The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

So says Carson McCullers: her words, not mine.

Last night, I felt strong. Which is good, huh? In the absence of other resources, I sometimes think that you can move forward if you can just keep your chin out and your hands on your hips. I spent some time mentoring a volunteer; then went over to Moira and Robert's for a late-night gin and tonic. I drove home fully in possession of my super-powers, singing along loudly with Nanci Griffith:

You know the poets say I'm lonely/
There's still this woman here inside.
And I've never been a fool/
When my heart was on the line.

I remembered how often this has been true in the past . There have been numerous times when I made decisions based on feelings, and they have nearly always sent me straight. My friends or my family would say, "You're going to WHAT?!?" And I did. And they threw up their hands in dismay. And I came out shiny and clean.

So, I just need to check in with Heart. "Heart? Heart! Oh, Heeeeeaaaaarrt...! HEART! God dammit!" Shit, oh dear. My heart is a bad dog, which wandered off some time ago and is now roaming the back alleys of Cottonwood Heights. Hold on, that doesn't work. Cottonwood Heights doesn't have back alleys. My heart is either running semi-feral through the foothills stealing sack lunches from snow-shoers; or it's hanging out behind Little Caesar's, waiting to see what's in the trash. Beats me. I'll tell you where it isn't, though. It's not here with me, and the hole in my chest is an empty flutter. How much longer will the ache persist? Very good question. That damn dog will not come home.

This morning I went in the bathroom (warmest room in the house!) to get dressed. But I sat on the rim of the tub and my head dropped between my knees. I didn't cry (I'm so far past crying), but I gasped for breath for a few minutes until the worst of the pain passed; then I mused at my toes and wondered how long a person can keep going. Pointless to wonder this: [dramatic whisper] I know the answer. For-EV-ah. People live with broken hearts forever. Holy shit. I will fuel my body with Cheerios and run and work and read and fold laundry and deliver Girl Scout cookies and ... Will it turn me into a grump? Will it exhaust me? Does it burn extra calories to live like this?

It's hard to believe that I can emerge shiny and clean. The pressures are enormous. I feint to the right and the left, trying to dodge adjectives. The sociolinguist in me is passing fascinated with the use of language in such a situation; but even the sociolinguist has ducked behind the kitchen island for the moment.

Selfish. Self-obsessed. Narcissistic. Self-centered. My blog is held up as evidence. Exhibit A: Self-obsessed bitch. Writing about myself and my feelings. It's all about me. Well, I have to own that. Journaling IS self-centered. In fact, any kind of introspection is self centered. I'm hearing that this is bad, and that I am bad to the point that it becomes my truth. Did you know that my own mother doesn't like me because I'm such a selfish bitch? So I hear.

It's so hard to stay off the path of least resistance. I have been bludgeoned with adjectives until I just want to roll over and say, "Uncle". But, that's what I've been doing for years. Gotta remember, "Sticks and stones..." This time, I want to stay the course.

Kate's version: "Sticks and stones will break my bones. But tones will just confuse me." [Sarcastic, but carefully executed to sound loving and sincere] Were you aware that I DESERVE happiness?? I do! After all, isn't it right there in the Declaration of Independence? Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? It's the American birthright. In fact, it's admirable. Others would, perhaps lack the guts to destroy everything they have earned and saved. Would cower in the face of their children's poverty and disappointment. Would balk at being a lonely, solitary, unloved and unlovable pariah. But not me. Heroic, really.

I hunch my shoulders and I think: if I ever needed to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing? Here's the proof.

But I still feel like a pointy-tailed she-demon.

Who blogs. I think I may close my blog, because it really is an indulgence. Now when I write, I just think, "selfish, narcissistic bitch". What is the fucking point?

Catching Up With Me

I guess even I reach the point at which I can't stay awake for another minute.

Timing is Everything

Well, 10:10 PM; so my work day is over.

It was liberally sprinkled with hectic-ness this evening. (I'm a linguist, so I get to make up words whenever I want. It's a perk.) There was a moment in which I was filling in attendance rolls that Mark needed right away, and 1) a driver showed up to tell me he was delivering the giant Utah Partners for Health Mobile Clinic and he couldn't get into the packed parking lot. "Where do you want me to put the clinic, ma'am?" 2) The computer lab assistant sauntered in, plopped into a chair and began to describe the fatal error message she got when she tried to log students into Rosetta Stone. "Kate, I'm staring at you. I'm staring at you because we're having a really BIG problem." 3) Some people came to tell me that they wanted to sign up for the diabetes management class we're holding in March. I had to hold up fingers. "OK. You're problem number 1. You're problem number 2. You're problem number 3." Triage.

