a weird sentence. I try not to delete. Most of those people had no yardstick against which to measure my big butt. They did not care. They had their own big butts.

MORE NAMES!!!! These are in addition to those already named. I really have to go to bed. Let's break it down.

People I have met in person and love/like/admire/worship/all of the those: Donna Vitucci, Beth Thomas, Ben Loory, Roxane Gay, Bonnie Zobell, Randall Brown, Matt Salesses, Justin Sirois, Christopher Newgent, Laura Davis, Chris Heavener, Amelia Gray, Dave Housely, ummmm, and more. There are, and I will think of them and give them their own post. I don't know some of these people very well, but they have been soundly hugged, and are therefore friends.

People I met this time with whom I spent more than a few moments and now love/like/admire/worship/all of the above: Scott Garson, Laura Ellen Scott, Nate Liederbach, Mitch Parker, Shane Osetski (I met him last year but it didn't count. Moderation happened on the second day of last year's AWP), Jen Michalski, Gabe Durham, Matty Byloos, and lots more. Probably the best moment of AWP (you know I'm a nerd, but seriously) was when Mary Miller (who is about the most awesome writer around) came up and said "Lauren Becker. I love you!" (She meant my work. Do I really have to tell you that?) And I was all, "Mary Miller, shut up!" And I honestly thought she was joking. Because I'm the most insecure person on earth. Then she told me she wasn't joking and grabbed my arm and told me we were going to get drinks! I am not kidding. It makes me really happy and really uncomfortable when someone tells me they like my writing. Especially if they're Mary Miller, because she's a superstar and really nice. She drinks Heineken. You should buy her one, should you meet her at a bar. Send me the bill. She says she will visit me or I should visit her in Austin. I've always wanted to go to Austin. I won't shriek her name anymore, but I'm pretty much wrapped in marshmallows and bubble wrap. And it makes me really want to write.

Wait, I almost forgot two! One is Mel Bosworth, to whom I said "Have we met?" Which we hadn't in person, but I totally know him. Mel, you cut your hair and took off the damn hat and you looked very nice. Keep it up! And Jensen Beach, who used to live in Oakland and we both had our I Hella (Heart) Oakland t-shirts and agreed to wear them on the last day and we did! And it was fun. Mel and Jensen are both excellent people.

What else? Oh, I read at the Wigleaf, DOGZPLOT, Sententia reading and it was pretty great, though Barry Graham didn't make it due to weather, and he is very fun and loves AWP. I will not list all of the readers because I did not meet and hug them all, but there were two who I didn't even hug who must be mentioned because they were really quite remarkable: Scott McClanahan and Robert Lopez. Scott is mesmerizing in the true sense of the word. He had us by the backs of our necks, our belt loops, our ankles and he did not let go. If you get the opportunity to see him perform -- because it is performance, not reading -- you should go. And Robert Lopez opened his mouth and said these words and my mouth dropped open and he left and I didn't get a chance to tell him how amazing he was, but I couldn't get my mouth back together anyway. I guess I read a few people later. I read a piece from DOGZPLOT and a piece from Wigleaf and a piece from someplace that wasn't a host, so I won't name it. And I was sort of a last minute fill-in and Ryan needed a bio immediately so I said say I am editor of Corium and I have really great hair. It's sort of my go-to joke, even though nobody else thinks it's really funny. Probably because my hair is not my most horrible feature, they think I'm serious. DO YOU KNOW ME?? HAVE YOU HUGGED ME?? I would never say something like that and mean it. And if I did, I think you should boo or throw things at me. Maybe I'll choose my elbows or something next time I'm under pressure, though those are pretty hot, too.

So, I did kind of a strange arrangement of stories, but this guy from a good journal (I don't drop these names) came up after and asked me to send him something. Some of my hair. Ha! No, I think he meant something I wrote. I'll clarify. Anyway, that totally blows my mind - people asking me to send things. I already went through my whole insecure, happy thing, which I swear is genuine. The first time I saw my name mentioned somewhere (not like there's been hundreds of mentions or anything), I pretty much hyperventilated. It made me really uncomfortable. But I want it. But I don't. I don't think I'll ever figure it out. Some people said they had heard of me. I didn't believe them, either. Maybe for Corium, because there are great people in Corium. Erin says this is one of my big butts. I could go on Weight Watchers and never lose that one.

This is taking me a really long time. I dropped names, yada yada, told you about reading, mmm hmmm. Oh yeah! Corium hosted a reading with Smokelong Quarterly and Prick of the Spindle and it was pretty damn awesome. Uh huh. I'm not going to say much more because I haven't done those dishes and its cold in my apartment and I couldn't find my other furry boot and I'm sitting here in one boot, a dress, and a corduroy coat. I think I saw it in Vogue or something.

What else? I picked up my contributor's copy of the Los Angeles Review and met the editor, Kelly Davio, who is delightful, even though she made me hold up an "I (HEART) L.A. REVIEW" sign and hold it like a criminal. But I do! I heart it.

There is lots more and I would tell it but I won't. The hardest part was saying goodbye to Erin. We talked about all kinds of stuff Sunday morning and she left at 11am and I didn't leave until 2pm. Leaving first is always best. Being left is hard. I went to lunch and had a crab cake sandwich. I love crab cakes. I lived in Delaware til I was 10 and my mom is from Maryland. The Beckers loves them some crab cakes. Amber could not come because it was Superbowl Sunday and she had an anti-Superbowl party or something to attend.

You know the part about how Tim and I were on the plane together. And then he left. And then I left and wrote most of this and then I was home. There's a sort of weird thing going on that's making me kind of jumpy, so I wrote this stupid post on Facebook pretty much calling it and AWP stupid because everyone was friending everyone and writing on walls, and, really, I think I was in a bad mood because I had to go to work, and for a few reasons, I didn't want to. So I posted crazy crap on Facebook!! Naturally. Anyways, I still think there are some not so fun things about AWP. And Facebook. They're both kind of popularity contests and I don't win those. I forget sometimes that I don't lose them, either. So, thanks (names above and names I forgot to include -- remind me!) for an interesting and mostly fun AWP. I'll probably see you in Chicago next year. If not, I'll be home, drinking from my Rumpus mug, writing like a motherfu ....

etcetera (aka lovely people I forgot to mention because my memory is another big butt): Michael Kimball, Jamie Iredell, Tara Laskowski, Steve Himmer, Jesus Angel Garcia (who I know by his real name and early drafts of badx3). There will be more. Ben Tanzer, Nicole Monaghan ...

there are lights

2011-02-06T02:13:00.000-08:00

It's 4:27 in D.C. It is 1:27 in Oakland. I'm in D.C., so I guess Oakland time doesn't matter all that much. Except it does. Because that's where I live. In Oakland, there is a traffic light I can see from my bed if I look from a certain angle. I watch it change when I can't sleep. Green. Yellow. Briefly red. Back. I know the angle.

Clearly, despite my expectation that I would not make it to D.C. for AWP, I am here. It is Sunday morning, and, at around 5:20pm, I will be on a plane for Chicago, and then one for Oakland. Things here are good. I saw friends, had a few people say some nice things about my writing and my journal, did a reading, co-hosted a reading. I did not sleep enough, eat regularly, or otherwise take care of myself. I lost my voice again. I talked too much in noisy bars. I talked too much everywhere. When I got here, some people said they were happy to hear my voice. I hoped the surgery would have solved this.

Wednesday was great. My flights were on time. When I got to the hotel, they handed me a glass of wine and showed me to a gorgeous room. Erin got there shortly after, we went to dinner with another friend, then to a bar to meet up with more friends before things got crazy. Erin and I talked about everything until 6:30am. We email and chat all the time. She lives far away. It's not the same.

Thursday was also great. Saw lots of friends and met new friends whose names will be named in the annual names-named post-AWP wrap-up post I will write after I get home. For now, I will say it was a great day. Friday, too.

Saturday was not a great day. I did not feel great when I got up. My roommate and I had brunch. Brunch was good. Nothing after that was, really. I had to go to bed. I slept until 4:30. The book fair was over at 5:30. I rushed over to say goodbye to friends and walk through the enormous rooms where people from all over who write and teach writing and love writing sit at tables and sell copies of journals and talk about their writing programs and you get the idea. I am sort of blathering, but I will try not to anymore.

This is a totally stupid post because some stuff happened that I cannot write in detail. Pretty much, some people were assy or inappropriate or disappointing, and I was tired and didn't feel that well, and then my friends sort of disappeared, and I sat and had a drink at a hotel bar and watched old professors hit on young writers to different degrees of success. And I felt ugly and lonely and stupid and homesick and irrelevant and forgotten. I took out my notebook and wrote some. I write best when I watch people in public and feel sad. Which is not to say it's good. I just wrote some.

Erin is sleeping. She will leave in the morning. My flight is later. I tried to change it. The lady at the airline could not hear me. When she did, she told me I would have to pay more than $200 extra to go home sooner. I can't. So I'm not.

Our hotel is really nice. We got a discount because I work for the government. They bring me tea and honey. They hail me taxis. They attend to my comfort. I like it here.

There are red lights here. Four days of chasing and evading spotlights. Home is quiet. I am alone too much. For good reasons and not. It is noisy here and somebody listened to me and I liked it. It was even real for awhile. Details. They were left out and I have to leave them out here. Intentions were good. I am not angry.

I'll go home in about 12 hours. I'll get home late and be very tired. I will go to work early in the morning and have too much to do. I have some friends there who don't love writing. I will take a half hour break for lunch, during which time I will microwave something that will sit on my desk where I can't find anything for three hours while I try to make some kind of order of work and life. Between, after here and before then, I will get in my own bed. It will be very quiet. I will turn my head and close my eyes on yellow.

reasons and places

2011-01-31T23:29:00.000-08:00

Some days are harder than others. Do you want sad/bad things first or second? I think it's good to end on a happier note -- things looking up and all. The bright side. We'll look there, but first, I am just going to not be happy and quippy and falsely upbeat. I like that other people do that on their blogs. Really. They probably are happy and truly upbeat. I can't do it right now.

First, I am fairly certain that my trip to D.C. for AWP (the writers conference) is going to be cancelled due to bad weather. I had plans. I was going to meet people I wanted to meet and see people I miss. I was going to co-host a reading. I was roping people into doing karaoke. I bought Super Shuttle tickets and reserved a hotel room and got a plane ticket. I arranged for my neighbor to take care of Noah. I changed my flight so that it would go through Denver instead of Chicago. I am talking in the past tense. You think I think it's not going to happen. You're right. I don't.

Second, I received a contributors' copy of a journal with my story. Someone else's bio is at the end. And it's not anyone's fault. Things like this happen. I really wanted to be at the end of my story. And I think it should not matter and I should not need that, and I wish I could laugh and I told myself to laugh. LAUGH. It's not important. But it kind of is, to me. And I can't laugh. Maybe I will tomorrow.

Third, in Oakland today, police had to evacuate an elementary school because someone falsely reported a gunman in the school. Who does that? Who makes parents fear that their children will be murdered? That someone lacks a conscience to that extent, that someone thought it was ok to make children accept their nightmares, to make their parents liars, to make them immune to comfort their parents cannot believe in -- not yet -- is terrifying to me. It makes me want to crawl into my closet, cover myself with dirty towels and sheets, and wait for something.

And here is the good thing. It is what I am waiting for after the fact. It is a woman named Darlene who doesn't know me, who heard me ask the security guards at work last Friday night if they thought I'd be ok walking to my car a few blocks away, where I had to park when I came in late, which I forgot to move into the lot when people started to leave. They said they thought I'd probably be fine. I was hoping for more certainty. I had been mostly joking. I got scared. Couldn't think straight scared. Looking through my purse for the pepper spray that wasn't there scared. Envisioning very bad things scared. I wanted one of them to walk me. Darlene was walking out. She told me she'd drive me to my car if I trusted her.

