URL ABCs

These are my URL ABCs:

• A is for astalavista.com/ - Security-type stuff.
• B is for bonefishgrill.com/index_flash.asp - Local restaurant. Never been.
• C is for commercialappeal.com - Memphis' broadsheet daily.
• D is for danah.org/ani/ - Ani D. lyrics.
• E is for ebay.com/ - eBay -- my favorite place ot shop!
• F is for fedex.com/us/ - Because I ship a lot of stuff.
• G is for google.com/ - Dude, Google rocks my socks.
• H is for heritageglass.com/ - Favorite source for Effetre.
• I is for infiltration.org/ - Zine about "going place you're not supposed to go."
• J is for jalexanders.com/ - Local restaurant. Nice place, too.
• K is for katesink.com/blog.html - I proof it after it goes live.
• L is for led-zeppelin.j1media.com/ - Silly thing about Satanic messages in Stairway to Heaven.
• M is for monsteescave.blogspot.com/ - Monstee's Cave! ^_^
• N is for nccam.nih.gov/ - Complementary/alternative med resources.
• O is for offshore-manual.com/ - Offshore banking and related stuff.
• P is for privacyworld.com/ - Big Brother is watching.
• Q is for quizilla.com/ - Great time-killer. Used a lot in my Stumble blog.
• R is for reporter.org/desktop/ - My homepage at work and home -- tons of engines in one spot.
• S is for slickdeals.net/ - Deal site. One of Matt's links.
• T is for techbargains.com/ - Another one of Matt's links ... I'm digging this one.
• U is for us.games-workshop.com/default.htm - GW has a new Memphis bunker. Haven't checked it out yet.
• V is for vueart.com/ - No idea what this is. Some art gallery in Cali.
• W is for webtender.com/ - Best cocktail site out there.
• X is for xspygear.com/ - Spy-type gadgets.
• Y is for yp.yahoo.com/ - Y! Yellow Pages. Indispensable at work.
• Z is for zmag.org/ - "Spirit of Resistance" zine.

Planning the perfect weekend

Looks like it's going to thunderstorm -- hard -- all weekend. Bummer, as I had really been hoping to get out into the sunshine a bit. The depression and anxiety keep me indoors an awful lot, and it occurred to me that maybe a bit of sun would do me good. And if I went alone, it'd give me a chance to re-center and re-ground myself without too much distraction!

The prospect of going out got my cogs spinning. How could I create the "perfect day" alone -- a day that would bring back happy memories long after it was over? What favorite places, activities and things would I want with me? I think it'd go something like this:

I sleep in, waking up when the sun's rays stream through my bedroom blinds. The day is sunny. The birds in the backyard are chirping, but the neighbors yappy dog is nowhere to be found. I go sit in the den, wrapped up in my Favorite Blue Blanket and sipping a cup of sugary Earl Grey. When I feel warm and awake, I shower, brush my teeth and put on a little makeup.

I pull on my favorite Bohemian black skirt (red pants underneath), Birkenstocks, a black T-shirt and my black hoodie. I pack my Vue up and get in ... and wow! The gas tank's full! (Hey, it's my fantasy, folks.) I drive to the Botanic Gardens, because if I'm going to admire the cherry blossoms, that's the place to do it.

When I get there, I find a nice, big tree under which I can relax. I pull a soft-not-scratchy blanket out of the back of the Vue and spread it under the tree. I get out Big Brown Bear, because a teddy bear can give you hugs even when you're alone. Hmm ... what have I brought along? Some reading materials -- a volume of T.S. Eliot, some Diane Di Prima, maybe my Palm with its half-dozen e-books i've been meaning to read.

I've also brought along a kite, a coloful nylon thing with not one, but two, rolls of twine (I aim high); my favorite hat, which doubles as a sleep mask should I doze off; and my yoga mat and strap. Then there's a bottle of catnip, for keeping away the bugs; a semi-firm pillow to lounge on; and a leather-bound chapbook, so I can sketch and write to my heart's content.

And I've brought along a picnic basket, with a case of Abita root beer, Zoe's potato salad, and a big slice of Aunt Linda's red velvet cake. I also have several bottles of Orangina, because I can't often get my hands on it and it's a real treat.

Over the course of the day, I write and draw and read and fly my kite. I take a warm nap, curled up under my tree. I position myself in Warrior Pose, stretching myself deeper with each breath. And I meditate, taking in the essence of the trees and the grass and the geese ... and ridding myself of the sadness and the stress.

Then, when I feel so full of life and light that I'm about to burst, I'd pack up my car, drive back into the suburbs and slip into the Jacuzzi ... before drifting off to a sound sleep snuggled into cool, satin sheets.

Sounds pretty nice, huh? How would you make a solitary day perfect?

Buy me something!!

I've created a Froogle wish list, for no other reason than it's one of the things you can list in your Blogger profile. ::grins:: That's a good enough reason, isn't it??

(...subliminal message...BUY ME SOMETHING...subliminal message...BUY ME SOMETHING...subliminal message...BUY ME SOMETHING...subliminal message...)

Two random poems

My Little Green Book ended up at the office today, so I thought I'd post something old and something new. I'm not a poet by any definition ... just a silly, lost editor with fragmented thoughts that don't always translate well into prose. So, you know, don't be too critical, k?

This is from October 1998. I remember that time so vividly, because I felt free from convention for the first time in my life ... and I was very unsure of myself. I wanted reassurance and direction. This is raw, like I was at the time.

Teacher
If I were to lay down at your side
Naked in my own disillusionment
And touch you with white desire
Thinking you no worse than the altar gods
in their kimono-wisdom ...

If I were to be your sister-mother-friend,
Soft and hard and old and young,
And never notice you weren't perfection
Or try to take away your rough intensity
And gold-grey anticipation ...

If I were to watch you rise up beside me
With an air of gently rushing echo
And ask you to teach me to be like you,
To cry and laugh and swallow my fears,
Would you stroke the animal within
These prison breasts and dirty cunt?

Yeah. Like I said, raw. The other one is about a friend named Matt, whom I worked with in college. We used to put the paper to bed, then drive around the city aimlessly. I always appreciated that there was no undercurrent with us, that we were just sounding boards for each other's ideas. He's still my go-to guy when I need a male opinion other than Paul's. ::grins::

Driving
Over the east horizon
an ecru moon stumbles,
soft rays catching on trees, then
dripping, pooling onto sidewalks
and shoulders.
You're at the wheel -- that is the custom --
as we travel Nowhere-In-Particular
looking for pieces of ourselves.
Your cigarette smoke catches in my throat
and I trip over my
Self-Proclaimed Awareness
so loudly that even Ella and Basie
can't drown out words I don't understand
speaking in a voice I don't recognize.
But you'll have me home safe and sound
before the moon is overhead,
and I'll watch from my third-story window
as it tiptoes over the western skyline,
wondering if my secrets would be safe
if Morning found my voice
plastered to your dusty dashboard.

Th-th-th-that's all folks. You may now return to your regularly scheduled (non-poetic) blogging. :-)

"Some degree of levity"

Kenneth "LonewolfX1X" McCarthy killed himself one year and two days ago. Twenty-three and disillusioned, he was to most people just another light snuffed out before his time.

I never met Ken, and normally, such an event would have very little effect on me. But Ken was a member of my gaming group, ArsClan, and he didn't leave a suicide note for his family. Instead, he posted a note online and blew his brains out before anyone could send help.

It was a sad, strange time. All of us -- those who knew him in real life and those who only knew him through his Ars posts -- mourned. A lot of people were angry, questioning his selfishness in copping out through suicide. Ken's sister briefly joined the community to talk about her memories of her brother. There was solace in being together, in talking about happier times.

It's strange, how I feel a connection to people I only know as screennames typing words I'll never hear them say. But then again, everything about my life -- how I work and play and live -- is influenced by a machine that connects me to the whole world in an instant. At my whim, I can virtually visit any place, meet any person, study any topic. I can speak my mind on my terms, and learn from others on their terms. I can create and give and just ... be.

