The End is Near (Musings of the Last Days)

On Friday the 20th, I accidentally stabbed myself in the finger with a knife.
It was an avocado accident.
As I bled all over my kitchen, I recall saying something about just how much that week had sucked and to cap the whole affair off with plunging a knife into a poor defenseless finger… let’s just say that I was not best pleased.
Happily, my finger has healed up quite nicely, and being a nerd, I’ve been rather fascinated with the whole process (not to mention how much blood can pour out of an appendage so small). I had a restful week, a lovely Christmas, and a spirited viewing of the nonsensical Doctor Who Christmas Special with friends (it was a bit of a let down, sorry to say… the episode, not the friends…).

Now, quite rested and not in the possession of any extra holiday pounds, I’ve been thinking about the upcoming year.
I’m not going to make any resolutions.
I kept a few of the ones that I made last year, but I don’t really need the extra pressure. All of the things that I want to do will still be on my “to-do” list without needing to, say, stab myself in the finger with a knife if I don’t master them in 2014.

I kid.
No, really, that was an avocado accident.

It has been suggested (this morning, in fact) that I look for a husband in 2014… because people are both hilarious and sensitive. After more discussions about my singleness than I’m comfortable with this month, I really don’t need pointed jokes on the subject.
Also, where precisely am I supposed to be looking?
Is there a husband dealership somewhere? Do they sell husbands on the black market? Is there an underground racket for husbands?
Are there epic quests I must complete for a husband to appear like the Goblet of Fire?
Is there a magical map?
And what will he be doing while I’m looking? Is he actively running in the opposite direction (are we playing “Capture the Flag”?), or is he sitting at his desk eating bon-bons?
Am I required to bring more bon-bons as a bribe?
Shall I dress like Hunter from Neverwhere and carry a great spear?
Would that be attractive or terrifying? I can never tell…

One day, I shall have cards printed to inform people that they have breached the boundaries of good taste and are therefore invited to pull their beaks out of my business.
Maybe I’ll do that in 2014… beautiful little embossed and monogrammed “nunya bidness” cards.

I am, in general, looking forward to 2014… not because I expect anything to change greatly, but because there’s simply nowhere else to look.
2013 is essentially over, and it was a strange little year and I’m not quite sure we were friends, but 2014 is fresh and has no mistakes in it yet.
I shall, of course, be documenting the mistakes here as they happen.

Holly and Ivy Friday

Christmas holiday is so close, I can taste it…
…and it tastes like a roasted pork loin, people.
Roasted pork.

Oddly enough, this week, focused on the concept of joy, has been less fun than one might expect.
Well, I’ll just say it… it’s sort-of sucked.
No one has died, and there were good moments to be had… islands of fun in an ocean of molten lava.
Everything seemed to go just slightly askew, and I was suddenly sort-of… unhappy.
But, I did learn something: sometimes (just sometimes… I doubt this will work if your pet has been hit by a car) you can reclaim your Christmas spirit by having a ZOEGirl dance party (alone, in your apartment, alone).
Does anyone remember ZOEGirl?
Memory a bit fuzzy?

1) BOOM.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

2) Jamie the Very Worst Missionary
Her Christmas tree fell over, which seemed indicative of her personal feelings this season. This resonated with me, because it just might be time that we allow people to feel what they feel, particularly during the Christmas season. Everyone is not over the proverbial moon because it’s Christmas, and maybe instead of commanding them to buck up and stop being a drag, we need to honor them enough to respect their emotions and walk through the season with them.
By “walk through the season with them”, I mean being camly supportive.
I do NOT mean constantly shouting various scriptures at them.
STOP. IT. NOW.

3) Powerpuff Doctors, anyone?

Can we talk about how adorable Capaldi is?
Yes, he’s adorable in real life, but I’m referring to the sweet little Powerpuff with HUGE, HUGE EYES.
Check out the article on The Mary Sue… because there’s a War Doctor Powerpuff… with a goatee.