I trusted her. She drove me to my car. There were several men standing on the corner. It's not a good area. Darlene drove me right up to my car door, watched me get in and lock my doors, then went home to start her weekend. She's pretty much why I'm not buried in laundry.

The rest will fade. I'll be fine. I will always want to believe that people will not damage others, will take care, will make safety. Because I have to. But there will always be things needing to be washed in my closet. There will always be reasons and places to hide.

.

follow me, apes

2011-01-18T22:36:00.000-08:00

I have some new favorite words. One is spinster. In reference to me. I'm not so good at relationships and I'm older than I look. I always thought I'd be a mom. I think I'd be a pretty good one. Recently, I learned that I have a one in 26 chance of having a child with Down's Syndrome. I would love that kid like nobody's business. But I don't want to do it by myself and I don't know anyone I'd want to unmake my spinsterhood. So I remain.

Per: Wikipedia (the most reliable source of all time), the term "spinster" has its origin in medieval times, when spinning wool was one of the few ways unmarried women could earn a living. I don't even like spinning class; I buy my sweaters pre-spun. It's still an awesome word.

I like this one. In both The Taming of the Shrew and Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare advised that it was the fate of women who died unmarried to lead apes into hell. Screw you, Will. Some married ones lead apes to Safeway. Not all. I like men. Really. A lot. I don't think I'm an old maid. They seem kind of bitter.

Wikipedia is really a font of important information about spinsters and old maids. Unpopped popcorn kernels are sometimes referred to as "old maids," because, like unmarried women that don't have children, they do not "pop." To which I have to say -- those half popped ones are really good. I think Trader Joe's used to sell them, even. I think I'm sort of a half-popped spinster.

I shouldn't say this, but I have this cousin who we always thought was really weird. I was pretty sure he'd remain a guy spinster. He's getting married. I heard that the girl proposed to him, by way of a scavenger hunt involving clues about their relationship. I think she was afraid of spinsterhood. Or not. Maybe my cousin grew up to be an amazing guy. Reports indicate he might still be kind of weird. But who am I to say?

I'm having that septum surgery tomorrow. I am happy about it. Breathing sounds like a lot of fun. My non-boyfriend, J., is taking me and picking me up. My non-boyfriend, T., asks why J. is my non-boyfriend. My non-boyfriend, J., asks why T. is not my boyfriend. They are just not.

Wikipedia doesn't mention this, but spinsters can have guy friends. And even boyfriends and dates and stuff. Meanwhile, I'm taking the word back, giving Wikipedia the finger, and showing simians the sights in balmy Hades. Sign up now. My tour guide days might not last forever.

when he tries to sell me "product," i'll know

2011-01-13T05:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I wonder what my cat, Noah, does when I am not here. I was under the impression that he slept all day. I think I've figured it out.

He wakes me at around 4am to eat. More like 4:20. I know. Don't say it. I don't even have catnip around, but somehow he's got the munchies. For the sake of my staying on topic, which is a rare occurrence, let's just say the point is he wakes me up early. With a comb-out.

Noah is in beauty school.

This morning, I awoke to the somewhat soothing sensation of having my hair brushed. It was not a dream. Noah was raking his paws through my messy 'do, and I don't think it was for the sole purpose of eating.

He started making noise -- a lot of it. I don't know if you've noticed, but hair stylists/barbers/hair guys and girls - whatever you call them -- tend to be chatty. He might have been offering me a People magazine or telling me about his love life. He quieted down when I asked/told him to quiet down, which I've never told a stylist or whatever to do, though I have implied it. Pretty much always, they seem to intuit my mood and cease or significantly decrease their commentaries on the latest celebrity scandal or the thoughtfulness of their boyfriends/husbands. They always have thoughtful boyfriends/husbands.

I suspect that Noah is taking "Picking up Cues from Your Client" this semester. And that maybe his midterm exams are approaching.

I am reserving conclusions until I awaken wearing a smock and new highlights. But my hair looks pretty awesome this morning. And I know a lot about Miley Cyrus.

it's a list

2011-01-02T12:35:00.000-08:00

It is a list. Year end, year beginning, etc., etc. And yes, most people I know did theirs on December 31 or January 1, or even December 30, so I could be mad at myself for being late, but I'm trying not to do that.

Yeah, I don't believe in resolutions. Yeah, I'm making some anyway, based on observations about the last year and my entire life. Let's start with the obvious, the common, the most universal of resolutions:

Take Better Care of Myself

1. Eat healthier: Less refined sugar and flour, blah, blah. Fewer Diet Pepsis for breakfast. Oh, yeah -- I'm trying to make these realistic. Girl's gotta have a delicious, fizzy, did I say delicious? D.P. for breakfast every once in awhile. Like maybe twice a week.

2. Move a little bit more in a way that increases my heart rate and possibly makes muscle, not fat. Possibly join the gym in my building and go after work, even though I work in an area where it's not good to walk to one's car at night. Even though the parking lot is gated. And has security. It's not good to walk there or anywhere in the area during the day, either. I will be more fit and able to run faster when someone tries to mug me.

3. Sleep. Get more of it. Stop staying up all night shopping for things online. Have a bedtime. I'm thinking 10:30pm, with 11pm being acceptable, though perhaps on a limited (e.g. Diet Pepsi) basis. Do not power sleep on weekends to make up for not getting enough during the week.

Speaking of sleep, I did a lot of it yesterday and last night. (See restrictions on power sleeping.) I had nightmares. In one, there were two ways of doing something, one of which led to things being easier, but was not protocol. (For what? I don't remember.) I did the thing the way that made more sense, though I was pretty sure I would get in trouble for it. I also had a dream where there was some arrangement for me to meet four men. I remember one of them who was shallow, conventionally good-looking, rude, and boring. He said something mean about me. He died. I don't remember how. I did not go "Carrie" on his ass. It was not vengeful and I had nothing to do with it; it just happened. I might have even felt bad about it. One of the others died, too. It might have been the one I liked. I think this means stop getting involved with jerks. (i.e. Happy New Year, F. Don't fall off the mountain in Argentina. And stop calling me.) And maybe give a little more consideration to the nicer ones. Which is a good segue into ...

Be Nicer to Myself

4. Stop apologizing for stuff like asking friends for help. As related to: Stop thinking I am not entitled to ask friends for help. As related to: Stop thinking I am irritating people when I ask them for help. Apologizing for irritating them sometimes irritates them.

5. Stop befriending difficult, narcissistic, manipulative people. They sap me of energy I should use to accomplish the things in the previous section. I am stuck with some; I don't need more. As related to: Stop letting others take credit for my accomplishments. Rather than being resentful and complaining about it to friends (which may be the exception to number 4), don't ask these people not to take these things. Take them back. Don't apologize.

6. Stop letting external validation determine how I feel about my capabilities. This is mostly about writing. Example: Not being nominated for awards, not being asked to read at AWP, having the story I love rejected 20 times do not mean I am a bad writer. Conversely, having the story I love win a prize, receiving positive attention for things I have done (i.e. creating Corium and East Bay on the Brain, various readings), and having people say nice things about things I have written or my writing, in general, do not mean I am a good writer. I know, regardless of what other people say or think, that I wrote better this year than last. I think that this is one of the best things I have written. I am also good at readings, like this, in which I read a story that will appear in The Los Angeles Review soon. Which leads to ...

Write

7. More often.

8. Better.

9. Don't be paralyzed by solicitations from awesome places. Believe I'm good enough (See Number 6). As related to: Do not be lazy.

10. Don't play popularity contest. It sometimes is. I'm not going to win. As related to: Don't compare myself to others. I'm not going to win.

11. Be grateful for having wonderful writers as friends (including E.F., R.M., B.L., A.S., and more. If you think you might be on the list, you are. I promise).

Be grateful for other things that I forget sometimes because I am thinking of things that make me feel sad, angry, or helpless.

* I have a good job that I do well.

* I have a good family, especially my dad, shortcomings and all.

* I have a great cat, Noah.

* I have some amazing friends (including S.S., T.C., J.R., P.C.R. If you think you might be on the list, you are. I promise).

* I have a place to live, generally good health, enough to eat, a car, warm clothing, enough money to get by, nice eyes, good hearing, and am really good at Boggle.

Thanks for checking in sometimes. I'm sorry for saying I'm sorry. I won't tell you to leave. You know you can if you want.

Conclusion

I don't know whether 2011 will be great. I hope it is for you. I hope it is for me. Happy New Year to us.

under my skin

2010-12-28T00:24:00.000-08:00

The new issue of Corium went up today. I am very tired, as I did not realize when I started a journal that I would have to figure out how to make it not look like someone like me was putting it together. I am not good with technology. I became upset with HTML last night and shopped for sweaters for awhile.

I didn't buy anything. But the detour contributed to me getting around 42 minutes of sleep last night. I do not believe I am engaging in my usual beloved hyperbole, either. So, why am I still up at 11:47pm? I do not know. I am very self-aware. I am also not.

Anyway, the issue is wonderful. I will say it. I worked hard and these writers -- dammit, they're so good -- they gave me all this ridiculously good stuff to use and all I had to do was code it and match it with some artwork, and this took me a very long time. Though there were also emailing detours, a writing detour (I was inspired by a badass collaborative piece in the journal to do some time on this collaborative piece I'm doing with yet another fantastic writer. I am overly superlative today. Sorry. ), a laundry detour, and several hundred eating and drinking detours.

Though I was very tired, I did not want to sit in traffic after work. I decided to go to Ross. You must understand, I am an excellent shopper, and that is neither hyperbole nor superlative. It is truth. I learned from Mrs. Becker -- my mother. She always looks like a million bucks, and will tell you she got her shirt for $13.99, marked down from $2,134, etc. Among a few other things, I bought the perfect throw pillow for $14.99.

If you have not priced throw pillows lately, you may not know -- as I did not know -- that it is not uncommon for them to cost upwards of $100. Each. For real. So, I got this new couch and a new duvet and have been holding off on the pillow shopping. I got an awesome pillow for my bed tonight, as well, but I will save it for another day. Tonight, I will highlight this one, which did not have a "marked down from" price attached, but I would venture a guess that it would be in the $120 range. And I would have considered paying it. I'm ok with your being impressed. It is the best pillow EVER. See?

Well, I like it a lot, and it is perfect with my brown tweedy couch and the rust-ish colored rug. I could say more. I won't. You're welcome.

I'm going to bed. I might show you the other pillow tomorrow. It was $9.99. If you live nearby and need shopping assistance, or want to come visit for shopping assistance and/or just to hang out, I will be happy to help you decorate your living quarters and/or yourself for a fraction of what you would have paid retail. For real.

Read the issue. Admire the pillow. Go to bed. It's late.

yours and mine

2010-12-25T16:00:00.000-08:00

Today is Christmas, but you already know this. I'm not a huge fan of Christmas. It is boring and exclusive of those who do not celebrate.

I got an unexpected gift. A phone call that lasted four hours, which made me feel connected and whole and included in my life, which has felt somewhat distant lately. I spoke with my friend, Deborah. She is remarkable in ways I cannot get across in a blog post. I don't want to try.

I have known Deborah for 19 years. We go months without speaking. It doesn't matter the least bit. She is in for the long haul. I am in for the long haul. Her grace makes me feel graceful; her attention makes me feel valuable. I don't always feel these things.