Over the years, I've discovered that words of wisdom sometimes rain down upon me when I'm least expecting it. Out of the blue, I am given what I need to hear when I need to hear it: a song on the radio, a photo in a book, a phone call from a friend just to tell me I'm loved. And, today, the words I needed were in a suicide note.

"I take some small degree of comfort in knowing that amidst the throngs of people charging headlong into mediocrity with all the the enthusiasm and awareness of a puppy chasing a car, there are a few who think like I do...differently."

Ken, wherever you are, thanks for making us all realize we need to talk more and judge less. Thanks for reminding me that it's okay to rise above the mediocrity of a cookie-cutter existence. And most of all, thanks for teaching me that as long as there are others like me, I am not alone.

Hope you've found everything you're looking for: a smacktard-free eternity with low ping ... and, yes, some degree of levity.

Beep! Beep!

In order to understand today's post, you must know three things about me:
1. I hate appointments.
2. I love gadgets.
3. I'll probably be late for my own funeral.

I've come to accept these as self-evident and inalienable facts. That's not to say I haven't experimented with methods of overcoming my tardiness. I used to place my alarm clock across the room and choose my clothes before I fell asleep. Neither worked. It still took me about 15 minutes to drag my ass out of bed (hey, Rock 103's morning show is decent even at 120 decibels!) only to discover I didn't really like my chosen outfit so much after all. It was an exercise in futility.

My favorite way of staving off lateness is to set my watch a few minutes fast or slow. In fact, every clock I own is set to a different time. My SideKick is the closest to NIST's Official U.S. Time -- it's only off by a couple of seconds. My desktop computer is two and a half minutes slow; my car clock is two and a half minutes fast. My office phone is seven minutes slow; my analog watch is seven minutes fast. My PDA is off by about five minutes, and my digital watch by about 17 minutes. Not that any of this matters. I know how fast or slow each clock is ... so my brain isn't fooled one iota.

But I have come up with a method for keeping appointments that's absolutely foolproof. First, I set my digital watch alarm to go off. THEN I add the appointment to my Outlook Calendar (which exports automatically to my PDA and my SideKick). THEN I write it on my dry-erase office calendar ... and if it's really important, e-mail a reminder to myself at home and work.

I've scheduled a standing appointment for Tuesday afternoons that reminds me I have to code some SQL before I go home. And there's no way I could forget, either. Here's how I'm reminded of my 4 p.m. alarm:

• At 3:43 p.m., my digital watch beeps at me.
• This causes me to look up at my calendar to see what's written there.
  
• If I forget, my PDA goes off at 3:55 p.m. (and every seven minutes thereafter).
  
• My SideKick lights up and vibrates at 4 p.m. on the dot (and every four minutes thereafter).
  
• And at 4:02 p.m., Outlook displays a pop-up reminder -- which usually draws my attention to the e-mail I've sent myself.

Why, then, am I late for stuff all the time?

In high school, I wrote things on my hand when I needed to remember them. Hey, it was a good idea: It's low tech and cheap -- and I'm fairly sure my hand isn't going anywhere without me. I quit doing that when I walked into the girls' bathroom one day, looked into a mirror ... and realized TUNA SALAD was imprinted on my forehead in red pen. Another life lesson learned through total humiliation.

These days, I'm sticking to the gadgets. But I'm still looking for a good method of keeping up with meetings (especially the boring ones my brain tries very hard to ignore). Suggestions, anyone?

Amnesia

Things Matt did last night that he doesn't remember:

1. Breaking his wrist.
2. The last shot of Jack.
3. Kissing Paul.
   
4. Faeries.
5. Me shining my brights on him when he was lost.
6. The last phone call he made.
7. Where he left his cell phone (we found it).
8. How he hurt his knee.

Edit: More things Matt doesn't remember:

9. Yelling at me for taking off his hoodie.
10. Yelling at me because he was bleeding on my pillow.
11. Yelling at me for cleaning him up.
12. Kissing me.
    
13. Why he ran. The world may never know.
    

Hello, nurse.

2 a.m. Monday morning. Matt's passed out on the bed, still writhing rather violently. I have not been in this situation before. I have a washcloth in one hand and Neosporin in the other. He's bloody and moaning; I'm wondering if I should call an ambulance. Before he passed out, he insisted he was okay, but I think the adrenaline is running out and the pain is starting to set in. I bite my lip, clean his wounds, cover him with two blankets ... and wonder, What the heck just happened here?

In short: He drank too much -- especially for a guy who, you know, doesn't eat. He knows he's weak, complains that his body doesn't heal itself like it should anymore. All hell breaks loose when I try to get him to come inside. He looks absolutely hunted, barefoot and running through the woods. Paul and I debate what to do: Do we drive around and look for him, or wait for him to come back? We split up and go different directions. At one point, I fall and twist my knee. I scream, and Paul comes running, tearing up the bottom of his feet on some broken glass. What a pair we are.

Tired and worried, I call Matt's cell phone. He sounds tiny and scared. I ask him where he is; he tells me he doesn't know. We wrangle over landmarks -- not an easy task tracking down somebody who's incoherent -- and I finally drive over and pick him up. Then I slowly drive home, undress him and get him cleaned up, pretend like I know what I'm doing. He keeps yelling, "It hurts," but can't point to what hurts. I do my best to figure it out.

This morning, I wake him up and ask how he's doing. He can't move his wrist and his nose is swollen. Paul says it looks broken. He calls an orthopedist friend and asks about his wrist. She fears it's broken, too; he grimaces. I get ready for work while he ices it, then Paul drives him to the free clinic across town. He promises he'll call when he gets the x-rays back.

At one point last night -- in between the ranting about "empirical knowledge" and mumbling about the nice faeries -- Matt sat upright in bed, looked me straight in the eye, and asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" I asked him.

"Why do you take care of me?" I shushed him with a sigh and told him I love him. Then I tucked him back in, made sure his breathing was steady, turned out the light and went to bed. I didn't have a good answer. A tiger cannot change its stripes ... and even if I underwent tiger plastic surgery, I'd still act like a tiger. I cannot escape who I am.

In general, Paul's quick to acknowledge my self-destructive tendencies, although last night he told me I wasn't as bad as Mattie. And yet, I know Paul's always going to be there. I know that when I can't -- or won't -- take care of myself, I've got someone who'll do it for me without complaining, who'll carry my load as his own. It's my saving grace when I feel worthless. If he loves me, I can try to love me, too. And I can pass it on, because it'll come back to me when I need it most.

I hope Matt realizes -- well, heck, he's going to read this -- Mattie, I hope you realize that I'm here for you no matter what. I don't care how far you run ... the door will be unlocked whenever you're ready to come home. Paul and I will be here for you. It's easy for me to clean those cuts and scrapes (especially when you're passed out), but I also want to get a handle on the emotional wounds. I know you trust me, but I'm not going to push. I'm ready when you want to talk. And I'll love you no matter what you have to say. That's what friends do.

It's been a long night. I feel tired and beaten. I sure as hell better get a hug for this -- broken wrist or not. ;)

[EDIT: 1:35 p.m. -- Two x-rays. One fracture. I'd kick his butt for being an idiot ... but I think he's already doing a decent job of that himself. Idiot.]

Things that recur in my dreams

Scientific fact: Everybody dreams every night. I just happen to remember a ton of my dreams because (1.) I wake up 12 times a night, and (2.) I'm taking brain-altering drugs. O_o

I had my first recurring dream when I was about 13. I was trying to get out of this house (think Winchester Mansion, folks) and I was being haunted by the Eye of Ra. Sounds incredibly boring now, but it was really freaky. Freaky enough for me to buy my first dream dictionary to piece together the symbols.