Now, In the middle of writing this, I had to run to the post office. I promptly lost the PO Box keys the second I got out of the car, forcing me to kneel in a wet, disgusting, public parking lot to look under the car… I PUT MY HAND IN SOMETHING STICKY, moved the car seats back and forth, drove back to my office, stomped inside, re-searched my purse, looked through my desk, FINALLY WASHED THE STICKINESS OFF OF MY HAND, stomped back out to my car, and finally located the keys in a random cup holder that I suppose they must have fallen into, but I would have appreciated finding them BEFORE I PUT MY HAND IN A STICKY SOMETHING IN A GOVERNMENT PARKING LOT, THANKS…
This week has been like those suspicious chocolates that taste okay on the outside and give way to something chewy and gross on the inside.
This week has not been great.
That’s okay. I’m not doing Christmas wrong because I can’t seem to unclench my jaw right now.
Joy is not about never wanting to punch a week, or a day, or a neighbor, or the maintenance guy at your apartment complex who LIED about fixing your washer in the face.
Maybe joy is the bedrock underneath all of those moments that allows you to acknowledge them and let go of them, realizing that being really, horrendously embarrassed in public is not a life-ending situation, and the fact that your trifle declared mutiny is not going to ruin your Christmas.

Maybe joy is what lets us get over the bad things and refocus on the good things.
Things like Powerpuff Capaldi.

Why Won’t the Pudding Thicken?

It’s official.
I can’t have nice things.
After stirring consistently for an hour, and having to remove the pudding from the heat so that it wouldn’t scorch, it was steadfastly refusing to thicken.
The pudding had one job… and it couldn’t even do that.
I mean, what does that say about our society, when even a pudding can rebel against it’s function?!
I was a bit… riled, to be honest.
I am not a woman to be riled.
That’s not to say that I would do anything about being so recklessly trifled with… I just don’t like it, is all.
So, while layering the thinner-than-I-was-comfortable-with pudding over the vanilla wafers, I noticed that the wafers were floating.
FLOATING.
Rising to the surface.
Apparently, this is what happens when your pudding doesn’t do it’s job.

I had already decided to forego the meringue in favor of eggnog whipped cream (because it’s Christmas), so I violently threw the dish in the oven, and hoped that my level of pique and my years of experience in successfully crafting this dessert (I once used ginger snaps… and nearly killed a very thin man with very thin arteries… that was not my fault… I didn’t tell him to eat it with a serving spoon…) would be taken into consideration during this final phase.

Would you like to hear the punch line?
THERE ISN’T ONE. I STILL DON’T KNOW HOW IT TURNED OUT.
I WON’T KNOW UNTIL TONIGHT, WHEN I FINISH WHIPPING THE EGGNOG, SMEAR IT ON THE TOP (WITH A REASONABLE SPRINKLING OF NUTMEG), AND THEN PRESENT IT TO A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE NEVER EATEN FOOD PREPARED BY THESE HANDS BEFORE.

I’m just concerned about the texture, that’s all.
Nobody likes a crunchy trifle.

How Great Our Joy

SO… since I’m writing about joy today, I thought the best thing to do would be to fall down in my apartment parking lot… wearing a dress… carrying things made of glass…
The glass didn’t break, but that added to my irritation level considerably.

When people ask me how I am today, I plan to say, “Wet.”

I think we all know at this point that I love Christmas, and I love winter, but the third week of December is generally when I want to start enjoying my winter and Christmas from the seclusion of my home. There’s been caroling and incessant baking and performance after performance intermixed with Yuletide work deadlines, and now, in the words of that whiny idiot Santa (from “The Year Without A Santa Claus”), “Great North Star, but I’m tired.” I’m so tired that starting to run out of words to speak aloud, and I can fall asleep at the drop of the proverbial hat.