I am messy in many ways. This is not entirely bad. While we were on the phone, I did dishes, put things away, cleaned out purses. The trash is full; it is ready to take down to the trashcans.

There is space to fill. The sink, the purses, my head. They will be messy again.

Happy holidays. Mine are.

to sleep, to dream

2010-12-22T21:17:00.000-08:00

I need to sleep. Now. Because I was at work today and I felt like I was on a boat. I do not work on a boat. If I did, I think I would work on a lobster boat, or whatever they're called, if they're called something special. I would catch lobsters. And eat them. On the boat or wherever. Probably elsewhere. So someone else can put them in the pot and melt me some butter.

breathing

2010-12-16T01:39:00.000-08:00

I am awake because I will not go to sleep and I don't know why that is. I do not have insomnia. I sleep when I go to bed. I just don't go to bed. One night, I stayed up all night looking at rugs online. I needed a rug, but not that much.

I get 1-5 hours of sleep per night, then I fall asleep early on Friday nights and sleep for a long time. I was going to try not to do that this week. I was going to take better care of myself. But I hurt my back -- I have no idea how -- and could not sleep the night before last, and last night I slept some, and tonight, my back feels better, but I looked at coats online and looked at Facebook and read and re-read this thing I wrote for a friend's project she is doing and became increasingly happy and very sad with it. I just read it again. I have to be at work in five hours.

You know how I always get sick? Well, maybe you don't know, but I get bronchitis a lot, and lost my voice three or four times last year, including the whole time I was at AWP. It's coming up again in less than two months and I lost my voice last week. I went to my doctor. She gave me antibiotics and a referral to an ENT. I disliked the ENT very much; he was condescending and careless. He stuck an endoscope up, then down my nose, without enough Novocaine. He didn't become more gentle, even when he discovered and commented with surprise on my extremely deviated septum.

I don't do things halfway. No minor obstruction for me. My septum is super messed up. Which explains why my entire respiratory system is out of whack. So I'll find a new ENT who will do some crazy stuff inside of my left nostril for about an hour, and then I will be able to breathe and talk.

I am relieved. I was worried I had lupus or some other problem with my immune system. I can't wait for a nice doctor to get in there and cut and push and scrape and whatever. And, no, I am not getting a nose job. People always guess I'm Irish or English (because I'm pretty white and have blue eyes and am tall, and most people think Jewish girls are short with darker skin and dark eyes), but I have a nice, bumpy, Jewish nose. Other things about my appearance have bothered me much more. Actually, I've never minded my nose at all. I've lived with it a long time. There's no reason to change it and more reason to keep it the same. I don't want to not recognize me.

To completely change the subject, or maybe not, because this is really about perspective, a wonderful writer I knew a little bit died last week. Her name was Cami Park and she shined. I won't say I wish I could write like her, but I think I really do. I published a poem of hers in the first issue of Corium, which came out last March. It was prescient, in a way, and very beautiful.

Eating Heart
Cami Park

Rare is best. Let it
hit fire, and it becomes tough,
ill-intentioned.

A still-beating heart
imparts an unrealistic optimism. Its
flavor will be strong, of blood
and salt.

The heart that lies like a stone
in your hand should not be used
for cooking—

Bury it in the farthest corner
of the yard. Place over it a large rock,
to protect the animals.

When you awaken with a pain
in your breast, you know your heart
is almost done. Serve with rosemary,
for remembrance.

the tree

2010-11-28T13:44:00.000-08:00

I have been sleeping all weekend because I am sick and I fear I am narcoleptic because I keep falling asleep in the middle of things. Like eating. And trying to watch this documentary called 24 Hours on Craigslist (because I don't have cable and I have to watch stuff on Hulu on my computer and that sounded ok) and I couldn't get past the credits. I think I know what 30 minutes on Craigslist is like. Somebody got a job, somebody got a boat, somebody had a casual encounter, and lots of people tried to find boyfriends and girlfriends and other ways of relating to people.

My post just got published because my computer is haunted, but I wasn't done yet. If you read my post, which you don't, and which is my point, you won't know what the title of the post means. Anyway, Dad ... ('cause you are the only one who reads my blog), I don't think anyone reads my blog. Which is ok. Really. So, for some reason, someone asked my 8 year-old niece the other night the question about whether there is a sound when a tree fall in the forest and there's nobody there. And she said emphatically, like we were stupid, yes.

She is super smart. Like a genius or something. So I'm going with her answer. She would probably say if nobody reads a blog, the words are still there. (And I know a few people -- in addition to my dad -- read my blog. I am making a point. I don't know what it is and I'll probably fall asleep and forget I wrote this.)

I might try to see what happens during lunchtime on Craigslist now. I'm pretty sure I'll never know.

days after

2010-11-26T06:35:00.000-08:00

It's the day after Thanksgiving. You are shopping. I hope you get some good deals. I hope you don't run into that crazy Target lady from the commercials. She scares me quite a bit. I would get out of her aisle.

My phone was lost, yes. Then it was stolen. Verizon wanted to charge me $530 to replace it. I ordered another on eBay for $354 (from a reliable seller. I'm not buying back my own phone or another stolen one that won't work). I don't like Verizon or the stupid, mean person who stole my phone.

So, that was my shopping. I mean, I am not a masochist and I don't celebrate Christmas, so I wouldn't have gone shopping regardless of my unanticipated phone expense. It's funny that you're shopping because it's 6:40am. I went to bed at, like, 9pm, had weird dreams, and woke up to edit this grad student's paper I'm a little overdue on. I thought I was awake, but I wouldn't mind going back to sleep.

My dream was about this woman who was my lifelong friend, but she wasn't anybody I know. There was a really dirty (like, disgusting) bathroom in the dream, and Michael Jackson. I kept waking up because everything felt off. I kept trying to figure out what this friendship was and how I knew this woman.

I'm sleepy still. I'm going back to bed. It feels sort of like New Year's Day to me and I felt like making some resolutions, but I think I'll just think them and maybe do some of them and talk about them another time.

I hope you find what you're looking for. For 80 or 90% off, maybe. Have one of those soft pretzels for me. Light salt. No mustard. Thanks.

close to over

2010-11-23T21:31:00.000-08:00

Today. Is it? Because it has not been kind. Let me tell you about my day.

I just got home. From Ikea. Ikea closes at 8. It is 9:30. It is a dreadful place. It swallowed my phone in a mouthful of duvets. Or jacked my phone while I examined rugs. It is big there in Ikea. My phone is in that big store, all alone, no charge, wondering why I am not there to curse at it and threaten to trade it in. Some guy said he'd look for it. I think he went and ate some Swedish meatballs.

That's how it ended. Thus far. Here are some more ways in which today has been mean.

When I arrived at work, I noticed that my passenger side mirror was dangling. It is not supposed to dangle. I stuck it back on the best I could. I'll probably have to pay money to get it fixed. I'm low on money, currently.

I got a flu shot. The good thing is I work for the govenment and they gave me one. For free! And the lady who gave me the shot did a really good job. But now it aches. And my throat is sore. Like, really sore. Like, I am going to be sick over the long weekend. I also didn't sleep much last night and am tired, sleepy, exhausted, and weary. And I have about 20 pages of a master's thesis to edit. And I have to be up by 5:30 at the latest tomorrow morning.

It is also very, very cold here. Oh, I just remembered I have more Ikea crap in my car! I am very excited to go back outside!

When I got home, my cat was not noisy. He is always noisy when it's past feeding time. Or it is feeding time. Or it's two hours before feeding time. I thought he was dead. Then he made some noise and I fed him and we both felt better.

I wrote a sad poem last night, but really this morning, and it made me cry. And my computer would not let me cut and paste so I was not able to send it to someone I know who tells me the truth and is an excellent writer and poet and person.

But I will send it. And Ikea will vomit my phone. And I'll tell my student client it's going to be another day before I get to her edits, and I'm going to get my crap out the car, bring it upstairs, eat some soup, and go to sleep.

Wait! One more thing! It's a totally good one. I got an e-mail from some Chinese company telling me some other company wants to register every domain name for Corium Magazine (you know, the journal I started and edit and love), other than www.coriummagazine.com (which is mine). Maxime, from said Chinese company, advised that this company who is registering the names with them could pretty much shake me down for money to get them not to do it. I think I LOL'd a little. I mustered.

All I can say is -- silly company. I don't have any money! Buy johngrisham.asia, oprah.cn, stevejobs.comcn, and anyone else rich.comhk, .comtw, .tw, .hk, .in. I run an online literary journal. I publish great writing and bleed a little bit of money for related expenses. Bring it, Sourse Brand Management Ltd. You don't even know how to spell Source or include a comma before Ltd.

And don't even bother trying to call. The best way to reach me is probably via e-mail. Send it to ikea@suckit.com.

for crying out loud

2010-11-22T19:22:00.000-08:00

I am writing again. I wrote part of a story, a poem (yes, a poem. I, Lauren, wrote a poem. I suspect the world will end soon), and am working on that collaborative piece I think I mentioned before. And I'm working on this other little thing someone asked for.

Speaking of, someone else asked for something. Something that would be huge for me. I don't think of these things and am unsure why people ask. I am a decent writer sometimes. I make an awesome bowl of cereal and generally pay my bills on time. I am going to start flossing regularly, beginning tonight. I am going to go to dance class or yoga tomorrow night. I am. For real.

I have a secret that won't be a secret when I tell you, which I will do now: Success scares the bejeezus out of me. I love it when someone likes something I do, but it makes me nervous. I guess I'm not accustomed to it. I want it and dread it. I used to think that kind of contradiction was a sign of insanity. Now I think there is nothing more sane. I don't think that was much of a secret.

Recently, I've been enjoying the phrase "for crying out loud." I am an old man. I am also partial to "holy moly." I don't know who that makes me. Someone on Leave it to Beaver, maybe.

whatever

2010-11-14T23:17:00.000-08:00

I won't bore you too much with the commonly known (and commonly ignored) observation that nobody who puts things on the internet should expect those things to be private. Even when entities, such as Facebook, offer privacy protections. Even when you restrict who can view your blog. Can you choose who reads your blog or Googles you and finds your stories, your work information, something anyone has said about you or someone with the same name? Those are rhetorical questions, not solicitations for answers.

If you put it out there, be prepared for it to be found. Some of it depends on who's looking. When I was job hunting, I was very careful with what I wrote here and how I wrote it. I work for the federal government. I'm still careful.

OK, I said the preceding because I have a point. You might know I often ramble before coming to one. Please note that now begins the portion of the post in which I make and explain my point(s) or provide some context or whatever:

I was talking on the phone with my dad the other day. He asked about my fall down the stairs (mentioned a few posts ago, I think). I hadn't told him or anyone who would have told him about it. I asked him if he reads my blog. He said something like he reads sometimes when he doesn't know what's going on with me, or because he wouldn't know what was going on with me otherwise.

This is totally valid and legitimate. I used to talk to and/or email my dad almost every day. My dad is probably the person I am closest to in the world. I have had some pretty major health issues. It has been hard for him. He worries about me. I wish he didn't and am glad he does.

Since I started my job in September, I have a lot of limitations and restrictions on my time and what I can do with it. And my cell phone doesn't work well at work, which makes it difficult to call or email privately. And,though they allow us to use office computers for personal emails, etc., during breaks and lunch, I am careful because they flat out tell you they can look at anything you write, sites you visit, etc.

Again, completely valid. But this means I don't get to talk to my dad as often. He sends me emails with the day of the week in the subject line. I sometimes don't get to Sunday until Tuesday. I should write back sooner. I should call. He should not have to look here -- where I post infrequently, and usually with irrelevant babble --for evidence that I'm doing ok.