I have a ton of recurring dreams. And then sometimes, I have different dreams entirely, but an object or a person from a previous dream will pop up. I wish I had the time and the energy to do more research on it, because I'd like to find out how much of this is just Kate being Kate ... and how much is because my brain chemistry is being altered.

So ... without further ado ...

Things that recur in Kate's dreams

• Giant pinball machines. By giant, I mean they're double or triple their normal size. In fact, whole arcades of giant games. I usually want to play, but can't -- somebody tells me we're running late, or I get an emergency phone call ... or whatever.
• Basements. Not dark and creepy house-sized basements, per se. Instead, I often dream that I'm on an upper level (in a mall, for example) looking down. And I really want to get down there, but I can't.
• Keys. Just last night, I dreamed that I was digging through my purse for my house keys, and I was pulling out keyrings full of keys ... but not the ones I needed. I'd pull out a keyring, say, "These aren't mine," throw them on the car seat next to me, and start digging again. I woke up without finding my keys.
• Huge places in which I'm lost. Malls, fairs, my high school (but like eight times the size and with hallways that go nowhere). In general, I'm always trying to get from here to there. I think I know where there is, but when I start walking, suddenly there isn't there anymore. :)
• Hiding. Okay, everybody has the running-from-a-monster dream at some point. That's not what I'm talking about. More than once, I've dreamed that I'm a reporter again. I'm trying to get a story by following a source, so I hide. One time it was in a tiny cave. Another time it was in one of those claw games. And it's not just reporter dreams, but those are the first that come to mind.
  
• Ringing telephones. Can't find them. Can't answer them. I used to think my real-life phone was ringing and I was inserting a telephone in my dream instead of waking up. Yeah, that's happened, but the dream telephone happens much more often.

Well, that's a good starter list. There's more, but I'm starting to feel groggy and I'm thinking about traipsing off to bed again. Any ideas on what these mean?

Happy Birthday, part 2

Why today was not a good day:

Paul found out his checking account was overdrawn by $150. And his work computer overheated and shut down at random.

Matt got kicked out of my office, got robbed by two bums downtown, then watched a crackhead scam two tourists out of $30.

And I got reprimanded (slightly) for having Matt at work, then ran out of things to do, and had trouble getting the interview I needed for Monday. (In retrospect, I ended up better than both of them ... but it sure didn't feel like it at the time.)

We decided against doing the bar thing. We were all just too pissed off about the turn of events today. So we ordered up sushi et cetera from Sekisui, grabbed a couple of six-packs (Abita Root Beer and Bawls for me, babeeey!), and chilled out over video games and TV.

In other words, just another Friday night around Casa de Kate. ^_^

Happy Birthday, Matt!

Mm, what do I remember about my 21st birthday? Unfortunately, not too much. It was during The Summer From Hell ... and I've systematically blocked most of those months out of my mind. I do remember wanting to go bowling, so Paul took me to Jillian's after dinner. The bartender comped me a cocktail which was bright blue from too much Curacao and tasted fairly horrible. We bowled with the bumpers on. Paul didn't let me win.

It's hard to believe that was only a few years ago. Some days -- like today -- I feel much older than my almost-25 years. I woke up to a 5 a.m. thunderstorm. (Did Matt leave my torch outside? was the only thought that pierced my grogginess.)

After dragging myself out of bed (6:45), then dragging Matt out of bed (7:10), then dragging Paul out of bed (8:27), I asked Matt if he wanted to ride downtown to work with me. He's been splitting his time between my home and office, because I feel bad leaving him alone all day.

This morning, however, I had e-mail from my boss. "There are liability and company policy issues ..." it said, so I kicked Matt out and staved off an anxiety attack brought on by the e-mail. I felt really bad then, because wandering around the business district of a foreign city is a crappy way to spend your first day of real adulthood. Fortunately, the downtown bums are keen on Matt (much nicer than the Detroit bums, he told me earlier this week), so he hasn't had to be alone.

I figure Paul and I will take him to Flying Saucer tonight. With 217 beers on the menu this season, I'm sure he'll find something he likes. Maybe I'll drag the boys over to Jillian's, too, for old times' sake.

It's funny how today, more than ever, I want to say something deep and prophetic about growing up. Something about how it's kind of fun ... but mostly crappy ... and that it's nothing like you imagine when you're a kid. But those words just don't seem adequate, considering that Matt has lived through more in 21 years than I will have lived through when I'm 45.

So I guess I'll just settle for this: Happy Birthday, Matt. You'll always be "my Mattie." Thanks for everything -- like giving me a new way of looking at stuff ... and talking in your funny northern accent ... and letting me ask you "Are you okay?" at least once every half-hour. Thanks for cleaning my house and singing in my car and respecting our friendship the way you do. Thanks for shutting me up when I need to be shut up. And thanks for those long, lone e-mails every once in a while when I thought you were gone for good. :)

Cheers, kiddo. Hope your 21st is one to remember.

Grasshopper learns patience

In the past week, I've cried more than I had in the last two years. It's a really strange sensation, feeling things again. Usually the Effexor keeps me on a pretty even keel (read: emotionless). What's changed? My perspective, I guess. New ideas. This is why, according to Paul, young scientists are in demand. They give the regulars a new way of looking at things. I thought I was lending a room to a friend. I didn't realize I was lending it to a master. Grasshopper waits to learn.

Last night, I mentioned to Matt I'd known him since he was 12 years old. "No way," he said, then paused. "Oh my god, you're right!" I asked him if it bothered him that, when we fell out of touch, he was always the one to contact me and not the other way around. He told me, "Well, sometimes it hurt my feelings that you never sent me a message or an e-mail." I cried and leveled with him: "I thought you'd grow up and get new friends and that'd be that. I didn't want to hold you back from living your life. I thought you'd move on."

"I did move on," he told me. "I just took you with me."

Oh boy. That hit home. Why had I never looked at it like that? None of us are stuck in one place like mosquitos preserved in amber. We're all constantly moving and changing and evolving. It's up to us to choose who and what gets to come along for the ride.

I think that for too long I have felt slightly out of control of my own life. I've been playing by others' rules: The university controls what I learn; the authorities control what I do; the tenets of my past control what I think. Well, no more. For god's sake, I'm tired of that. Nobody's in my head steering me around ... except me. And nobody's stopping me from doing exactly what I want to do. It's totally up to me. Holding on to that glimmer of freedom that's been lost for, like, 15 years absolutely elates me.

And here's where it all ties in. I'm not a patient person. I want to know and do and be and live everything right now. Why? Because it always feels like my hand is forced, so I might as well give in and get it over with (and try not to think about how much I'm hating it). When Lori told me I was searching for my purpose, I grilled her for answers. Did she know what I was supposed to do? Where I was supposed to go? How I was supposed to figure this all out (and as soon as possible)?

Well, last night, I had a sort of mental breakthrough about the whole thing. I don't need to push myself to learn everything right this minute. My life is up to me. Instead of looking outside myself for knowledge, I'm attempting to reach back inside to a place I was many years ago -- my core -- to heal myself piece by piece. And it may take me a long time to figure out what I'm doing. It simply doesn't matter. What matters is that the important people -- my gurus -- are waiting in the wings. They're ready to teach me when I’m ready to learn.

They're waiting for me to grab them by the hand and say, "I'm moving on. And I'm bringing you with me."

[EDIT: Wanted to added a slight postscript. Because my life is in my hands, I decided to wear my favorite clothes today -- my flowy black skirt with red pants underneath (why the hell not?!), my black ringer and my grey hoodie. Oh! And *white* socks and my favorite hiking boots with Rainbow Brite shoelaces. Hee hee!]

If... (a slight addendum to my last post)

I wanted to illustrate my last post AND jump-start the discussion amongst my friends, so I'm going to post a question from If...1,2,3 (which is apparently no longer in print in that form).