I'm used to this, but I must admit that my timing has been a bit off all day. Simon is not around, and I'm adjusting to the differences. I had the kids ready when it was time for Si to drive the chorus-mobile; but after I had taken care of all their needs and done my chores, I was pinched for running time. By the time I got to the rec, I was able to run for ten minutes; then it was time to go to my appointment with Dr. Derma, so he could admire my belly-splotches. I'll get used to the new routine eventually... except when I need a jar opened. Believe me, I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself.

Many things happened today that made me smile.

Hermila C. showed progress on her literacy post-test. She is in her late fifties and is non-literate in her native language because her parents didn't think she needed to learn to read. Last time she took it, she just stared at the test paper and couldn't do anything. This time she was able to write her name and address. That may not seem like much, but it's huge. Slowly, slowly.

I ate a spectacular apple for lunch. It reminded me of the ones we used to buy from Pieper's Orchard when I was a kid.

The rash on my belly is no big deal and will go away when my life calms down. Dr. Derma gave me some stuff to put on it as well. I only go to the Derma maybe once every five years, but I enjoy these visits. He owned the cabin next door when we lived at the old place, but it was his vacation place and he didn't get up there very much. We looked after it for him a little, and he would let us use it as a guest house when we had a lot of company. He told me today that I seem to look younger every year! I need to go to the Derma more often.

Sara and I had the following conversation at the store:
Sara: Mom, that lady just yelled at her son cuz he tried to buy a bread bowl.
Me: Why would he try to buy a bread bowl, and why would she care?
Sara: I don't know. But she told him to put it back. Then she turned to her friend and said, "I've heard they cause cancer."
Me: BREAD BOWLS cause cancer?!? What a load of malarkey!
Sara: Mom! Not BREAD bowl. RED bowl.
Me: She thinks red bowls cause cancer? Why would a red bowl be any different from any other color? That's crazy.
Sara: Mom! Red! Bull!

Raichle is back from her weekend retreat at Lava. She has a new attitude and an amethyst crystal. She is purged of her pain and no longer cares about her creep-ass boyfriend who dumped her after eight months. By e-mail. On Thanksgiving Day. She brought in this book titled, It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken. Hilarious! I was flipping through it and laughing my ass off. Did you know that you can buy custom ring tones at www.gregbehrendt.com. You can set them to ring when your ex calls, and a voice will proclaim:
1. "Really? You're gonna answer it? Is that what we're doing now? Backsliding? Really, we're just gonna toss our self-esteem out the window?" Or...
2. "Let it go to voice mail. Let it go to voice mail. You are too busy getting on with your life. Let it go to voice mail."
I love working with younger women.

Oh, and a new joke from my student Victor M. Don't get too excited. Victor is a kindly Peruvian gentleman in his late fifties. By day, a presser at a dry cleaner. By night, teller of some of the worst jokes ever thought of. Victor and I love each other. I always get lots of hugs and kisses; big, grippy handshakes. Victor is very hard of hearing and has ginormous hearing aids. When he laughs at his own jokes, the hearing aids squeal loudly. At any rate, this was the one he told me tonight.

OK, Teacher.
Act One: 50 Argentines in the moon. ("on the moon", says Kate)
Act Two: 100 Russians in the moon. ("on the moon", says Kate)
Act Three: 1,000 Germans....on... the moon. ("Good," says Kate)

Three acts. What is the name of the movie?

50 Argentines, 100 Russians, 1,000 Germans. "Full Moon".

Don't blame me.

Lost Language

From an emotional standpoint, I'm washed up. To quote Mana, "bien tostada" ("completely toasted"). I was listening to a very interesting segment on NPR yesterday about metaphor and cliche. A discussion on how much metaphor we use unconsciously ("I see what you mean!") and how the great metaphors are quickly reduced to cliche (the Iron Curtain) The speaker's premise was that the re-use of metaphors shows lack of originality and that we should seek the new metaphor in our writing. What a very lovely sentiment. I'll get started with that. Tomorrow, OK? In the meantime, I plan to wander lonely as a cloud; to kick my can a little farther down the road; to keep my nose to the grindstone.