There is someone else who checks my blog frequently, often reading many pages at a time. I don't pay for the tracking service, so I can't tell much, but I know this with virtual certainty. There's probably some way to block people. Why bother? He'll use another computer. He knows who he is. He knows, or should know, or at least NOW knows, that I don't like him. He is a friend of a friend who I met for coffee once. He made me very uncomfortable then, and does still. I would like for him to go away.

He won't. Because he doesn't have to. And I choose to keep this blog and use other social media, and I write and have work published and available online. And I'm glad people can find my work. And I would be a total idiot to believe that only awesome people with the best of intentions know stuff about me. So, whatever, guy I don't like.

To the rest of you: Thanks for reading.

To my dad: Everything is good. I'll call you tomorrow. You are the best. I hope lots of people read this part.

did you call me on the phone?

2010-11-03T19:54:00.000-07:00

If I could have some wishes, I wouldn't wish for more. I don't think it's selfish or anything. You can wish for whatever you want in hypotheticals about wishing. I think I might want four or five instead of three, though. Three is arbitrary, two feels awkward and one is a Sophie's Choice. I'm not telling. Get your own.

So, I live in an old apartment building that has louvered windows with no screens. It's cute but bugs get in sometimes. But not fruit flies, I don't think. I think you get fruit flies when you don't wash your dishes every day, which I don't. I know that makes me sound like my kitchen is gross, but it's not. I don't have a dishwasher or garbage disposal. I had a dishwasher and garbage disposal for a long time.

Anyway, if you get fruit flies I will not judge you. AND I will tell you what to do about them because Google is my life.

Put some fruit in a glass bowl. I only had grapefruit and grapes, so I used the grapes because grapefruit can be an acquired taste. Put a few drops of dishwashing soap in. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, poke a few holes in it with a fork. The flies will fly in but they won't know how to get out and I guess the dishwashing soap isn't that good for them and probably isn't tasty at all. Then they will fall asleep and not wake up. Don't tell me otherwise. Lalalalalalalalalalalala.

I fell down some stairs today. I'm ok. Don't worry. I also bumped my knee on a desk and it hurt like a sonofabeeyotch. And my neighbor -- this really nice older lady --gave me the nicest compliment. I can't tell you because I'm shy. I adopt new mothers all the time.

I started writing a story with someone awhile back and neither of us has been good about doing our parts. I started writing a story with someone else yesterday or maybe the day before and I wrote some and haven't heard back. My first instinct is to think that the person thinks it is very, very bad. But I think the person might be busy. I sort of like it. I want to read it at this reading I'm doing. The person lives across the country and I think it would be cool to have a big TV or computer at the reading and have the person read the part the person wrote. I don't know why I'm avoiding pronouns. She is a way good writer and a way different writer and it's sort of disjointed and weird. And I think I like it. And wouldn't that be cool if she read the part she wrote? If she doesn't think the piece is very bad?

Someone just called me. I didn't know the number so I didn't answer. If they don't leave a voicemail, I will wonder for at least three days who it was. If it was you, please tell me.

Either they're leaving a really long message or none at all. I kind of wish it was neither.

list of today

2010-11-01T17:59:00.001-07:00

Today was good. I'm not going to worry about the evil eye. It was just good. Here are some of the reasons why:

1. You know that story I mention a lot? The one I sort of love and haven't been able to place? I revised it quite a bit and submitted it to a contest. Today I found out I won second place. The contest was put on by PANK Magazine, a journal that has been very good to me and that I admire a lot. The prizes are publication in its next beautiful print issue, and $150. I like prize money, but I am most happy that someone loved the story like I do. Set aside some money and order one when it comes out. PANK does things right.

2. I have gotten some amazing work for Corium. I don't know how. People seem to like it. Can girls be emperors? Because it's feeling drafty. I sell myself short. I sell myself short. I am not a ridiculously bad writer. And I'm not a bad editor just because I have no idea how to work my website. And just because I haven't washed my car for three years doesn't mean I'm a bad driver. I am, but not because my car is dirty.

3. Is there a 3? I don't remember. My friend wrote this story I love very much. You should read it. Seriously. Right now. Go ahead. I'll wait.

4. It was the most beautiful day I have ever seen in my entire life. I also love hyperbole. But it was frickin' gorgeous. You should have been here. It would have made you feel beautiful.

dude, i'm here

2010-10-24T02:21:00.000-07:00

A comment to my last posting: "dude, where'd you go?"

I'm here.

I am taking a break. It's an experiment. It hasn't really kicked in yet. It's designed to make me write. It's designed to make me not care so much about what other people think.

I deactivated my Facebook account. You can go back anytime. I'll show up as your friend again when I do. Meanwhile, Facebook lets people think you've defriended them. I wonder who thinks that. I wonder who thinks I'm a bitch. I wonder who wonders what they've done to make me disappear.

I've heard from only two people about my evaporation. One is a writer I don't know well, but like. We both have insomnia and she went to post something to me about a rough night and I wasn't there. We had a nice e-mail exchange we might not otherwise have had. A benefit of my break.

The other was from a friend. He loved me in a different way than I loved him. I tried. I couldn't. I love him just the same, but we haven't been in touch in awhile. He thought I defriended him personally. He told me a lot of things. He is engaged to someone. He still thinks of me. I am sorry. I wish I could be what people need or want me to be. I wish, a lot for his fiancee, but also for him and for me, that he didn't think of me. Not like that. I admire his honesty. He is honest about his feelings. Not many are that brave.

I didn't know he followed me on Facebook. He never said. I never thought about who might be following who never said. You can't follow everyone when you accumulate 600 friends, about 550 of whom you've never met. I've met great people through writing and further on Facebook. I don't miss it. I only regret that people might think I chose to leave them.

So, what have I been up to? I bought a sofa. I bought it at this place called Build A Sofa or something like that. I felt like I should have worn overalls and brought a hammer. Really, you just get to customize the sofa you will pay a lot for and receive in 4-6 weeks. It's going to look really good, I think. I'll post a picture.

I have been working and it's good and frustrating and a lot of other things, but mostly it's pretty good. I still have other work and am overextended. I am trying to find my way out of that. I am not like my friend who does a million things. Exceptionally well, too. We don't talk so much anymore. I think she's great. I think she knows I think she's great.

I am finally putting some of my stories together. Like in a collection sort of thing. Maybe for a contest. I don't know. That's not true. I know.

I hung out with my sister today. We are re-finding each other. We are very different from when we came apart. We had lunch and went shopping. We talked to each other and we listened. I think that might have been new for us. I had a really excellent chicken sandwich.

She is more religious than I am. I'm more of a cultural Jew. She has kids and that seems to make a difference. She is in a study group with some other Jewish women. It sounds interesting, but not like something I'd ever do.

She told me about something she learned in her studies that I liked. There is a prayer to be said upon waking. Its essence is gratitude that one's soul is present for another day. I don't know if that's a totally accurate description. I could look it up, but she said she would send it to me and I want to wait.

Maybe she'll send it to me tomorrow morning. Maybe it will be here when I wake up.

Maybe I'll say it either way.

context

2010-10-17T20:20:00.000-07:00

I don't really know what to say anymore. I am uncomfortable being too personal. I am dissatisfied with being impersonal. I don't want to complain. I don't want to throw stuff out there without context. I seem to be extra-protective of my context of late. I guess I've gotta roll with it.

But I don't want to stop because I like it here. I think I'll try to resolve whatever this all is. And I need to do my job. And pay bills. And wash my dishes. And get some furniture. Stuff like that. And I haven't been good about doing those necessary things and doing the things I need to do. I need to write. So much. I need to write.

So, that's what I'm going to do for now. But I'll be around. Maybe you could check in once in awhile. Once in awhile, I might have something to say.

time

2010-10-07T22:44:00.000-07:00

I guess it's been awhile between posts. No details necessary but I was feeling too much looked at. It was uncomfortable. But it's my house and I'll live in it. You can't stop people from looking at you. Or certain people. Even if you stay in your own house all the time. It is not that kind of world. People will think things you want other people to think. It doesn't matter. Live in your house.

OK, back to the usual Gray Sheep tmi. I am pretty much out of stories. Which is nice, maybe, because it means I had good luck with the ones I had. But I don't have anymore. I have starts and stops. Torn out paper in purses and pockets. I can't read the scraps. Or I don't know what they mean. Or meant. But there are things to work on.

A very nice person read one of my stories and wrote a very nice blog post about it. She has a very nice blog that you should look at, not just because of her very nice post. Thanks again, Melanie!

I need to go to work. There is a sign-in sheet and you have to sign in and out when you come and go. There is a clock above the sign-in sheet and you have to write that time down. It makes me laugh a little sometimes.

I probably have more to say, but the clock is waiting ...

hi pg&e!

2010-09-27T19:26:00.001-07:00

I guess people at PG&E (Pacific Gas & Electric -- my friends from the last post ...) Google their fine employer. I had a nice online visit from them. And I didn't even have to stay home all day!

Dear PG&E:

Thank you for sending the very nice guy who lit the pilot on my heater. It will come in handy when it's not 92 degrees.

Love,

Lauren

to pg&e, with affection

2010-09-24T18:37:00.001-07:00

I wrote this thing that might be a poem. Some of my poet friends called it a poem. I guess it doesn't matter. Pigeons and eagles fly. If you're dying, you'll end up dead. It is about beauty and un-beauty. Neither matters. Someone else makes the decision.

That sounds cynical. I shouldn't sound cynical. I'm really not. I wish I were. Just a little. When people were disappointing, I would just say I knew that was going to happen and get on with it. I should have thought that about someone I thought was a friend who is a self-involved user. I grew to sort of know that but did a lot for him anyway. I found out it goes beyond what I thought. Consolation: He uses everyone. Sadness: He uses everyone.

Someone from the gas company is coming to light the pilot light on my ancient heater. They will be here between 7am and 5pm, though I am, indeed, cynical. Maybe it's good to be trapped in my place. There are lots of things to do here. Unpacking, cleaning, reading submissions and putting the issue together, and writing. I think I'll put that one first. It's been last for a long time. If I write something, I will dedicate it to PG&E.

no refunds

2010-09-19T02:37:00.000-07:00

My friend took me out tonight for my birthday. We have established a tradition of writing postcards to each other on coasters, because we met at a bar that had postcard coasters. You may know that I love postcards, maybe because I haven't been anywhere in awhile, but I think it's mostly because it means someone thought to buy the card and a stamp and to find a pen and write something on the card with the pen and send it to you. It's important in ways you do not know.

A guy who was sort of offensively boring or boringly offensive talked to us. He was relentless. Or clueless. Or focused. I don't know. I excused myself for a few moments to hear some quiet. Another guy talked to me. I told him about the other guy. I felt guilty for being mean. I said I was mean. He agreed and added that I was shallow. He proceeded to try to get me to go home with him.

The movie "Magnolia" is one of my favorites for a lot of reasons, the most surprising of which (to me) was an excellent performance by Tom Cruise. His character was a slimy infomercial guy who led seminars purporting to teach men how to succeed with women. One of his tactics was to hone in on womens' insecurities, then offer reassurance.

The guy tonight paid his money for the seminar. He bought the book, the cds, the t-shirt. He chose the wrong weakness. Or hoped to find commonality. He was mean. He was shallow. It wouldn't have happened anyway, but he most certainly went home without my company.