If you blog, post the answers there along with your own question. And if you don't, stick 'em in my comments. ^_^

"If you were to have bells ring out loud automatically (for all to hear) every time you did a certain thing, what would it be?"

My answer: Came up with a witty, on-target comeback.

Matt's answer: Swear. [Note from Kate: 97 times an hour, even in his sleep.]

Now ... your turn.

Psychiatrist, the game

The scene was Atlanta in October of 1999. I was sitting cross-legged on the stained comforter of a bed in a cramped discount motel. It was sometime after 2 a.m., and I was surrounded by a half-dozen young journalists. And we were playing Psychiatrist. If you've never played, I'm not going to teach you the rules. I mean, that's half the fun -- finding a victim and teaching as you go. I can't remember laughing so hard in recent years.

My favorite games are those in which you learn something about the other players in the process. Loaded Questions, Imaginiff and Zobmondo all rock my socks. (Incidentally, when I was looking for a link to those games, I noticed Spin The Bottle in a box. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought all that was required for Spin The Bottle was, well, a bottle!)

I think playing Psychiatrist made us all a little braver. So on the way back to Memphis from Atlanta -- somewhere between Marcus spitting raps and Matt playing his guitar -- somebody suggested we play Truth or Truth. You know, truth or dare without the dares. There were two rules: (1.) You had to answer the question truthfully; and (2.) You couldn't skip any questions.

They started off tame. "Where was your first kiss?" "What is your most sacred possession?" Emboldened, they started getting wilder. "How many partners have you had? Which is your least favorite?"

But after an hour or so, the questions kind of drifted deeper. The people we cared the most about. Where we'd like to be in 10 years. Our best childhood memory. Our worst fears.

Honestly, five years later, I don't remember much about that car ride -- other than we got so involved that we almost forgot to refuel the rental van. But I do remember the people on that trip. I remember that when we got back in Memphis, I was kind of sad that it was all over.

I'd highly recommend dragging your friends into this game. Don't start out too deep and they won't get scared. And if you're looking for ideas, check out the If... series of books by Evelyn McFarlane and James Saywell.

Now, I hear Mattie's on the way back to the office, so I'd better peace. Hugs, guys.

Tuesday Is Chooseday meme

In lieu of content, I bring you today's meme, taken from Tuesday Is Chooseday:



Either leave your answers or a link to your webpage with your responses.

Would you rather:
1. your ears be bleeding OR your eyes? Ears.
   
2. smell like vanilla cake frosting OR fresh-cut lime wedges? Lime.
   
3. get comments on your hair OR your smile? My smile.
   
4. have an addiction to coffee OR an addiction to bubble gum? Bubble gum!!

Shortest words of wisdom EVAR

A buddy of mine wrote me a long, philosophic e-mail Saturday about goats. Goats are very philosophical creatures. I wrote him back and told him, hey, nice e-mail ... but I can't think about it right now. Between hubby and house guest and video games and naps, I'm swamped, and I'll write you back when things calm down.

His reply: "Be. Enjoy."

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. That's pretty much what I'd like to spend the rest of my life doing ... being and enjoying. It's not easy, but it sure is zen.

So thanks for the words of wisdom, M. And good luck at that interview today. Or should I say ... "GOAT luck." /me ducks from the flying tomatoes

Chapelle, IGPX, and other boob tube news

Rick James is smiling down on us this morning. Just got a press release from Comedy Central --Chapelle's Show starts its 3rd season on May 31 at 10/9c. AND Reno 911! starts its 3rd season on June 13 at 10:30/9:30c. Write it down. (Or, if you're like me, set the TiVo and forget about it.) The press releases were vague, so I don't know what the episodes will be about. As soon as I know, I'll pass it along.

Other recent TV-type news:

• New South Park Wednesday. And if you miss it, on April 30 and May 1, Comedy Central is going to replay all the new episodes. Four episodes starting at 10/9c on April 30; the other four at the same time on May 1.
• Harvey Birdman Volume 1 DVD is out. Yippee!
• Cartoon Network has created and/or picked up a number of new shows. The ones that appeal the most to me are The Life and Times of Juniper Lee, My Gym Partner is a Monkey, and IGPX (The Immortal Grand Prix). The last one, which debuts in November, is the result of a partnership with Production IG and marks CN's debut in anime creation.
• New episodes of Foster's Home, Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi, Totally Spies, Billy & Mandy, Dragonball GT and Teen Titans (among others -- those are just the cool ones).

[EDIT: Almost forgot ... NEW episodes of Family Guy start May 1 on FOX. The network has ordered production of 35 episodes and agreed to air 13 (so far). The cool thing is that FOX got on the ball because (1.) FG did really well on DVD, and (2.) it jumpstarted a lagging Adult Swim. Power to the people, I guess.]

So ... that's that. Now back to more, err, mentally constructive pursuits.

Mumbling from the grogginess

I went to bed sometime after 5 a.m. It's now just past 10 a.m. I've gotten five hours of sleep and lost $2 in the process. Go me.

Sometime between the last of the J&Cs and the first of the pina coladas, Matt and I bet each other who could stay up longer. Dude is as stubborn as I am. I'm lucky that I didn't put any money down on Tekken, because he beat me five games in a row. I didn't win even once. And I'm like good at Tekken, too.

It's nice having someone around the house during Paul's 14-hour work days to talk to and goof off with. We even went grocery shopping(!) twice(!!) which did set off the anxiety a little bit, but not nearly as bad as I thought it might. Here's the real question: Am I really feeling decent again? Or am I just having a few good days in a row after which I'll lose it and crash? I guess time will tell.

Paul's awake. I feel like the guy on the answering machine in "Your Most Valuable Possession." Which means that I should probably go before I wake up and forget what was on my mind.

Mattie, Day 2 (my brain gets mushy)

God, I'm tired. It's strange having somebody else in the house. It's almost like living in the dorms again, because I've got to be conscious of not scaring the bejeezus out of anybody by, for example, screaming at my computer monitor. These are things that I do around Paul because, dude, he married me. He's stuck with it. ;-)

But I'm tired. I haven't slept well in two nights. I don't think it's because somebody else is in the house ... I think it's because I'm putting a lot of mental energy into maintaining conversation with him. It's funny, because the guy is just out of a hospital in Michigan for malnutrition. He only "eats" liquid supplements right now. His friends don't know he's sick. But his brain goes 90 miles an hour. When he's not talking, he's processing, and when he opens his mouth, bam!, it's some crazy insight that I haven't considered before.

So we drive and we talk. Just like in the old days with "the other Matt" (realize I know about eight of them). He smokes in my car, and I like it that way. "Do you smoke?" he asks me. I tell him I don't. "Did you?" I again reply no. "Are you going to start?" I pause ... then say no. Actually, it has nothing to do with that. I guess just some really important people in my life have been smokers, and I've learned some of life's greatest lessons sitting cross-legged outside on a blustery day on friends' smoke breaks. It's the smell of good memories, I tell him. "What," he replies, "the smell of cancer?"

He gets frustrated at how well I'm able to manipulate the conversation around to talking about him. I get frustrated at how he's able to do the same to me. After a while, I comment that we're going in circles, and until one of us stops fronting, we're not going to get anywhere. He says he wants to help me. I say he can't help me until he learns to help himself. Secretly, I fear he's going to die. Seriously.

He brings it up first. "You worry about me and feel obligated to take care of me." I shrug; it's true, but I don't want to admit it. He continues,"I'm here to teach you how to take care of yourself." I blink ... surely he didn't just say that. I remind him that he can't even take care of himself, so how can he teach me anything? He gets quiet ... I know that's struck a nerve. He doesn't like to admit that he has these self-worth issues. And from what I can tell, his friends back home don't notice, or he doesn't let them.

I tell him I think he's here not to take care of me, but because he knew he was sick and needed someone to take care of him. Maybe it's true, maybe not. Why else would he tell me things he doesn't tell his friends back home? It's going to take a few days to get this all sorted out.