Last year, this really bothered me. I thought it said something (something snide, of course) about my level of Christmas spirit, like I couldn’t keep up with the Elf on the Shelf (is it just me, or is that little thing Grade A nightmare fuel?).
This year, I have determined that this feeling is a bit like the pleasantly exhausted feeling you get after doing something… well, pleasantly exhausting. I’m glad that I have so many opportunities to dress in concert black and memorize oodles of traditional music and consistently run out of butter and flour (it’s always butter and flour… never eggs…). I’m glad that I have acquaintances and friends who want to celebrate, and even if I get a trifle owlish when the juice starts to run out, I’m (usually) rather glad that I came. I’m glad that my Christmas shopping is done, and I haven’t had to walk into a real live store to do it (HA HA!!!).

I’m glad it snowed so much this year, and despite still being a bit grumpy (and wet) due to icy residue this morning, I can say I’m I’m glad I did yoga yesterday, because not landing on and breaking both of my wrists required a level of flexibility that I might not have had if I had fallen Sunday morning.I’m glad that next week, I’ll get to close up my office and sleep in until 6am EVERY DAY!!!
I’m glad that we have a really good, concrete reason to celebrate that isn’t limited to something as subjective as one’s personal feelings about the season (see what I did there?).

So there, horrible creepy elf.
I can do this whole joy thing as well as the next guy.

I think, at this point, I can safely say that I am glad for very nearly all the things (which, considering what a wobbly year this has happen, that is quite the miracle).

Not Quite a Violin, Definitely Not a Pipe

Ever since I got started on this lovely little Sherlock Holmes kick, I have been envious of his ability to play the violin (I’m also a trifle envious of his pipe addiction, but we’re not going to talk about that).
There’s something intellectual about the violin, isn’t there?
Violins are the British accents of the orchestra world… everything just sounds more intelligent coming from them (I do, on some level, feel the same way about any stringed instrument… which I why I dabbled in flute, and took piano lessons for ten years… I am uncool).
Kronos quartet, anyone?
How about Bernard Hermann’s violins in “Psycho”?
Do they, or do they not, make murder most foul sound absolutely divine?
Is that a weird thing to say? Was that over the top? I can never tell.

I recently finished Maria Konnikova’s “Mastermind: How to Think Like Sherlock Holmes” (I recommend it), in which Holmes’ violin allowed his brain to consciously disconnect from the rigors of his case, allowed the subconscious to take over and make the connections that Holmes couldn’t see.
The pipe also performed the same function, but like I said, we’re not going to talk about smoking today, thank you.
I thought, “That’s what I need! Brilliant!” So I’ll admit to feeling a bit disappointed in myself after reading those words and striving to craft a list of tasks that are stimulating and enjoyable, but also allow me to consciously disengage.

Let me just say that the page was BLANK.
I don’t play a violin, my flute is both dreadful and no longer with us, and my piano playing was always very technical and required Herculean concentration.

I occasionally refer to my mind as “The Hamster Wheel”, because there are always bits of information whirling around in there, and during the course of a day, there are few moments of conscious mental silence. I was a bit frustrated, because in those moments when I desperately need to think and yet to not think, I have very few skills that are engrained so deeply that I can do them without conscious effort.

Then it occurred to me… setting aside any terrors beforehand and any self-recriminations afterwards, singing is my instinctive conscious thought shutter-upper. When I am singing, it’s one of the few times in which I am completely, 100% comfortable. Even taking into account nerves, crackly post-nasal drip voice, and the very real possibility of sailing off of any given platform at any given moment into oblivion (is that just me? I always feel like I’m teetering on the edge), singing has become an instinctive expression. I can sing without thinking about singing, which frees me up to think about other things. I’ve done it so often that I know what my voice will do… and that explains why, in the hours after a Christmas Cantata or a long rehearsal, significant things that were buried in my mind have worked their way to the surface.

Let me just say that this realization (which came after a curiously terrifying performance in front of my coworkers) made me quite, QUITE happy.

This doesn’t mean that I’m going to execute arias when I need to hunker down and solve a problem, but it does relieve the suspicion that I was forever hitched to the hamster wheel, and destined to race in place until my brain’s circuits fry. This also tells me that there are other areas which are not yet instinctive, but they can become so, because brains are fantastic.
Those other areas (which do NOT include pipe smoking, so STOP) would be considerably more convenient, as I can’t always just stop what I’m doing and break out into “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
I’m not saying that it wouldn’t be fun… but most definitely inconvenient.