I thought about what he said for a minute, though. I dislike us both for that.

september

2010-09-11T01:07:00.000-07:00

September is my favorite month. I was born in September, a new year begins with Rosh Hashana, school starts, leaves turn orange and red and brown and crunchy. It's sweaters and boots weather. Changes, newness. It's a weighty month in some ways. Endings accompany the newness. I get a little sad sometimes. It is appropriate to feel sad with loss, I think.

I got a new job today. A real job that I'll go to Monday through Friday, regular hours, regular paycheck, benefits. I will have structure and focus. I will be able to write. I know it is one of the changes coming.

I saw a friend tonight and met a new one. They wanted to make plans for my birthday, and we picked a date to get some people together to celebrate. I wasn't planning on celebrating. I feel lighter. I am humbled and grateful. My fortune is small, but it's mine.

just in case

2010-09-06T22:40:00.000-07:00

I had a lot of things to do today. I have barely moved from this spot. I would like a nice surprise. Just a little one would be great.

My fortune cookie fortune said I will go through many changes before settling happily. I don't usually let baked goods determine my mood. That's not true. They usually make me happy. This one concerned me. I have gone through many changes. I am very interested in settling happily.

I'm not ordering from that place anymore.

letting loose the dogs

2010-08-24T01:32:00.000-07:00

She is beautiful. She is drunk. She calls herself a failure. When she fell off her stool, legs splayed, she said it was ok, because she looked good doing it. She told me she wants to be a social worker. She used to paint and write. She lives with an abusive man who pays for everything. She will not leave. She wore a sexy black dress and drank PBR and he would not answer the phone or let her come home.

I did not want to go home for my own reasons, and went to the bar where I met her. I ordered a Diet Coke. I am not beautiful. I am not ugly. She told me she's a 7 or 8. If she's a 7, I'm a 4 on a good day. She is beautiful. Always. She makes me glad I am not.

She told me how kids used to pay her to draw horses for them, how she recently made a beautiful mosaic, how she loves to read. She said she can't, she can't, she can't.

She is 26. She thinks she can't. She calls herself a failure. She says she is stupid. She knows she is not. She can. It is easier not.

She is a puppy. I take care of the puppies. They know this and find me. They are cute and sweet, and they need me. They do not take care in return. I can't do it anymore. She won't do what is good for her. I won't do what is not. It's not my job to listen, to prop, to encourage, to stroke. Not at my own expense. She is accustomed to letting people take care. I am accustomed to taking care. She needs to stop. So do I.

I am not beautiful. I have never been more happy about this than tonight.

what was your best thing?

2010-08-19T17:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes people are nice when you need it most. I have been moving this week and it's been challenging. Some glitches. I'm ok, but I could stand a break.

The best thing about my new place is I can walk to a lot of places. Today, I was walking to my favorite coffee place. It's probably not my favorite anymore because it is enforcing it's wifi policy which is (1) it costs $1, and (2) you only get one hour. They never enforced the one hour part and I don't know why they're doing it now. There are about four other coffee places with free wifi within two blocks. In fact, there's a Starbucks across the street and I was able to get on their wifi. There's another nice place down the block. I'll go there soon.

Yeah, I digressed. Anyways, I was walking there and saw this older gentleman, dressed nicely, but quite clearly down on his luck. People ignored him. I smiled. He told me I was beautiful. I thanked him. We wished each other a nice day. It made me feel better about things.

When I walked home, he was still there. He stopped me and introduced himself. I gave him my hand to shake and he kissed it. It was sweet. He asked me out on a date. I declined, but we will be friends.

I sometimes ask my friends what was the best thing that happened to them that day. I asked one friend yesterday and he couldn't think of anything. Another said that it was waking up. That was a pretty good one.

He is a bartender at the bar where I hold my reading series. One of the owners came outside while I was checking my email. I received another rejection on a story of mine that I love. I really do. Maybe I'm wrong because this is around rejection 16 or so. Anyway, when I came back in and ordered a drink, he said it was on him. That was a nice thing to happen. Then he told me the dj coming in later is number 600 on the kidney transplant list and is going to die. He said he was trying to give me perspective. He was not being mean. I started crying and told him I would give the dj a kidney.

I don't know the dj and am unlikely to give him my kidney, but I want to be a person who would seriously consider giving someone a kidney. I think that would be a pretty spectacular thing to do.

Circling back around to another point, the bar owner was not trying to be mean about perspective. But I wanted just a minute or two to feel a little bad about the rejection. And he kind of let me have one and he gave me a drink, but he also told me a terrible thing that made me cry.

I don't remember the best thing that happened to me yesterday. Maybe it was crying for a man I don't know who will die because of his bad kidneys. My best thing today was that it's very sunny and warm and a man who I don't know told me I was beautiful. I want to wrap that up all nicely, but I can't. It's just me trying to build a little pile -- a tiny archive of evidence that people can care about each other unselfishly. It sounds kind of stupid and naive. I should know better by now. But I need that little slope. That's all.

on pie

2010-08-14T19:25:00.000-07:00

I am moving on Monday, and I have some time-sensitive work due, and there's a party and some very cool readings I would like to go to tonight.

But, a friend told me in an email that he made some cherry cobbler. Which is pretty much pie. And I said I'm not that into pie. To which he demanded, Explain why you do not like pie. I did. (Please note that I am a lazy emailer, and do not capitalize. I didn't want to go through and capitalize for the sake of a blog post, as I usually do, so please deal.)

why i do not like pie, by lauren becker

i do not like pie for a number of reasons. first, it involves the adulteration of fruit by encompassing it with a sticky, jelly-like substance. i prefer my fruit unadulterated. the sticky jelly-like stuff is also too sweet.

second, i don't really like crust. it is compacted and hard.

third, pie is a dessert. i try to eat desserts only when they include chocolate. chocolate cream pie doesn't really count, because it is basically a crust filled with chocolate mousse. i can live without chocolate mousse. i like my chocolate with less air.

fourth, pie is not cake. cake is delicious. it is fluffy and has frosting. i also enjoy cupcakes (for the aforementioned reasons. and for their adorable, self-contained goodness).

pie is also not cookies, muffins, scones, or other fluffy baked goods made mostly of non-sticky fruity stuff. as far as fruity pastries go, if you ever have the chance to sample hamentaschen (a triangular cookie associated with the jewish holiday, purim, which you may find with various fillings, including apricot, prune, and cherry), i highly recommend that you do so. my favorite kind is not fruity -- it is poppyseed --but the apricot ones are good. hamentaschen are excellent. when they are excellent. they can suck. even cake can suck, if done wrong.

that said, i do enjoy a sliver of pumpkin or sweet potato pie at thanksgiving.

the end.

Then my friend wrote another email that did not reference the pie essay at all and I asked how that could be, and he said I don't know how I failed to respond on the pie essay, because it was amazing. Strong, well-researched points. You should blog post it. I think people will appreciate the randomness.

the biggest salad

2010-08-12T17:09:00.000-07:00

I slept last night. For 12 hours. It was glorious. I usually sleep 3-4 hours/night. That is not glorious. It makes me cranky and stupid. I am going to try to go to bed early again tonight. I hope there is glory again.

The other night I dreamt that I woke up and there was a man on top of me who was going to hurt me. I have had this dream before. This was different. I thought in the dream that, though I had dreamt of the situation before, this time was not a dream. It was real and I had to figure out what to do. I don't know what happened after that, but there was no man. Dreams are pretty fascinating -- their purposes and meanings. Wish fulfillment; manifestations of fear, anxiety, other feelings we tend to avoid when awake; problem-solving. I think it's because I live alone and because I've been kind of stressed or scared or both lately. Anyway, I slept like a rock last night. Rocks don't dream. It was so great.

I have a lot of work. I work for a magazine, I consult on a big healthcare project, I do academic editing. I'd still like a full-time J.O.B. with benefits and all that. I'd like a desk that's not at my house. I'd like there to be some coffee and nice people. I'd like to wear my work clothes. I have some really nice work clothes. I would like a regular paycheck and regular work hours. But what I've got is ok, too. It's better than the not working and no money thing I was doing for a good while there. I need to buy a new sofa and I told my friend that it would be solid gold, you know, because of all the money. It will really be fabric because solid gold would be uncomfortable.

I have a lot of stuff to do. Social stuff. I made a new friend yesterday who I liked a lot. She is a writer and editor I met online. She doesn't live here, but she is moving to San Francisco next spring. She had never been to Berkeley so I took her to the place that makes the biggest salads in the world and to Telegraph Avenue, where we were hit up for money about every three feet. She looks very nice and innocent, and I sort of do. One guy had arranged his pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters in the shape of a sun and asked us to contribute to his sunshine. You might think this would have charmed me, but it didn't. I would have been more likely to give him money if he didn't act like he was doing something. Like buskers -- I'll sometimes give them money. But they're doing something. I think probably the college girls fall for that sunshine crap.

There's a lot going on. I should be packing. And working. And figuring out how to use my new phone so I stop hanging up on people. Or I could be writing, except I don't really do that anymore. I can't, is more how it is. I think after I move, my head will clear out a little and maybe some stuff will come out of it.

I'm doing that thing you do before you move where you try to eat the food you have instead of buying new food that you'll either throw out or have to take with you. But I don't like anything I have. I feel resentful toward my unwanted food. Instead of buying a solid gold sofa, I might go out and get myself some food that doesn't irritate me. Now I feel guilty. To atone, I should go give that guy some dimes and quarters for his damn sunshine. And get a salad from the place that makes the biggest salads on earth. I suck.

i'm moving! it sucks!!

2010-08-11T00:16:00.000-07:00

I do not believe I have ever met anyone who enjoys moving. If I ever do, I am quite sure I will dislike them. I'm talking about the moving part, not arriving at the destination. The being finished part is fine -- even unpacking --but the finding a place to live, the packing, the dealing with the new landlady and departing tenant, trying to find movers, on top of still looking for a full-time job, some other personal stuff we don't need to get into, mostly because it's boring and irritating, AND having a new phone I need to figure out, (it's a Droid Incredible. I think I might like it when I learn what things are), I am maybe just a little tiny bit losing it.

Some things that would make me feel better: a huge jacuzzi tub with lavender bubble bath; a cold Diet Pepsi with fresh lemon, no ice; some knowledge of how to use my phone; a 1.5 hour massage from this amazing massage therapist I can't afford; a pack of Hostess chocolate cupcakes; a postcard; a story acceptance; some help moving and with my life, in general; hugs and funny songs from my nieces; another pair of new boots (I'm obsessed); for a few people to not be mad at me; some time to see friends without worrying about wasting time; sleep; more sleep; one real job instead of all these little ones (for which I am grateful. Please don't punish me, universe.); to be able to write something other than this ridiculousness; and the ability to eat carbs without them immediately attaching to my hips. Or any other part of me. The universe isn't going to trick me on that one.

In my bargaining with the universe, I am finding that my legal skills come in handy. Or that I'm a deluded OCD freak who is bargaining with a non-existent or uninterested entity. But, really, it never hurts to cover one's bases.

Damn carbs.

nothing i can do

2010-08-06T00:19:00.000-07:00

I wrote this story called "There Was Nothing We Could Do." It's kind of weird for me, but maybe not.

The title comes from the last line of a story by Charles Bukowski, who is far from being my favorite writer. I tried reading "Women" and gave up after 60 pages. I kept waiting for it to move, to get better, but finally came to terms with the fact that it would continue to be about a drunk, ugly, old writer (i.e., himself) sleeping with, trying to sleep with, or reminiscing about sleeping with various women. There was a lot of vomit and rumination on womens' body parts. The title approaches true irony. He never quite put all those parts together to make a whole woman. The book was tiresome and repetitive and I kind of hated him for being so lazy as to barely fictionalize his own life, and for being such an ass that he didn't realize he was such an ass. Or didn't care, which could be worse. I don't know. I didn't research this. I could be totally wrong.