Today, a friend reminded me I have to think of Kate first, others second. It looks good on paper, but it doesn't work so well in practice. I mean, I'll probably go home and lock my bedroom door and crash tonight because I feel like I'm two inches away from passing out. My head is throbbing and I've got a nosebleed (stupid allergy season!). But I won't crash until I'm sure that he's okay. I think that's what he needs. I think he knows that, too, or he wouldn't let me take care of him.

And after reading this, my City of Heroes buddies should have no question about why I play a healer. ^_^ I may not be able to save the world from villainy, but I can at least make sure my team is okay.

Send me happy thoughts ... and e-mails ... and choco-chip cookies.
Kate

Mattie comes to Memphis

I was scared. I was really, really scared. And there I was, driving around the airport parking lot, picking up ... who? Who was he really?

Well, his name is Matt -- Mattie, affectionately. I'd met him online when I was in 11th grade in Tennessee and he was in 8th grade in Michigan. I knew him before I knew Paul -- which is something that still blows my mind. I mean, I don't really remember a time before Paul. It's kinda like my life really started when I met him.

Anyway, I went off to college, Matt went off to high school ... and we kinda lost touch. Kinda. I mean every few months, there'd be an IM or an e-mail from one of us to the other. Life was hectic. I started putting in 14- or 15-hour days at the newspaper; he fell in with the "bad boys." And that was that. Very different lives punctuated by occasional contact. Once in a blue moon he'd call, but it was awkward.

Sometimes he'd tell me stories about his life. He lived on the streets for a while. He experimented with drugs, sold massive amounts of pot, bummed off friends ... and somehow found a way to survive. He'd IM now and then and ask if it bothered me. Of course it did! I'd known him since he was a child -- and I felt like I should be protecting him from a reality so harsh I'd never had to experience it myself. But even as I worried, I told him that I'd accept him no matter what he did, no matter how bad it got. I could question his behavior, disapprove of his choices, but I'd always accept him. That's what friends do.

And then he told me he wanted out. "Out?" I asked. Out of Michigan, he told me. Out of the lifestyle to which he'd grown accustomed. He said he wanted to travel. I said if he came through Memphis, I had an extra room he could borrow for a day or two. I made him promise he'd stay clean -- nothing illegal would come inside my house. He gave his word.

I never expected him to take me up on my offer. I figured somebody would talk him down and he'd end up staying in his world. But before I knew it, he had a plane ticket, and I had a bad case of anxiety. He told me not to worry; he could take care of himself. But I'd made a promise. And after eight years of very different lives taking us in the same direction, here I was, driving through the airport parking lot, looking for a guy I'd never seen.

I found him, told him to get in (dammit), and we were on our way. He was starting over. I was starting to relax. Fortunately, two people who have panic attacks seem to know how to handle each other. I've tried to make my house as non-threatening as possible; he hasn't broached any topic of conversation or action that sets me off.

This morning, I asked him the same thing I ask anyone I trust with my whole life and soul: Teach me. He grinned and asked me, "Teach you what?" I told him I wanted to know everything he knew. I wanted to know what made him tick. What he's picked up on the road the past few years. How it feels to be 20 years old and ... absolutely free. He mumbled a response, something about how I didn't need to know everything he's learned.

But that's just it. After eight years, I've become attached to the kid. As I said, he's my little bird. He sets off my "big sister instincts" and I feel like I should protect him -- even now. Even after he's seen things far worse than I could ever imagine. Even though he's very capable of taking care of himself (and me, too).

I've become resigned to the fact that before I know it, he will fly away, just like Ben Folds says in this song. He'll make friends here, find a place to stay, maybe get a (legitimate) job and push me into the back of his skull. And Paul and I will go on with our lives, work too much, play video games when we have time.

But in the next few days, I want to just shut up and listen. I believe there's a reason that after eight years, providence has placed Mattie on my doorstep. A wise woman once told me that I was searching for my place in this world, even after 24 years. And she said before I could find that place, I needed to listen and learn to remove the roadblocks around my heart.

So here I am. I don't know why he's here, or why you're here reading this, or why I'm here writing this. But I do know that wisdom comes in unlikely forms at unlikely times. And as long as I have breath in my body, I want to soak up the wisdom of those placed in my path.

And with that in mind, I want to share a quote that ended up in my inbox this morning. It rattled my brain around inside my head, the way that God's Debris did a few years ago. Here goes:

"The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it's real because that's how powerful our minds are. They buckle us in and the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills, and it's very brightly colored, and it's very loud, and it's fun and it's scary--for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time, and they begin to question, 'Is this real, or is this just a ride?' Some people start to forget what the ride is, and they all think, 'This ride must be real! Look at my job, look at my house, look at my car, look at my bank balance -- this must be real!' And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, 'Hey -- don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because, this is just a ride.' And we ... as a people ... kill those people."-- Bill Hicks

My friend, the shrink

In February, I mentioned that I had a friend, Tyler, who's a psychiatrist. He's part of the same gaming community I am, and he was the first person I talked to about starting therapy.

Anyway, I was poking around the file servers for my Web site and Paul's Web site, and I came across a stash of pictures from one of our LAN parties. And there was one of the funniest pictures of Tyler I've ever seen. I just had to share.

Does this look like the kind of guy you want to treat your mental condition?

"Good" morning? Ha!

In the words of Garfield, I may rise, but I won't shine.

Last night, I stayed up way too late talking to Paul about all sorts of stuff ... my therapy, his research, my new friend, his car problems. We talked and talked until my Go-To-Sleep-Pills kicked in ... and I fell asleep without setting my alarm.

You can see where this is headed. ^_^

This morning, I woke up 45 minutes late. Now, this isn't a big deal, because I get up three hours before I have to be at work. I reserve an hour for news (local and national) before I even hop in the shower. Still, there's a certain amount of shock that comes from rolling over and seeing the clock say something far different from what you're expecting.

So, I get up, and Paul tells me he's running to the store for breakfast. "I'm taking your car, if that's okay," he says. Sure, I reply, no problem. Ten minutes later, he's back with a bag of hash browns. "I had to take my car ... yours won't start."

Oh, greeeeat. Maybe it's just the terminals, I tell him. He should clean them with a can of Coke. And as long as he's cleaning them, he should use a can of C2, because I can't get rid of it any other way.

I start getting ready for work -- shower, makeup, hair -- while he jumps my car. He comes back to the bedroom and announces success: The car is running. I wonder aloud if it'll be good for the rest of the day, because I have to pick up a friend at the airport tonight, and I'd really hate to be stranded there.

This is the point at which he remembers(!) that he's used his keys to start my ignition. Way to plan ahead, babe. Well, no biggie. The alternator has had about 15 minutes to charge up the battery. We'll just turn off the car and switch out keys.

Except it won't turn back on. Same song, second verse.

So now, I sit at my computer blogging, mentally watching the work pile up on my desk at the office. Paul is at the Saturn dealership with my Vue. Now I can hear some of you saying: Hey, Kate, just drive Paul's car to work! I already thought of that, geniuses. But his brakes went out last weekend while he was on the road. He tells me, "They're fixed but I think there's some air in the line." In man-speak, this means, "They're still broken, but I can be tough about this because my car isn't yet wrapped around a tree." In short, I'm not touching his car with a 10-foot pole until I'm sure it's okay (and not just sorta okay, but really really okay).

Anyway, GOOD MORNING folks! I figure the day can't get much worse, so it's all up from here. I mean, I've had my daily share of crap, so the rest of the day is going to be marvelous to make up for it, right? Right???

A couple of poems

Um, I pulled out a volume of Billy Collins tonight, and a volume of Kerouac, and my little green book of poetry that's stayed at my side for six-odd years now. I don't write much these days, just when something really becomes overwhelming.