This weekend, I have lost my language; well, at least the better bits of it. I am so drained that I can feel the way each one of my joints is strung. My tummy has freaky red splotches on it. It's sadness again, but a different kind. February has been a long month. An endless month. How many more days of February do we have? OK, I remember the plan: work, service, fun, friends, change your life.

I think that, for today, I"ll give "change your life" a rest. It has been well-served this weekend.

Friends? I wanna talk, but I don't wanna talk. I would love it if one of my friends would call me with a problem. I'm tired of my problems.

Fun? Service? Work? Play is over for a while. Work is going to have to be my solace today. Nothing like conquering a hefty to-do list when life is a bummer:

1. Housework;
2. Guadalupe paperwork;
3. Finish painting Sara's room, replace all the curtain rods, etc... and get her moved back in.
4. Nate needs to fashion a "time capsule" shaped like an old wooden bucket, for a school book report;
5. Need to run 5 miles;
6. Menu for this week, grocery shopping;
7. Supervise birthday thank you notes;
8. One last laundry load, since Nate got a massive nose-bleed last night.
9. Find my language. Huh. Maybe it's in my purse?

A Day in the LIfe

I haven't done a "day in the life" photo journal in a long time.

Wake up Sara Bear-a. The boys can sleep in, but we have Girl Scouts. Oh, my gosh! Still in bed?! Don't make me have to drag you out by your heels! You can see that she hates that idea.
Much as I'd like to spend the whole weekend in my dad's old sweater, I have to try a little harder today. Maybe a nicer shirt, but I'll still wear my wrinkly old garden pants because I like them.

Quick breakfast, cup of tea, newspaper. Ewww. One glance at the front page and I was sputtering in my Cheerios.

This may or may not be the only time Sara rides her rip-stick with a bindi on her forehead and three pounds (well, seems like) hanging from each ear.

We were attending the annual World Association of Girl Scouts' Thinking Day. Eight troops met at St. Thomas More to teach each other about challenges faced by women and girls in other countries. And dress up and eat, of course. Sara's troop studied the effects of the long civil war in Sri Lanka.

I pinned girls into (ahem) saris, and then tried to keep them from the broad gestures that tend to fuck up dainty costuming.

Here's a few, ready for their presentation.

Along with my presence, the presence of my blender was also requested, so we could make mango lassi for all the other troops. I couldn't help contrasting the pristine kitchen at St. Thomas More with our less-than-ideal kitchen at Guadalupe. All this space! And I'll bet they don't have roaches, either....

Mass quantities were consumed.

Home again to scale Mt. Washload. We only do laundry once a week, so it's usually a pile big enough to require switchbacks.

Then, errands. I paid a visit to the New Balance store in Sugar House. They are providing all the shoes for the Title I girls in Girls on the Run, and discounts for the volunteers. I need new running shoes really badly. The New Balance store is a fancier establishment than I usually frequent. I found it disconcerting that a salesperson actually unlaced the shoe and put it on my foot for me, a la Cinderella. They didn't have the one I wanted in my size, but Salesdude has ordered it from Denver. "Don't worry about coming to pick them up," the salesman told me. "I'll just deliver them to Guadalupe when we drop off the order for the girls." Wow! Nice! He was also adamant that I pick out a color. "Oh, I'm really not bothered. Anything's fine." "Aw, c'mon! We have blue...green...and pink! Do you want me to order the pi-" "Green! I love green! Let's get green."

Then I went to Hansen Company Jewelers. I'm finally ready to replace my stolen Wasatch bracelet. I thought I would stop missing it, but my wrist still looks funny without it. Fate was working against me, though.

Got Sara moved into Nathan's room for a couple of days. Kind of a cozy, summer-camp atmosphere. Sara's friend Jessie came over to play. So harmonious... for now.

I need Sara cleared out so I can (finally) paint her room. Today I got all the wall prep and masking done.

Dug the spackle out from under my fingernails and made a mad dash to go out on a dinner date with some new friends. Thanks, Sara. This picture shows just how seriously I take the task of showing my hair who's boss. If I prevailed, it was only temporary.