Anyway, I forgive him, because he wrote an amazing sentence that came at the end of a mediocre story called "The Most Beautiful Woman in Town." Surprisingly, the narrator is a drunk, ugly guy. Sorry, I just re-read the story to make sure it was truly mediocre and it is. It is even terrible at points. This is my opinion. Not literary criticism or anything. If you love Bukowski, cool. I'm not telling you to stop. My point (well-hidden, as they often are) is that this sentence makes me love him, too. It's that good.

"The night kept coming and there was nothing I could do."

It is sensory, primal. It is feeling more than logic: It is both. It clings. It will not leave me. It might be my favorite sentence ever. It is simple and true and fatalistic and universal and resigned and hopeful and close to unbearable. There are things we cannot stop or change. They will always come. We can always try. They will always leave. These things are so much bigger. Nature. Human nature. Self-destruction. Self-preservation. Love. Death. Sometimes you have to lie down and let them run over you. Fighting will only get you banged up worse. Sometimes you have to fight anyways. Human nature and all.

Bukowski wasted that sentence. It should have had its own story. It is its own story.

I think maybe it's the only one.

or maybe the swings ...

2010-08-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have a story here.

I don't really know what else to say. I still want a bay window. I'm doing readings tonight and Wednesday. I dislike apartment hunting very much. I have a recurring dream where I don't show up for something important. Maybe it's not just a dream.

I like little kids' jokes. I don't usually remember them but I remember this one.

Q: Why did the chicken cross the playground?

A: To get to the other slide.

I guess that's more of a riddle than a joke.

Meet me on the playground. I'm ready for a change. I'm headed for the other slide.

most

2010-07-27T01:28:00.000-07:00

I need to move. I need a lot of things.

I mostly want a bay window. With a window seat where I can read with Noah. I mostly want a lot of things.

I recently got a lot of work. It's good. I'm tired.

Someone told me to write about it. There's not that much to say.

it's always there

2010-07-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

I have friends. Real ones. People I love or like or want to get to know better. I have them.

I wait for them to leave. Some do. I am careless and they leave. I am selfish and they leave. I am negligent and they leave. I am needy and they leave. I push them and they leave.

Do they know that I look for them, for clues of them, for evidence that they know or knew that I wanted to be more for them? Do they know that I wanted them to stay?

I used to make friends with difficult people. I was the one to leave. I didn't say why. Didn't, couldn't tell them why. I once lost three friends in alarming succession. During a particularly difficult time when I needed friends most. I thought I lost them by slipping away. I might have made them make me slip away.

I forgot to get one a Christmas present. She tore me apart in a restaurant, reminding me of everything I did to be a bad friend. I tore myself apart outside. There is evidence I should not keep.

I don't always have the best memory. There are some reasons for this that are not my fault. It is still a failure to me. I tell them. I don't blame them for leaving. People want to be remembered. I want to be remembered. I don't know if I am. I don't know if there is forgiveness.

Another friend I left was anorexic. I could not hear her tell me she used to be anorexic, while she existed on coffee and occasional bites of chocolate. We lived in a place where she was admired for her thinness. She ran long distances without sustenance. I could not bear the damage she did to herself, the lies she believed, the inevitable resignation of her body. I left.

One was competitive and sometimes mean. I might have been her only friend. She called and called. She forced herself into my apartment one night. We had been friends for around six months. Something might have happened to make me disappear. I remember telling her we did not have enough history.

One criticized when I needed comfort. She told me everything I did and said wrong. Critiqued. She marked my faults in Sharpie ink. She was not all wrong. She was a dangerous friend. She used something I told her in confidence to damage a real friend. I chose badly.

Others I wanted to stay. Some I don't ever see; some I've never even met in person. Other writers I know through online communities. They slip away when I can't keep up. I should be able to keep up. I wish I could keep up. I wish they knew that I try. I understand why they don't. Maybe they do. Maybe they can't watch me collapse when I try to run long distances.

I find myself with more male friends than women. I think they notice less. I know some good men. My friend I had dinner with last week, who I hadn't seen in seven months, though he lives quite near and we like hanging out. My friend I stayed with in Orange County. We talk infrequently. He has been around long enough that I don't think he will leave. He finally has a girlfriend who is worthy of him. I love her for that. I love him and he knows that. I love many of the ones who leave.

I don't think I befriend difficult people so much anymore. There are interesting, intelligent, enjoyable people I want to know. I entertain. I do tricks to make them stay, to distract from the things that will make them leave. I try to give them things that they deserve: time, admiration, things I have if I have them, attention. I am unfocused and easily overwhelmed. Emails go unanswered. Phone calls unreturned. Sometimes the emails stop. The phone does not ring.

I get emails and phone calls from new friends. And old friends. Friends I know will stay. Amazing people who are always there, even when I don't keep up, when I don't deserve them, when we don't speak for a year.

One of my favorite things is to see the moon in daytime. A reminder for when it's gone.

they like me now?

2010-07-15T23:45:00.001-07:00

Some truths:

That video in my last post? Most commonly viewed by males, ages 13-17. Better late than never.

That picture I have up on the left side with my profile? I had my hair cut and blown dry that day. Nikki did a nice job. I don't really look so much like that.

I met the nicest man on the plane. He writes and arranges music, and sings. He was nominated for a Grammy once. I practiced my Spanish with him. He offered to teach me to play guitar, which I would like very much. It's not like that. There are good people out there.

I am probably going to make a mistake on Saturday. I usually do.

Went to Fairyland with my sister and nieces the other day. Even the four year-old thought it sucked. The best part was the song they made up about me. I don't remember it, but it was really good.

I'm in Laguna Beach, the very best place in Orange County. Don't believe MTV. OK, believe some of it, but know that it is beautiful, and that some really good people live here. Like my friends I'm staying with, who just did crazy things with their bodies because they do a lot of yoga. I am inspired to do a lot of yoga.

I fit a lot of things in my small travel bag, which is now known as the clown car.

The air mattress looks good. I think maybe I'll sleep some tonight.

i think this might not suck

2010-07-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

I did this reading the other night. I don't hate the video, as I usually do, so I'll post the link. You don't have to watch it or say anything nice. This time, i think it's enough that I think it's enough.

Quiet Lightning: 7/7/2010

no satisfaction, y'all

2010-07-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to do some writing. Many false starts. There's a banana in one. An oblique reference to silly putty in another. No clowns. Ever. I'm not scared of them. It's just a rule of mine. I just made it up now, but I'm pretty sure I'm sticking with it.

Another new rule: No talking things that don't really talk. Yes, I know the fancy word for it is anthropomorphism. And, yes, I know it should not be done. By me. You can do it. I once wrote a story from the point of view of a tree. My defense: I was writing to a prompt. It wasn't that bad. (Yes, it sort of was.)

I am not really anthropomorphically-inclined, but I like saying anthropomorphically-inclined. And that is how a rule is born.

OK, no clowns or talking dishwashers (the appliance. Those in the profession are fair game). What else? Ummm, no sad girls and disappointing men. Wait. That's my trademark. No hirsute women and asthmatic men. No lactose intolerance. No marathon running. No scrunchies. No guinea pigs. No rainbow sherbet.

Some writing topics some people like that don't really do it for me: writers/writing, dead kids, happy girls and non-disappointing men.

Some words you will never see me use: munch, chortle, grin, slacks, happy, satisfied.

And probably y'all.

i was bored, though i have plenty of things I should be doing, so i took some pictures of some things

2010-07-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

These are some things I like. If I had more patience and talent, I would arrange them beautifully and tell fascinating stories about them. I am not going to do that. I will tell you what they are (like you can't identify a typewriter ...) and why I like them. It will be like the first day of summer camp when you have to meet everyone and say something unusual about yourself, and you want to run away because you're shy and you know you will say something that will make everyone think you're an idiot, but, instead, you just try not to cry and say something like you don't like mustard or something. I don't know what happened there, but I'm leaving it. That didn't really happen, but it could have. And I really didn't like mustard before, but now I think it's fine.

These things are not in the order in which I like them. Just so you know. I love my cat most, because he is a living smushball (I've never called him that before. You know what's weird? I call him bunny. And he's a cat. I think I used to call him buddy or something, then it turned into bunny. But his name is really Noah. Anyway, it's not his turn because he's the last of the pictures, so we'll get to him in a bit).

1. This is my refrigerator. I like my refrigerator, but the picture features postcards, which make me irrationally happy. I received two in the last week or so. People went places. If you're going someplace, please send me a postcard.

I think I like postcards so much because (a) they're pretty. Or not. Usually not, now that I think of it. But their ugliness is often quite aggressive, and I have to respect that. I received an aggressively ugly one yesterday from a friend who is back where he grew up, someplace in Michigan; (b) they mean someone is thinking of you. And remembered that you like postcards. And bought you one and wrote on it and sent it. I was missing my friend while he is gone on his trip to Michigan, because we go to readings together and he plays guitar and I sing and we once did an open mic, and sometimes we just do some music and we're going to do this awesome Tom Waits song that I can't remember the name of, but we're at least just going to sing it together. And he helps me with my computer and stuff. He's a good friend, especially because he sent me a postcard.

I didn't think I'd have quite so much to say about postcards, but one last thing is a sort of confession, I guess. I suppose it could be my summer camp secret. When I go away, I send myself a postcard. I sign them Love, Laurie. Because everyone I knew before the age of 18 calls me Laurie (which is pretty much only my family and anyone who is grandfathered in by marriage. And me. Though I guess I don't think of myself as Laurie. When I talk to myself out loud, I call myself Laur). That was sort of a long parenthetical non sequitur. They happen. To me, a lot.

One last thing. One of my favorite postcards is really a series of postcards. A friend is/was(?) writing me a story. He sent me 3 different postcards at random times. He hasn't sent a 4th installment, which is long overdue. I am dying to know what happens to Johnny Cash. If you are reading, my postcard-writing friend, please send another.

There is more to be said on this topic, but I'll save some. Because there are more pictures.

2. This is an old Remington typewriter I got at the Alameda Antiques Fair last summer. I saw a similar one for $300 at a swanky antiques store shortly before I bought this one. I thought, someday, I will buy an antique typewriter, but not today, because that's really expensive. So, when I saw this one for $25, I did not attempt to bargain. I bought it and made my friend carry it to his truck. It's really heavy. He's 6'6", but he was kind of whiny about the heaviness. But it was nice of him to carry it, so I shouldn't call him whiny. Besides, he left for Morocco today and promised to send me a postcard ... Anyway, I love it, but it sits on the floor because I have no idea where to put it.

3. A yellow pad with heavy paper, a substantial, roller ink pen, and my tiny composition book. I love yellow pads and I love substantial ink, so I get the pads with thick paper so the ink doesn't bleed through. End of story. The little composition book is my book. Every writer I know carries a book. I need to write things down. Usually a sentence. Sometimes paragraphs. I met someone the other day who uses a purple composition book. I like purple, but it sort of offended my sensibilities. I'm old school.

4. See the ring on my middle finger? I couldn't get a really clear picture -- technology and all -- but it's one of my very favorite tangible things. It's an antique French button that was handcrafted into a ring. It wasn't very expensive, but I almost didn't buy it because I didn't need it. Looking back, I still had a relatively high-paying job at the time, so I don't know why I was reticent. But I gave it back to the lady to return to the case. They were closing. I couldn't leave. She opened up the case. I hope I have this ring for the rest of my life, or have someone I could give it to and watch love it.