Therapy was hard tonight. I cried a lot. And tomorrow, Matt flies into town ... my little bird ... just out of the hospital and trying to break out of his world. Oh, so many things running around my head that I'm just not ready to talk about yet.

I wrote this on the way home, pulled over in a gas station parking lot, under the fluorescent lights streaming into the car. I just needed to get it out.

Hiding
Once upon a time, the game was hide-and-seek --
You shut your eyes and started counting
While I tucked myself into a willow
Shielded from the world.
Ready or not, here you came,
And I held my breath as you passed by,
smiling, undetected.
But somewhere along the way
You found other games that held your interest,
Like Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare
and Seven Minutes in Heaven.
So I waited under the branches,
Drawing your name in the sandy soil.
And here I stand, a decade later,
Behind the fence built around my tree,
Splay myself, beg you to find me,
Wonder if you even remember the rules of the game.
Ready or not, are you here? Are you coming?
Because I'm tired of hiding,
and, oh God, I'm ready to let go.

Um ... and one from my little green book, just because it's here. Normally, nobody (not even Paul) is allowed to look in it, but I'm feeling brave.

Lines
Every line depicts a purpose,
so the city draws up lines around itself --
a cloak of familiar concrete,
glass facades,
angles and heights.
And we queue up in our lines,
Drive straight to work,
Never consider breaking the mold.
We are purposeful in our conveniences,
Thoughtless as we are told
where to write-park-stand-gather-group
As the city breathes, shivers and stutters,
Straightens up
and retraces long-established lines
As if circles were God.

The Geek Test ... and The Really Bad Day

I just took The Geek Test: http://www.innergeek.us ... and found out I was more of a geek than I realized. In fact, I am 56.31026% geek, which ranks me as an Extreme Geek.

Sigh, sigh. I didn't even exaggerate ... I answered truly and honestly. But, I mean, they asked very pointed things that I couldn't deny. Like that I have a computer at home without a case. And that I've been in both math and science competitions. And that I've hosted a LAN. And that I married somebody I met on the Internet.

Plus, I got a 1% bonus for being a geeky female. I can actually understand that, because in my circle of gamers, there are actually very few women. I mean a lot of the guys have wives or girlfriends back at home, but most of them aren't into the whole techie thing. I'd say there are less than 10 in ArsClan, total. And none of them play City of Heroes, other than me.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Now on to something only marginally related!

I've had some really bad days in my time. Really REALLY bad days. But nothing like one of the guys I game with, The_Ronin. Ronin and his wife were at my wedding ... and their daughter was born nine months later. Coincidence?! I think not.

Last September, he posted a (true) story on the forums about his vacation with his wife (nicknamed Hot Wifey) and daughter (nicknamed Roninette). Let's just say it started out bad, and only got worse.

Go on and laugh at his misfortune. He'll never know. Oh -- and you don't have to be a member of the forums to read, either, so no excuses. Here's the link: You know you are cursed when ...

"Maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen"

My head is all over the place today. Little pieces of me here and there. So I figured I'd just pick up the pieces one by one and share. And you get to come along for the ride.

Numero Uno: What's on my piano stand

• Lyrics for "Adia" (Sarah McLachlan) and "Still Fighting It" (Ben Folds)
• Selections from Cats (I actually sat down at 7 a.m. to play "Skimbleshanks" -- my hands were too trembly to get ready for work, so I played until I felt better
• 19 Chopin pieces (played "Prelude in E minor" when I came home from work, even before I changed clothes. It was that kind of day.)
• Bach's Two- and Three-part Inventions
• "Walking in Memphis"
• And three books I'm ignoring: Czerny's Art of Finger Dexterity, School of Velocity, and 160 Eight-Measure Exercises. I really need these books, and I hate Czerny. Blech. Somebody force me to play these. Please.

Numero Dos: Kate Makes a Friend

Such a strange thing, that. You know, I'm almost afraid to really make friends anymore, I mean to open up to someone on a one-by-one basis. That happened during The Summer From Hell. I talked, and I listened. I listened, and I talked. I trusted too much. I peeled away layer after layer thinking that somewhere under there I'd gain understanding, and instead I hit a nerve. It hurt me very badly, losing that friend.

That year, that summer, we each had our own lives to live and our own problems. And we came together and shared and learned -- maybe we learned all we could from each other -- and then the world started spinning out of control, and we went back to our own lives and our own problems.

So what does this have to do with today? I don't know. I guess when somebody reads all this and knows I have issues and still sticks around when the chips fall, well, that impresses me. But every time I open my mouth, a part of me thinks I'm better shutting down, putting up the fence, pretending like I'm invincible so that I never get hurt.

I guess I never learn from my mistakes. But in this case, I don't think I want to. When you take a leap, you fall. But you sure get a beautiful view on the way down.

Numero Tres: In the Spirit of Cringe

Remember that I live in my childhood home. Any time I want to, you know, relive my childhood, I just have to go into my bedroom. :-P So I found a couple of hand-written folded-up notes from high school. You know the ones you pass across a room and hope the teacher doesn't see. These are circa 1995.

• Hey Kate! Have you even begun to pack? I am yet to even start. I am busy to(sic), trust me. I have to call my mom after school, because I didn't catch her before band. She went to court. I will find something to do. I only have over 1 dollar so I need to find my mom somehow. I am looking forward to Canada too! 2 more days! We are going to have so much fun in our room! Have you done your letters yet? Well, I'll see ya later. Love ya, Bets. P.S.- I like the end of your note, Thanks, that made my whole day (yeah right)
• Dear Kate; Hey, what's ^. I have you note but you'll have to wait till after school to hear it. I hope you have a good day because this is a good note and definitly(sic) something to look forward to. I think Angie and I are getting on better terms (friends) again. I wish you and I had more classes together. I drove the Jimmy today so I dont have to mess w/the truck. I guess I'll talk to you later. Sorry So Short! but the other note will be well worth the wait. WMB

Well, there you have it. Three things to ponder. Four, if you count the two notes separately. I bet nobody else can dig up notes from their freshman and sophomore years of high school, because most mothers aren't packrats who save every piece of paper that passed through their daughter's hands! :)

Love, hugs, fluffy bears. -k-

My newest gadgety distraction

3:07 p.m. Thursday, a coworker walks into my office bearing a padded envelope with my name scrawled across the front in gigantic Sharpie. I raise an eyebrow; I wasn't expecting a package. My first thought: anthrax. My second: bomb.

I decide to take my chances, so I tear open a corner, and drop a palm-sized device into my hand. What the hell?

It was this: ^_^


A color Sidekick! Last October, I hosted a LAN party at my new house. One of the guys (an ex-Effexor junkie gone clean) had promised me he'd send over his old hiptop when he got home. After six months, I'd totally forgotten about it. And here it was, resting in my hand.

I swear, I heard choirs of angels. It was frickin beautiful. Of course, he didn't send a charger ... or any instructions ... or even a note. (I've noticed this is something peculiar to guys. Every hard drive or mobo or video card we've traded out with our long-distance buddies shows up in a crazily duct-taped box -- usually not even the box the product came in -- with no manuals or anything.)

Anyway, after work, I went to T-mobile to add the Sidekick to my plan. That's when I encountered Small Problem #1: T-Mobile stores don't carry home chargers. So, in lieu of waiting a week to order one from their Web site, I bought a car charger and plugged it in. Then I drove around the 'burbs long enough for it to power on ... which is when I hit Small Problem #2: There was a frickin' security code to get into the system. And I didn't know it.

I pulled over and tried the obvious combinations: 123 and 000 and 666 and 404 (remember: this belonged to a techie). I did the math in my head. A three-digit combination ... 10 digits ... that's only 1,000 possibilities. I roll my eyes and start: 111. 112. 113. 114. And that's when I notice that after three tries, it starts to time you out for progressively longer periods before you can enter another combination. Oh, brother.