Now Nate: Nine

This was the easiest "friend" party ever! They are WAY too cool for me - my job is to stay in the background. All the boys wanted to do was talk about Pokemon ("What power is Teledaptor?"), play foosball and watch a European Premier League match. When the kids arrived, they stood in the front hall and shouted about soccer. Then they went in Nate's room and did something that made the walls shake (I didn't look. I was making meat balls and figured it was better not to know too much.) I lured them out with spaghetti, but even then, it isn't easy to get their attention. I have learned with groups of young boys to say everything three times. "Ben, bring me your plate. Ben, bring me your plate. Ben, bring me your pate." I just sort of chant it like a mantra. On the third try, it registers than an adult is talking to them. I amused myself at supper by asking for the stories of the most they have ever bled. That's all I had to say: "Hey, Bryce, what's the most blood you ever got?" Then I just sat back, ate garlic bread and let them tell blood stories. The cake was easy, too. It always is with Nate, because he only ever wants a chocolate ice cream cake from Baskin Robbins. It's his tradition; all I do is stick the candles in it.

Happy Birthday Nate! And thanks for not being SO cool that you didn't come and give me a very noisy, sloppy kiss after your guests left. You can still be my baby sometimes - I won't tell the guys.

Cereal Killer

I adore cereal and would eat it at every meal if I didn't have such iron will-power.

NOT! Despite the fact that I am pledged to taking better care of myself as part of the sadness mitigation plan, some things worked against me today. Guadalupe got a huge donation of slightly stale Cocoa Crispies, and I found a box on the staff-room table. Now, I am too much of a health nut to put the Cocoa Crispies in a bowl with milk and eat them with a spoon. Because that would be... premeditated somehow. It would be legitimizing the act. Instead, I just pour some into my hand. Several times. And then pour some into a cup, and use the cup to pour them into my mouth. See, that's spontaneous, so the devil made me do it. Or hormones made me do it.

It wasn't a great day today. I'm starting to lose my little burst of strength and happiness. That's not surprising, though: I knew it would fade. I'll slip, but hopefully not all the way to where I was. My proactivity plan has slowed a bit: Girls on the Run doesn't start until the 28th; the work I'm doing on changing my life is waiting on some necessary information that I'm getting tomorrow. Friends, I had; fun, not so much. I only have lousy days at work maybe once a year, but I occasionally have days that are...ho-hum. The evidence:

1. I forgot that my hand lotion is very runny and dripped it all over my keyboard, requiring me to pry some keys off to clean it up.
   
2. June H., one of my most precious tutors, called me to tell me that college is killing her and that she can't volunteer anymore.
   
3. Mel discovered that, when you hold the "shift" key down for 8 seconds, it makes a very amusing noise. It also really fucks up all of the "shift" functionality. All I can say is, better her computer than mine...
   
4. Raichle took the night off work so she could head to Lava for a long weekend. I loooooove Lava; and I ache all over. My butt hurts from my ill-considered hockey stop last night. The rest of me aches from the weights routine I did yesterday. There is nothing I would love more than to go check in to the lava Hot Springs Inn and have a good long soak. No, wait! First, I want to go to the Wagon Wheel and have a double Jack Daniels with the bikers; THEN I want a good long soak.
   
5. My keyboard tray remains loose despite my many tightenings. I stabilize it with my knee, which I get to proper level by resting one foot on top of the other. Which also makes me want to go to Lava for a soak.
   
6. Gail, my most prickly tutor, was especially prickly today.
   
7. I gave away my pencil holder with the small holes in it. The holes were perfect for holding all of my many keys in a way that I could find the one I wanted at a glance. Now they are rattling around in a dice cup again, and I have to pour them all out on the desk to find the one I need. Yahtzee.
   
8. I had be a firm boss today. Our average daily attendance has dropped this month, and I have been noticing teachers sitting in the office doing paper work when I want them to be spending time with their tutors and students. I had to tell them, "Please no hanging out in the office." I don't like to have to tell them. We're professionals.
   
9. I guess I left the garage door open this morning. I remember shutting it, but maybe I bumped the opener as I was putting it down or something. Sara called me at 5:00 and said, "Mom, did you know you left the garage door open?" "I did? I remember closing it! Whoops." "Yeah, Dad is really mad at you. You're going to get yelled at." [I exhale.] "Was anything stolen from the garage?" "No, but Dad says it's more by luck than by judgement. And he says anyone could force the laundry room door and get in the house that way, too. He says to tell you we're lucky we didn't get robbed blind!"

Oh, yuck. Let's see.... Go home and get a scolding? Or stay here at the office and write in my blog?