5. This picture is of a book. I love books. It is by Alice Munro. I love Alice Munro. It is from the Oakland Public Library. I love the Oakland Public Library. And all public libraries, really. Because it's a truly wonderful thing that someone long ago decided that people should be able to read books for free. That was a phenomenal decision. Lots of love in that picture.

6. A few of my bookshelves. I have 5 that size. And more books in boxes and piles. And I go to the public library (see number 5, above). I love books. They save my life over and over.

7. I love these boots SO much. Look at their gorgeous color. A deep cognac that just keeps getting richer. They are handmade, from Italy. I got them new on eBay probably 10 years ago, or thereabouts, for $40. I paid twice that much to have them repaired a year ago. I hope to die with these boots on. Not soon, but you know what I mean.

8. Noah. Just because I am a single woman of a certain age who loves her cat, doesn't mean I'm a crazy cat lady. I know the difference between children and pets. I would like to have children. For now, I have a loving and much-loved cat named Noah. When I adopted him from the pound about 12 years ago, his name was Ashes. That was a terrible name. As you are supposed to change adopted animals names anyway (so they learn faster that they're not going back to people who name them stupid things like Ashes), I named him Noah, which is a beautiful name. I grew up with dogs, so Noah sort of acts like one. He meets me at the door. And he sleeps with me. At times, on me. And he is much less standoffish than the average cat -- sometimes he's a little too needful. He's also very smart. He likes to lie on my books. So now I keep one at the end of the bed and, when I'm reading in bed and he's trying to lie on my book, I say Noah, go read your book. And he does.

yeah, i do

2010-06-29T08:07:00.000-07:00

I love this piece by Roxane Gay, entitled Every Writer Has A Bad Writer in Their Past. It is so honest and funny and cringe-worthy and just pretty much great.

As I tend to spew a good amount of overly personal information here, I thought I would expose a few of my own writing embarrassments. They are mortifying, yet hilarious, and make me feel kind of good about where I am now. (The pieces are preserved in their original glory. Grammatical errors, etc.)

Join me in some bad poetry from 1994 ...

Wishes and ideals
leave my possession
yet continue to swirl in my awareness
like grains of sand in a windstorm.
Reminding me of what I can no longer be.
Things weren't so great then,
but memory surrounds the past
with the soft cushion of selectivity,
lulling me into a sickly sweet
cloud of sentimentality.
Jaded, faded
I try to remember.
But my reminiscences betray me
and leave me born today.

*

Dear Lord. The metaphors, the similes, the cliches, the oh-so-mistaken belief that I could write poetry. Laugh. Please.

I have to admit, that's pretty much the best of the bunch. There are some that RHYME. I'm sorry. I just can't.

Here's another. (Again, one of the less horrific ...):

Born alone
She taken bleeding from me
to be the main event.
It is her story
and I, a postscript.
A baby girl
with blue Chinese eyes
Left alone -- my birthright
thrust upon me, now demanded.
No story of my own,
feeding ravenously on the words of others.
Still chewing my fingers
and wondering absently
when someone will notice
I am here.

*

Umm, yeah. I am very happy to report that the last remnant of my poetic phase was recorded in 1999. At least in that journal. There are others that surprise and freak me out like spiders. I'd like to never see either again.

OK, so apparently, I destroyed any fiction I wrote, or it's hidden on an old hard drive. Don't worry. I found a story. I warn: I used to be a big fan of the adverb and, again, cliches. Oy, the cliches.

I was also incapable of blending truth with fiction. There is no date on the story, but I think it's from around 1999 or 2000. The story is called The Sister. Because I was mad at my sister. Clever. I didn't finish it. It's pretty short. Enjoy. Ha.:

The Sister

The sister haunts her subconscious, inspiring hatred even in her dreams. She is stunned by the intensity of her hatred, and thinks of her hatred for the sister nearly incessantly. Being a non-confrontational sort -- the kind who loses herself only to books and daydreams, she worries at first about what seem to be the infinite boundaries of her loathing and bitterness toward the sister. But only for a moment. After that, she feels strong and mean and happy.

She thinks for the millionth time that morning, "I hate the sister." No longer willing to use the possessive, she holds her sister at arms' length. They were once close. They fit each other and were similar in almost eerie proportions. They often said exactly the same thing, and reacted in the same way.

She thought that she would feel that phantom pain that amputees feel. She thought that she would miss the sister, that she would love the sister always. She smothers herself luxuriously with the fact that it is not so. She revels in abhorrence and malicious thoughts and almost laughs aloud. She wants to dance at the thought of her sister suffering.

What did the sister do? What could warrant this fierceness of feeling? She is, quite simply, a selfish (girl dog). It is not what the sister has done, but who she is.

She used to envy the sister for her ability to make men love her, for her confidence. She watched the sister and tried to emulate her, even though she was the older of the two. She asked g-d why he had withheld from her, and wondered why she was so often forgotten.

Carbon-monoxide poisoning, car tumbling from a bridge, a gunshot to the temple, terminal cancer.

She is bothered at not being bothered by her thoughts. She wonders if she would, in fact, weep if her sister's limbs were indelicately ripped from her by a mountain lion. If she would be sorry if the sister's plane crashed, and she slowly burned to a crisp in the inferno of its aftermath.

*

Yes, I, too, am speechless. Redeeming qualities? Not so much. I recommend ginger ale for the nausea, and apologize. Not really. Laugh with me. Or at me. I'm good with either.

real

2010-06-27T16:17:00.000-07:00

The moment when a limit is reached, when

there is nothing ahead but darkness: something

comes in to help that is not real. Another way

all this is like madness: a mad person not helped

out of his trouble by anything real begins to trust

what is not real because it helps him and he needs

it because real things continue not to help him.

Lydia Davis

Liminal: The Little Man

Break It Down

my days

2010-06-26T14:35:00.000-07:00

I wrote a story called His Days, about scones and crossword puzzles and a careless boy. I say some stuff about the story, etc., here

The story hinges on the warning "be prepared to lose," which someone said to me about something. It was stunning. Breathtaking. Those are not always good things, you know. I wrote a bunch of stuff here about what that means -- preparation for losing/failure/rejection. I deleted it. Really, life is just a series of requests for judgment. And there's a difference between expectation and acceptance. And that's really all I have to say.

TMI, TM You

2010-06-24T22:35:00.000-07:00

I should get back to the true business of this blog. Which is to whine and divulge TMI, though that is pretty much redundant. I apologize for detouring from this objective.

I am not moving to France, I am still very sad for Bill and Jack, people still amaze me in ways that are usually good.

I'm thinking of taking a little trip. Just for a few days. I want to go somewhere unusual. Like Montana. I think plane tickets to Montana might be pretty inexpensive.

I went to the doctor today because I coughed so hard I tore a muscle in my back. I got some Tylenol with codeine. I haven't taken any because I'm no longer in excruciating pain. I might be later.

Tonight, I met up with a friend who I haven't seen in a long time. We were at a bar with a lot of men in suits. They made me laugh a little.

I went to a really good reading. I bought the guy's book (Ben Greenman - What He's Poised to Do) because it's very good, and the guy who rang me up said you're an author, right? i'll give you a discount. Being called an author made me uncomfortable. I guess I'm kind of a writer, but the word author makes me think of people that people have heard of. But I liked the discount.

My friend made me some delicious soup earlier today. It had kale in it. I feel super-healthy.

I think I'm ready to write a story. I haven't been, but I think I am now.

I sent a postcard today AND received one. Both of those things made me feel good.

The new season of Top Chef began. I love competitive cooking shows like Top Chef (my favorite) so much it is ridiculous. Especially because I don't cook.

Several articles of my clothing have disappeared. I live alone. I don't get it.

I thought I fixed my printer, but it's only about 7/8ths fixed. It's bugging me.

This seems to a list without numbers. I thought I was going to take a break from lists. Let's all acknowledge that I have no attention span.

I want and need a new phone but the one I think I want seems complicated and I do not want to have to learn how to use it. (See previous paragraph re: attention span.)

I miss my friend who's out of town for a few weeks and my closest friend from law school a lot today.

I want to start putting pictures in my blog posts again. Maybe i will. Starting tomorrow. Maybe.

I hate Twitter. Hate is a strong word. I hate Twitter.

i won't, but i could

2010-06-22T02:35:00.001-07:00

Reasons I am thinking of moving to Paris:

1. I am intrigued by the idea of owning 3 articles of clothing and 60 scarves.

2. I speak French reasonably well, and improve quickly when immersed. I don't like when people don't like me, and the French do not like Americans who do not speak French. I would be fluent shortly after arrival.

3. French people don't act happy when they're not. When they smile, it's real.

4. French people don't hate Americans. They dislike stupid people. I do, too.

5. Socialized medicine. Their system is renowned.

6. Though it is virtually impossible to get a job in France, due to their perverse, antiquated employment laws, I could continue to freelance.

7. The French drive tiny cars very badly. I would not have a car or the expenses of having a car. I would walk and take the Metro.

8. Bread.

9. Wine.

10. As I don't care much for French food, otherwise, I would be svelte and chic in my black sweater and black pants and scarf. I would have bread and wine and fruit. A bit of cheese. I'm not that into cheese, but the French do not mess around with cheese. Or bread. Or wine. I would have bits of each.

11. Art in drowning quantities.

12. I like how people get together at cafes after work instead of going home to watch TV and eat frozen dinners. They are sociable, with rules. They are civilized. I appreciate their manners.

13. A small bottle of Diet Coke costs around $3. I would not drink soda. It's bad for your bones anyway.

14. If you are polite and interested, people talk to you. They tell you things. Better things than here.

15. I could go back to the restaurant and find the woman from the next table over. She wore a Chanel suit and beautiful jewelry. She ate impeccably and told me, softly, hoarsely, in French about her husband. He is dead. Love sounded different. More and less romantic. I stared at her buttons and wanted to go to her house and listen to her more. If I moved to Paris, I would go back to the restaurant and she would be there.

16. Older French women are stunning. It makes you look forward to aging.

17. My cat would not need to be quarantined. He'd just need some shots and a clean bill of health.

18. There's nothing holding me back.

painted ponies

2010-06-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

Jack is one of my closest friends. I've known him for probably around 15 years. He lives in San Diego. I would do anything for him. When my parents' neighborhood nearly burned down two years ago, he insisted that they and their two dogs move into his house, and he stayed elsewhere. He barely knew my parents, but that sums him up.

Jack has maintained a wonderful friendship with his former partner, Bill, a very sweet and loving man. Bill's partner of 12 years, Jeff, died today of ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease). I did not know Jeff well. I left San Diego in 2001, and Jeff and Bill moved to Portland not long after.

It's not my place to be sad. It's not my place to cry. But I'm in. When Jack loves someone, I do, too. And if Jack is hurt, I am, too. And I knew Jeff, and I remember a beautiful man with a huge smile who loved yoga and always made you feel like he'd rather be nowhere else than talking with you. This is not one of those remembering people as we'd like, not as they were, things. Jeff had grace. As does Bill. And I hurt for Bill.

There's more to the story. I'll tell it another time. For now, I just want to say how much I love Jack. I wish I were with him now, singing his goofy songs and playing the games he invents (and sells and wins prizes for) and giving him huge hugs that last a really long time.

Jack had an enormous party for a significant birthday. I don't remember if Bill and Jeff were there. Jack played guitar. He asked me to sing The Circle Game (Joni Mitchell). I hope this brings back good memories...

And the seasons, they go 'round and 'round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

Good-bye, Jeff. Namaste.

by me

2010-06-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

Some days I feel more like a middle child than others. That probably doesn't mean anything to you. It's ok. I really just needed to say it.