Well, to make a long story slightly shorter, after five hours, I gained access to my Sidekick. ^_^ It has its own e-mail address (katesink[at]tmail[dot]com). You can also AIM me at LemonKitty. Just let me know who you are, because I tend to block with a vengeance.

I've found decently priced Sidekick cameras and AC adapters at eBay, so chances are I'll pick them up in this week and start photoblogging, a la Logik (a.k.a. Mr. Sizzlepants). But I'll do my moblogging here instead of at Hiptop Nation, because it's just less confusing that way. ;-)

Oh! One more thing. When I was searching around for Logik's moblog, I came across the cameraphone noodle fortune-teller and the cameraphone boba fortune-teller. Take a photo of your boba (in Memphis, try Chang's Bubble Tea -- two locations) or your noodles (My buddy Sam suggests the incredibly ramyun Bowl Noodle). Then e-mail your photos to bedope ... and in 24 hours or less, fortune-tellers will predict your future based on the shapes of your food.

So, what's the verdict? Is cameraphone food interpretation crazy or inspired? Talk amongst yourselves.

Strength stares me in the face

I am nothing like my mother.

She is relatively short and petite, with coarse blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a really obsessive drive to clean (dust, polish, wash, sweep, etc.) I, on the other hand, am tall and large, with thick almost-black hair, deep-set black eyes, and the organizational abilities of a four-year-old.

I am sure this is largely because I am adopted. :-P

But all joking aside, she is my mother. The only one I've ever known. And for all the bickering we did when I was a teenager, I now realize it's because I'm very much like her. I'm stubborn about the same things, I'm just as possessive, and sometimes I hate the thought that, "Gee, this is sooo what my mother would do." It drives me crazy!

I have a lot for which to thank my mom. She taught me to read when I was three, she started my piano lessons that same year, she took me to swimming lessons and T-ball practice and storytime with Miss Ann at the library. She even quit her job for 10 years to raise me -- and don't think that sacrifice is lost on me.

But there's another reason I admire my mom. She's so strong, even when I feel weak. When I'm crying, she cries, too. When I need support, she listens. And I know she prays for me (and Paul and my therapist and my coworkers ... and everyone else around me) every day.

Six years ago, Mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 melanoma. Today marks the 5th anniversary of her remission. Her dermatologist says she's in the clear. We're having a party, but I don't think I'm going to be able to choke out the words I really want to say: Thank you for still being here, especially now. Thank you for being yourself and sacrificing yourself and giving of yourself to make me who I am. And thank you for taking me in. You're the only mother I've got, and I'll always love you.

Someday, when I'm not so secretive about this blog, I'll show her this and she'll cry, and I'll cry. But not tonight. Tonight we celebrate five years of strength. Five years that proves to me that if I, too, can be strong and overcome this pain that seems to be choking the life out of me.

Did I say I was nothing like my mother? Yes. But I'm becoming more and more like her every day.

Love you, Mom. <3

Why bookstores stock books nobody reads

Once upon a time (a little over two years ago), I worked in a bookstore. I was the lead bookseller for a (huge) section of the store that included teen fiction and non-fiction, sports, science/technology, audio books, pets, automotive, self-help, cookbooks, diet, fitness, yoga/pilates, wine, study guides, foreign languages, large print ... and psychology.

Now, I'm going to assume most of you approach a bookstore the same way I do: Enter store. Browse around. Choose book. Buy book. Exit store. But, no no, that's not the way things are done at the megachains. Basically, about 10 percent of customers treat the bookstore as an extension of the library: Enter store. Find table. Plop down bookbag. Find 10 or 12 reference books. Do homework. Buy soda. Spill soda. Leave books and spilled soda on table. Exit store. The bookstores have enough cash flow to put up with customers like these in the name of "courtesy."

But because of this, a number of textbooks end up floating around the store with no potential buyer. John Doe will come in and order The Complete History of Chartreuse-Colored Major Household Appliances. The book arrives and he looks through it to "make sure it's what he wants." (Funny how the act of looking through the book appears quite similar to "studying for his midterm exam.") Then, having decided he doesn't really need the book after all, he leaves it in the store, and the bookstore is stuck with it. Sometimes they can send it back to the manufacturer, but not if it's been taken out of its cellophane wrapper or it's been damaged in some way (the spine's been broken, etc.)

The net effect is that the books that people want to read are shelved among books that stagnate for years. One book that perpetually migrated from my section to The Table Where Suzie Does Her Homework was the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV. It's a book that didn't have a lot of buyers ... but it certainly had a lot of readers.

Last night, I finally saw the inside of a DSM-IV. I didn't tell Miriam that I knew what it was, because extraneous details take up time, and I'm on a one-hour schedule. But I was given a diagnosis test made up of mostly yes-no questions, such as, "Have you ever had a panic attack?" and "Do you fear that you're going to die?" and "Would you ever let a monster bite, eat or kiss your fingers?" So she starts into these questions, and I notice right away that she's flipping back and forth between several dozen pages.

"This is like one of those books where you choose what happens next," she tells me. "Ah," I reply, "like the Choose Your Own Adventure series, huh?"

Totally like Choose Your Own Adventure. Except this is Choose Your Own Disorder. The possibilities are endless!

I briefly thought about trucking over to the bookstore today and actually flipping through the DSM. But I'm restraining myself for two reasons: (1.) I'm paying for somebody to do the diagnoses for me, and (2.) I'd hate to piss off some current bookstore employee who will one day keep a blog complaining about her former customers. ;-)

Today, I head to the shrink for a med check. So many appointments, I think my head (and my pocketbook) may explode! I think everything's good with my meds, but I'll report back with the final verdict from Dr. Boyd.

Hugs, kisses and choco-chip cookies for everyone. XOXOXO

How I got a boo-boo on my finger :(

This is going to sound rather backwards. Yesterday, my finger ran into a nail. (No hammer was involved.)

I was walking down some steps after having a grilled tuna sammich at my favorite hole-in-the-wall, when I squarely hit my finger upon a nail sticking out of a wooden railing. There is a distinctly nail-shaped blackish-purple spot on my fingernail. It hurts.

Fortunately, it's not my writing hand. Unfortunately, it is my video game-playing hand. And half of my pair of piano-playing hands. And one-tenth of the fingers needed for touch-typing. Horrible, isn't it? :-)

Anyway, because I'm (very very slightly) injured, I'm cutting this post short and pointing you in the direction of Amy Winfrey's hilarious series Making Fiends and Big Bunny. That should keep you occupied for the balance of the afternoon. (And, if your coworkers are anything like mine, it'll keep them busy, too!)

The analysis begins

So I've begun writing up the song analysis stuff for Carrie. (And Monstee, who apparently has an amazing Boobaholic theory. Do share!) ^_^

I've written up information on six songs. It took longer than I expected. I expect to append that link with the other four once they're finished.

Now to answer some pressing questions:

#1. The list: I have apparently left off the Ramones, Sisters of Mercy, Oingo Boingo, and They Might be Giants. Oh, and Rusty Knight reminded me I left off Ozzy, too. What's the deal with that? Well, let's see here. (1.) I grew up in a strict Southern Baptist family. I listened to lots of gospel music, a la The Gaither Family Circus (or whatever it's called). The most secular music I had was Mom's Barry Manilow cassette. Note of much importance: I am not insulting the Gaithers. I had a little brain fart, and could only think of the cartoon "Family Circus." So there's no malice intended. I left it because I'm lazy. /end Note of much importance

When I met Paul at 16 (1996), I listened to HIS parents' music: Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Guns 'n' Roses, Metallica, Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, White Zombie, etc. But no Ramones, Sisters of Mercy, etc. In college, I found a lot of great women singer-songwriters. I also became a fan of TMBG(!), Too Much Joy and some random other stuff.

I grew up at a piano -- I started lessons at three. So, largely, my repertoire is classical or stuff I learned by ear. But you can't really analyze lyrics for a solo piano sonata.