Birthday Snow and Love Philsophies

Technically, it didn’t snow on my birthday (I’m not sure that I’m allowed to refer to the day in past tense at this point, since it’s only eight hours old)… at least, it hasn’t snowed yet.
There’s a quite promising forecast, but for now, I’m still enjoying the luscious, creamery snow that we were blessed with over the weekend.
Not only is it crisp and beautiful, but snow consistently affirms that I’m a better driver than a somewhat significant percentage of this town’s population.

It’s not conceit if it’s true, people.

This week’s Advent theme is love, which I was quite emotionally prepared for, since I’d had one-and-a-half snow days, received one birthday present in the mail, and spent the weekend preparing for a Christmas cantata.
I’d also scoured YouTube for Leonard Nimoy movies (NO SHAME), and I can quite recommend “Baffled!”
Yes, you have to include the “!” at the end of “Baffled”, because apparently, that’s the official title (because people were silly and quite high in the seventies, I guess).
I enjoyed “Baffled!” right down to the fistfight involving an elderly woman, but then I’m realizing that I would watch Leonard Nimoy read the newspaper and eat pistachios, so one could make the argument that I’m easily pleased.

I’ve heard it said that we use the word love too freely… I love good perfume, I love baby animals, I love the BBC’s Sherlock.
I love delicious breakfast meats, and the feeling of freshly washed hair (disclaimer: we’re talking about my own hair… I don’t rush about feeling other people’s heads), and that chill that washes over you when two singers hit their vocal sweet spots (oh, you missed our Christmas cantata? That’s a shame…).
I love kilts, and terrifyingly smart people, and good books, and lots of tea (good tea… not that masticated, powdered nonsense).
The people who say that we overuse the word love seem to be afraid that the word loses it’s meaning if you love more than one or two things.
“I love my family and Jesus. That’s all I have room for. Everything else is crap.”
I disagree.
I love (not just like, but love) rather an astonishing number of things (which you may not notice since I don’t advertise it externally), but loving more things in no way diminishes my capacity.
Also, we love things in degrees, don’t we? I mean, my love for Zebra cakes does not displace my love for my sister.
You can’t even compare the two. One thing is coated in chocolate, and the other thing is my completely inedible SISTER.
Loving Jesus doesn’t mean that I can’t love “Doctor Who”… I just happen to love Jesus more.
There’s a hierarchy, you see.

I’ve noticed that the people I love the most have an ability to truly love everyday things… the feeling you get in spring when the wind slides across your skin, or the way you can’t help but laugh when little kids sing in little kid unison (which is really not the same as adult unison). I love people who can love ALL THE THINGS, except for the things that they don’t love (like wet leaves and orange juice pulp), instead of being regimented and restricted and trying to keep love reserved for special people or special occasions or special items.

So, this week, I’m listing all of the things that I love in my journal, if only to create a record of all the little things (and a few big things) that make me happy.

I’ll look back on that list in the middle of summer when I’m all scorched and sweaty and miserable and bitter.

Sloppy Hope

I had a dream last night that I was a Yeoman about the Starship Enterprise (the original series, of course).
Tiny inappropriate uniforms not withstanding, I had a delightful relationship with Spock (obviously).
I understood Spock.
Spock was the only person who made perfect sense to me.
Spock didn’t ask for displays of emotion.
Spock didn’t think expressions of every deep feeling were necessary.
Sure, we were getting married at the time, so expressions of deep feelings wouldn’t have been necessarily out of place, but you can’t squeeze blood from a stone.

I’m struggling a little bit with the whole hope discussion, because if hope is an expectation of a desired outcome, I’m still not sure that I qualify as a hopeful person. As a child, I expected EVERYTHING… now I expect very little, not because I’ve grown bitter and cynical, but because I just sort-of wait and see what happens.
Hope reads like an emotion full of, well, rather sloppy longing, and I’m not sure that I feel that particular emotion very much. I certainly feel it less than I used to, and I’m quite comfortable with that.
I’m struggling because I don’t see this as a problem… but other people seem to.
One only hears stories of massive agonies and glorious solutions, and I’m really not interested in acting that out myself (as I can say from experience that agony is not all it’s cracked up to be).