The second issue of Corium Magazine is up today. I worked really hard on it. I think the writing is really great.

That's about it on this longest day. It is summer. It is exactly three months until my birthday. I know what I want my present to be. It will have my name on it.

it happens

2010-06-18T19:58:00.001-07:00

Every once in awhile ... I do something right. Not very often. Maybe on solstices or double coupon days. Did you know June is National Accordion Awareness Month, and Candy Month? I would not mind enjoying some accordion tunes while eating candy. It's not a chocolatey instrument. I'm thinking salt water taffy or Boston Baked Beans (the candy, not the tasty Massachusetts legume dish).

You know how I edit this journal, Corium Magazine? This guy sent me an awesome story and I said something to the effect of yes, I would love to put this awesome story in Corium, but I have a few suggestions. He was like, ok, cool, thanks for loving my awesome story and I would love to hear your awesome suggestions. So, along with a few other small changes, I recommended that he cut three long paragraphs from the end. I was not sure he'd be all cool and thanks about it, but I suggested it and this is what he said:

lauren:

wow, such audacity ... who do you think you are?

i mean, how refreshing of you!

ah-hem ... not to scare you with my enthusiasm, but you made fantastic suggestions. you put the story first; the sign of a talented editor.

before you, the piece was languishing in its protraction. i hope you're as happy with it now as i am.

thanks for having the courage to make such bold cuts and lucid suggestions! now i'm truly ready to see this published!

(Did you know today is also International Panic Day? I'm not kidding. I could not make that up.)

Sorry if this sounds braggy. I'm mostly glad that I made someone happier with his awesome work. I was also kind of hurt by something someone I know did with regard to my reading series, and this made me feel better.

Did you know it's summer solstice in three days? Also, tomorrow is World Sauntering Day, but I don't tend to be right on World Sauntering Day.

tall non-vegans need sandals, too

2010-06-13T23:05:00.000-07:00

I don't have much to say, but that's never stopped me before. I feel like making a list, but the list would not be a good one. It would be the one nagging at me today. I am sick -- the usual crud. I was fine on Thursday, starting feeling sick on Friday, when I did a reading, felt pretty sick on Saturday, when I had to put on a reading, and am really sick today.

Staying in bed is not great for helping one not want to make lists, but, in a fit of craziness, I decided I needed to move and sold my couches. There's more to the story, but the point is, I sold my very nice sofa and loveseat. Had I wanted to get out of bed today, my seating options would have been limited. My cat is confused.

Can I make a little list? I won't put the big things on it. OK, thanks.

1. I had to call animal control on my neighbors because they left their dog alone in their house for two days, barking and crying so hard he started to lose his voice. I was sort of crying when I called animal control and asked if they could break into the house to get him. Shortly after, the evil neighbors came home. I never heard animal control come. The dog was crying again today. I am very non-confrontational but I am going to have to show some serious self-control next time I see them. I won't say here what I would try hard not to yell at these ... people ... because it does not involve nice words. This might be funny if it were someone else, but their welcome mat says "LEAVE."

2. I took down a knee-jerk post I wrote yesterday about someone else who is unkind. People should be kind. I'm just saying.

3. I hosted an event for my reading series last night. It was abnormally (and miserably) hot in Northern California. Because that is rare, there is no air-conditioning. Anywhere. Like in the bar where around 40 people showed up for the reading. Great readers, good showing for a hot June night, and heat stroke. Not really, but it was very hot.

4. I am very, very fat right now. My jeans are tight and my round face is rounder. I am uncomfortable. One of my friends called me pretty. She was being nice. I am very ugly. (Please don't disagree. It's not my intention and I will not believe you.)

5. The word "pretty" is pretty, I think.

6. I read some emails from someone who did not break my heart, but broke a lot of things I thought I believed.

7. Writing rejection yesterday. Don't check your email right before you have to be a charming host of an event you've busted your butt to put on.

8. I wish I had someone to play tennis with me.

9. I made about $100 in donations last night.

10. Don't cut your own hair to save money.

11. I have a job interview on Thursday. It sounds like a good job.

12. I am drinking some Shasta diet soda. It is Lime-Lemon flavored. Lime-Lemon doesn't sound right. I wonder if Lemon-Lime is patented by 7-Up or another popular soda manufacturer.

13. Someone I have some anger toward because I didn't say some things I needed to say in order to lessen the anger left the country today. The person is reachable and all, but I'll probably never say anything. Something I know and I want a friend of mine to know (because it hurts my friend) is that sometimes thinking about someone a lot doesn't mean you care about them. It means you're hurt or angry or regretful or bitter and those are powerful things to feel.

14. I have tissues with lotion in them. That was a good invention.

15. All sandals are made for either extremely short girls with hookerish tendencies or vegan environmentalists.

I really like even numbers, but I will end on 15, because I don't know what else to say after that one. And it's 11:48 and I should sleep. And I do have more to say, but I won't. So, yeah, if you make shoes, consider making some cool sandals for relatively tall, non-vegan girls who don't want to stay quite so close to the earth. Thanks.

leaky happy face

2010-06-09T21:37:00.000-07:00

Last night, I heard someone read and I felt so happy because his story was so, so good, and I felt sad, like, teary-eyed, embarrassing sad because I don't write like this writer who is so very good that he has probably never written anything bad in his life. He probably stands in the shower washing his hair, writing a perfect story. He types it up (probably really quickly and accurately) while drinking his coffee, edits it while brushing his teeth, sends it to Ploughshares or something and, by the time he puts his shoes on to leave his house, it is accepted. And I am so happy for him that he can do that. I think they were, at least in part, tears of joy.

Oh, and I was reading Alice Munro's latest book of stories, which won the National Book Award (I think). (Per: Greg's observation in the comments, the book won the 2009 Booker Prize. Also, it is called Too Much Happiness, which I forgot, or maybe didn't know when I wrote this post, so my ramblings on variations of happiness are pretty much just coincidental.) I had to return it because it was one of those that you can only keep for a week and I forgot and read other stuff and then I quickly scarfed down two stories before returning it. And the second story is called "Fiction" and it made me never want to write again and it made me want to write every second of every day. It must feel good to be Alice Munro. I should email her or something and ask.

again

2010-06-05T01:54:00.000-07:00

I didn't realize a story of mine went up recently at a new journal called Revisitations. It's called Erase, and it was originally published in Mud Luscious. It was one of my first published pieces. It's nice to see it again.

i wear plaid, too

2010-06-05T00:38:00.000-07:00

I used to get really tongue-tied around people I thought were better, cooler, smarter, funnier, etc., than I was, which I believed was pretty much everyone. And I said stupid things and I heard them coming out of my mouth and I would say stop, STOP inside my head and I wouldn't stop. I did not know how.

So, I sort of stopped doing it. And I sort of listen to myself when I think stop, STOP, but this past week I did it at least twice and, though I internally screamed, stop, STOP, for the love of g-d, STOP, please stop, I did not stop. And I felt stupid. You have no idea.

And you know what? These are not people I care about. These are people who work at restaurants and consider buying pet rats they will name Lucien and ride bikes that cost ridiculous sums of money. Or they have books and do a lot of readings or they are skinny and wear short-sleeved plaid shirts (which is just an example because these people wear them ironically. I like plaid.) and they want to do a lot of readings. There is nothing wrong with working in a restaurant or liking rats or having books.

I don't have a bike or a rat or work in a restaurant. I do some readings. I don't have a book. I sometimes wear plaid. I have manners. I smile. I think kindness is good.

I wonder what these people scream inside their heads.

he says

2010-05-30T02:42:00.001-07:00

I'm not allowed to write posts like the last two because my friend says they're weird. And I said, "you're weird."

And then he sang. Badly. But goodly, because it was him and he just wanted to make me laugh.

It was a good conversation.

realizations

2010-05-28T19:45:00.000-07:00

You realize that your life has been microscopic. You realize that it would be the same size if you went back and did it over. You are the worst kind of stupid. The smart kind.

belated

2010-05-28T02:26:00.000-07:00

You have decided to be an only child. You are smart enough to know it's the de facto truth. That emerging from the same body doesn't make you anything to each other. That you can live next door or in the same city as a person who saw you at every age on almost every day of every week of your WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE until you left the fifth house on your 18th birthday, not as a declaration of independence, but because it was the day everyone moved into the dorms.

The fifth house is miles and years away, and hers has everything you thought you wanted, but you stopped wanting to be her a long time ago.

outside the reception

2010-05-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

Today, one of my favorite online lit journals, Wigleaf, released its annual Top 50 [very] short fictions 2010. I didn't make the Top 50, but a story of mine is on the Long Shortlist [Top 200, including the top 50]. The story, A Simple Explanation, is sort of a favorite of mine. I wrote it as a challenge from the editor of the journal in which it appeared, and, though I didn't think I would like writing to someone's specifications (which were, basically, send me something you think I might not like. Take a risk.), I liked the final product. And am glad it ended up on the list.

One thing I find interesting (and I am certain I am not the only one) is that only 15 of the stories in the Top 50 were written by women. I am quite certain that the % skew of 70/30 (men/women) will be a significant topic of conversation. Those who read here know that I tend to avoid discussions of literary theory and criticism, as well as sociological observations. Primarily, I focus on my own reactions, observations, insecurities, and other forms of TMI.

Therefore, I will leave the majority of the gender bias discussion for others (it has been a very popular topic on various sites lately) and speak only to my own observations and feelings about the distinction. I mention this, not because I don't respect the guest judge's right to choose those pieces that he feels are best, but because there are a number of women on the shortlist, and some who were not recognized on the lists, who produce consistently remarkable work. I don't include myself among them. I am thrilled to have made the shortlist, so this is not a sour grapes thing; it is merely an expression of surprise and wonder. And maybe some concern.

That said, I would like to say that I have a tremendous respect for the editor and assistant selections editor of Wigleaf. Many do not know that they read a huge number of stories throughout the year, set aside those they find excellent, then whittle the list down to 200. There are thousands of online journals, many of which showcase remarkable talent in every single issue. It's a huge job -- one for which Scott and Ravi should be commended. The list may be raised as an example in the ongoing discussions re: gender bias in publishing, but these two are most definitely not part of any such example or problem.

I have more to say, but must write two articles for deadline tomorrow, make final choices and practice for tonight's reading, and work on the website for my reading series. And a bunch of other stuff. For now, I have to be just me. For now, I am grateful to have my story on the long shortlist. Later, I'll be one of many women writers with some things to consider ...

if found, return to ikea

2010-05-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

I bought 3 2-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi a few days ago and I won't drink anything else, so I feel all sorts of minor caffeine electricity under my skin and my shoulders are closer to my ears than usual. And I haven't been outside in a few days because I have a lot of work to do. I miss outside. It looks nice out there.

Words are not comfortable today. Or comforting. I am distressed by some of the word-mangling I'm attempting to edit. I took a break and read some stuff online. Going from bad to great with a Diet Pepsi accelerant kind of sent me over. Just a little. I don't get jealous of writers often; if I feel anything bad when reading good writing, it is that I am too far behind to catch up. Today, I feel that more than just a little.

I don't have time to write and I can't anyway, and I have two readings coming up and I don't know what to read at either. I don't know if I'm being harder on myself than usual or if I am not pushing myself hard enough. I put together a submission for a chapbook contest that closes today. I am not going to enter. It's a day when I don't like what I do with words and I don't want to waste $20 or anyone's time who would have to read them.

I feel like laminate furniture. If I have you fooled, you're not looking close enough.