#2. Psychologist Wannabe: I'll admit it, Monstee. I made an assumption -- which makes an ass out of u and mption. If you'd like to show me roadkill, I prefer squirrels and marmots. Yes, you can eat them when we're finished.

And, yes, since you brought it up -- I'd like to start a meme of other people's 10 most meaningful songs. You don't have to explain why, because I just found out that takes freaking forever.

Now on to something completely different. I'm off to slay baddies in City of Heroes. My main character is named Mary-Kate. Here's a picture of me gettin' down wit' my bad self. but I also have characters named SuperNub, Normal Norman, Spooky Joe and Catatonic. The last one's a healer that doubles as a furry -- Cat-a-tonic! Get it?

Here's a picture with a bunch of my teammates, and here's a link to the directory of photos. ^_^

Connected/Disconnected

Disconnection: When I got to work this morning, the office e-mail was down. It's eerie and isolating. No press releases, no meeting announcements ... nothing.

When the e-mail's down, we all become extraordinarily solitary creatures. Not a single person has darkened my doorway with things to proof. Nobody's stopped by to ask for a bag of tea or read today's Get Fuzzy comic on my page-a-day calendar.

And, because my office is sandwiched between the break room and the women's restroom, I can also say with some certainty that nobody's peed or gotten coffee. (In retrospect, this sentence came out all wrong, but I'm leaving it for the comedic value.)

Could it be that when the office e-mail goes down, the office itself goes down, too?

Music Therap-ized

4:10 p.m. Sunday, I receive e-mail from my best buddy, Carrie (the page is outdated -- sorry). Here are bits and pieces of her e-mail...

As I mentioned in my IM, I've been thinking about music therapy strategies for you. Now, typically I'm in the educational end of music therapy, but I've also had exposure to more "therapeutic" forms of music therapy.

... I was noticing that you have a fear of playing piano in front of anyone, which I won't touch at the moment except to say that it sounds to me you are worried about what others may think of you. Miriam should be giving you more insight on this in the near future, I'm sure.

But I'm also thinking that if *I* were your music therapist, I would start with having you list about 10 songs that you really like and are really important to you, and explain why. ... And I'm not just talking about the songs that "sounds cool." I'm talking about some of those you quote lyrics to because they really MEAN something to you. This is one of those lyric-analysis type of activities. ...

Hmm. A tall order, no? But I spent about three hours this afternoon coming up with a list of songs that mean a lot to me -- at different times and for different reasons. Now, I may wake up tomorrow morning and disagree with my choices ... but I kind of doubt it.

10 Songs That Mean Something to Me (in alphabetical order, not order of importance)

1. The Beekeeper, Tori Amos
2. Hold Me Now, Polyphonic Spree
3. Hurt, Nine Inch Nails
4. Little Earthquakes, Tori Amos
5. My IQ, Ani DiFranco
6. Never Thought, Roger Clyne
   
7. Precious Illusions, Alanis Morissette
8. Providence, Ani DiFranco
9. Tonight Tonight, Smashing Pumpkins
10. We're In This Together, Nine Inch Nails

I guess I will post my little analysis thingies later. Just trying to get the list out there so that I can start on it one piece at a time.

Carrie (and all you other psychologist wannabees out there [Monstee]) -- get to work.

Hiearchy of fears

Lauren graciously offered to do my therapy "homework" if I'd do her math homework. Now, I vaguely remember calc from my college days -- but only vaguely. I took a self-taught course because I didn't want to deal with teachers. Self-taught courses go something like this: Read textbook. Pretend you understand. Fake your way through 15 tests. Pass. Get on with your life.

In other words, Lauren, you're probably better off getting small marmots to do your math. Which means, sadly, I'm stuck doing my own crap for therapy. Boo-hoo.

Anyway, I spent Saturday making my hiearchy of annoying fearsome things. I left off the crazy stuff like "the back room of my house" and "those homeless men downtown that mutter to themselves." I mean, I don't expect Miriam to be a miracle worker, and there's no need for her to think I'm looney.

Kate's Hiearchy of Fears (from only-kinda-sorta-scary to really-frickin-gonna-die-scary)

• Commuting to and from work (yucky, but I have to do it to, you know, keep my job)
  
• Going to yoga class (only 2 people, so not too scary)
• Cleaning house -- ugh
• Parallel parking
• Watching scary/suspenseful movies or TV shows
• Answering my phone (with caller ID)
• Being asked to explain/talk/go to meetings at work
• Going to the doctor
• -- THIS IS THE POINT AT WHICH I PURPOSELY START AVOIDING STUFF --
• Making phone calls to friends
• Answering my phone (without caller ID)
• Going out to lunch/coffee/etc. with one friend
• Playing my piano in front of anybody
• Being around friends' pets I'm not familiar with (but are tame)
• Going to the store/mall if something is truly needed
  
• Grocery shopping at a smaller store (i.e. Kroger)
• -- THIS IS THE LEVEL AT WHICH THE MERE THOUGHT MAKES ME SHUDDER --
  
• Going out to lunch/coffee/etc. with more than one friend
• Making phone calls to people I do not know
• Large family gatherings (birthdays, holidays, etc.)
• Going to the mall if nothing is needed
• Office parties (holidays, baby showers, etc.)
• Facing confrontation (upset coworker, somebody asking for spare change)
• Grocery shopping at a big box (i.e. Wal-Mart)
• Acceptance in everyday life (constantly asking if I measure up)
• Being home alone -- yuck.
• Being in public places without Paul -- double yuck.

After I made up my list, I asked Paul to name things that scared me -- just to see if I'd left anything off the list. "People," he replied. "That pretty much covers it."

If he or I come up with more scary things (no, Paul, they can't be incredibly vague!), I assume this list will be appended. But not right now. I feel the need to go back to bed -- a decidedly un-anxious place. :)

Whaddya mean, there's homework?!

I met Miriam last night. She's very nice. Unfortunately, the conversation (and the associated panic) have left me pretty worn out today.

She says she's never seen a client with the level of anxiety I present. She also says this is exciting for her, which makes me feel a little like a lab rat. But I also feel kind of special, because I'm so ... intriguing(?) ... that the chair of the department is advising her on my case. :-)

So what are her initial thoughts? Well, apparently, I'm all about the avoidance, although I hadn't really consciously thought of it that way. On the fight-or-flight continuum, I'm so far on the flight side that I'm growing wings. But I still wasn't prepared for her to drop the bomb.

"I know you're anxious now, but soon you'll come in here and this room will feel safe. But when you leave, the world out there will be the same -- and it'll still be scary. So there will be assignments of things to do to help you each week."

Wait a second! There's homework?! Nobody told me there was going to be frickin' homework! And to make it worse, it's homework I don't want to do because it's facing the very things that scare me.

My homework between now and Tuesday:

1. Start journaling. (Yes, she said blogging counted, so I'm good to go on this front. Maybe I should charge you guys for participating in my therapy, huh?)
2. Look up anxiety support groups. (I told her I thought support groups were only for alcoholics and pregnant women. She told me, yeah, people with social anxiety don't really take too well to forming groups where they have to, you know, meet socially. Hee hee!)
3. Make a hiearchy of scary things. Not like rape and murder, but things that normal people can handle that make me panic. Like grocery shopping -- which is why I've gone to the store only once since December.)

Like I said, I'm worn out. But apparently I have several years of weekly appointments ahead of me before I feel like the "old Kate." (She said I could go twice weekly if I want. Um, no thanks.)

P.S. I took my Schleppy bear. She asked, so I told her he went to all my scary doctor's appointments. Truth is, he goes to all my appointments, not just the scary ones. Never know when you might need a hug from somebody cuddly and non-judgmental.

P.P.S. At some future point, she wants me to learn relaxation techniques, but she said I'm so anxious that she doesn't believe they'd even help me right now. Crazy, huh?