People have asked me if I hope to be married… and I’m not quite sure how to answer that question.
I would very much like to be married… considering the facts of my situation, my future nuptials (Spock is unavailable, unfortunately) seem rather unlikely… so I’m in “wait-and-see” mode at this point.
If I should suddenly meet an anthropology professor or a long-haired radical who works for a non-profit or my long-term childhood crush decides to look me up (you probably don’t know who you are, but feel free to call me send me a text message), then I will probably begin to hope at that point, but right now, I’m not sure that such a hope would make sense, and I don’t feel it… and I’m not suffering.

I do expect to officially be a capital W “writer” at some point… of course, considering the fact that right now I need to finish a few projects before official status can be achieved, it’s not really a hope issue, it’s a “step away from Netflix and get back to work” issue. Should I finish a project (to my own satisfaction) and submit it for publication, I expect that I will feel hopeful at that point, but at the moment, I’m just engaged in getting work done.

I would love to see Scotland one day. Does that qualify a hope? If it doesn’t happen, and I’m lying on my death bed at 104 (that’s no joke… I come from a long ancient line of tall ancient people), I don’t think I’ll be bothered too terribly about it.
“Welp, never made it Scotland. Oh, well. Heaven probably looks like Scotland, so that’ll do it for me, I suppose.”

I am not necessarily emotionless (any more than my beloved Spock was)… I get angry, and I cry during epic Doctor Who episodes. If you put me in a theater during a Rifftrax event, I will clap my hands like an organ grinder’s monkey… but I don’t feel everything that I think I’m expected to at the expected pitch.
Perhaps I’m misunderstanding the semantics, and the simple truth is that everything that I would like to do or have happen is considered to be a hope.
Is that correct?
Can hope be a calm possibility instead of raging vortex of aching, passionate need?**
Maybe the expression of my hope is quirk of the brow, and a sip of the tea, and a “That would be nice.”
I’m assuming that’s okay.

**I’m not incapable of aching… I just don’t like to go there all willy nilly, and at present, there’s no need for it. If there should be a situation in which aching would be the appropriate response, I’ll do that… quietly… with dignity… alone… in my garret.

Sweating Sugarplums and Studying Hope

Welcome to the (Christmas) jungle.
I am your new Christmas overlord.
My lifelong yuletide conditioning has finally borne fruit (specially, Christmas oranges).
I watched “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” over the weekend… with the sound off… and quoted the whole shebang…. without missing a beat.
I even feigned a magnificent beast of an accent.
Hulk…
SMASH.
You all realize what this means, right?
This means that I am Christmas fit!
I sweat sugarplums!!I bench Santa AND his sleigh AND the reindeer!!!

Next stop: perfecting the choreography of “White Christmas.”
Nothing is impossible, people.

In other news, if you pay attention to Advent, this week is all about hope.
I’ll be honest… hope has really never been my favorite, but I suspect that’s because I’ve never had to hope for basic survival, or food to feed my children, or for ends to meet. There are, of course, things that I hope for, but when those hopes are dashed or deferred, my situation doesn’t really change. My disappointment doesn’t signal the end of anything critical. I still have shoes and a job and x-number of meals a day.
Hope has always felt rather like a pointless exercise to me, as I don’t feel that have any big, earth-shattering things to hope for, and the little things don’t come to fruition. I also don’t know that a concept such as hope is necessary for someone like me, since I tend to do better without it.
Of course, it’s possible that I don’t really understand what hope really is, SO I’m digging in this week and exploring the basic, raw definition (without the happy platitudes that make me want to buff my own skin off with a belt sander).

Updates will be forthcoming.
I don’t promise that they’ll be interesting.
A man’s got to know his limitations.