On the News, Again. Couponing.

I think I must be in some cosmic alignment right now.

I stopped at the grocery store for a couple items I couldn't get last week and bam! Someone from Channel 4 news asked if they could interview me for a piece on couponing. Can you believe it? I just barely started using coupons when we got back here to Utah. Money's tight and all that, so, you know, every bit of savings counts. The main thing about couponing is if you have a budget–when you only have $75 dollars to spend on groceries, finding coupons means you can fit more into that budget.

Crazy, I know. That's how money works, kid.

You know, before Corbet was born and I was working, I didn't have time to care about this stuff. But now I just sit around all day being lazy, watching crap shows like Rachel Ray and Anderson (I like both of those shows and they're not really crap, that was sarcasm), and eating bon-bons.  It's true. So I can get more bon-bons for my money if I clip coupons.

Anyway, so, last November, around Stoker's birthday, while I was at the Gateway mall in SLC, I was asked by a Channel 4 reporter if they could interview me for a piece on Johnson's Baby Wash. Whoever did the piece erroneously called me Nicole Smith. SMITH? Come on! Welp, anyway, my married last name is as common as Smith, so at least they remembered that it was a common one. Nice work.

So, if you look up the interview, Corbet looks adorable. He was riding in the Baby Bjorn and he had on his cute crocheted hat one of his aunt's made him. That was the best part of the interview. Corbet. I'm sure they asked me because he was freaking gorgeous.

I worry (of course there had to be a worrisome element to all this cosmic awesomeness) that these two interviews (if they even actually use the footage of me today) will accumulate to my fifteen minutes of fame and after this, no more. It would be excellent if rather than news interviews about random household concerns, I was being interviewed because of my profound blogging wit, or because someone had made a movie based on my socially critical short story, Life Feeds. Wouldn't that be amazing?

Either way, at this point I'll take the news interviews about couponing and Johnson and Johnson's cancer causing Baby Wash for the sheer excitement of being asked about my intriguing life and stirring opinions.

Trees and the Ghosts and Voodoo Dolls Who Live in Them

On Saturday a couple of us were talking about scary movies, naturally. I don't like them. I claim it's because I have a very vivid imagination and scary things lodge in my head and crop up at inopportune times, like in the middle of the night when I have to wash my hands but can't bring myself to look in the mirror in the dark (because of the Bloody Mary urban legend). Naturally.  

I don't know if I have a vivid imagination factually, because I've never been inside someone else's head so I don't know how I rate. But I assume that's why I like to write stories or listen to people tell me stories—because I can imagine them in my head really well. Seriously. 

And they say writer's live twice, in their head and in real life or something like that. But perhaps I take liberties calling myself a "writer." Though it's better than saying I'm an "artiste" and giving you my card with my name on it with "artiste" written beneath it, like that pretentious guy at the writer's conference I attended when I was 17. I even remember his name. It worked! 

Seriously, though. "Artiste." So pretentious. Like Sassy Gay Friend telling Desdemona to stop saying "Ot-ello, it sounds so pretentious!"

Anyway. So one of the girls there (who's name I withhold because I didn't ask if I could print it here, but she sent me the picture for posting on my blog), told us how she went on a mission trip to the island St. Martin. Outside the church she attended, or built (I didn't get ALL the particulars, but if you're interested, email me), there was this tree with voodoo dolls hanging in it. And she took a picture. When she looked at the picture later there was a creepy woman in the picture. 

I guess I should mention that the woman wasn't there before. The first question I asked when she pulled up the picture on her laptop was, "Is this a double exposure?" Well, no, because it's digital. "Is it photoshopped?" She shook her head vehemently and said she doesn't know how to use Photoshop. From her reaction to the question, I believe her. I even sent the picture to my friend Christy who is a pro at Photoshop (she digitally edits photos for a living) and she said it didn't look shopped.

But Christy thinks the woman looks like a mannequin. Christy is easily frightened by ghosts and has to tell herself lies to be able to live in reality and not crumple into a sobbing ball of fear and anxiety. Makes sense then, for her to find an easy way to dismiss the obvious malevolent ghost in the photo. :) I love you Christy.

Also, Christy has a vivid imagination and has to rationalize ghosts, monsters, and aliens. I do too, but I have no fear of ghosts, while aliens creep me out beyond rational thinking.

Look closely. The woman doesn't look like a mannequin. You can see the tree THROUGH her face.

To me, she looks like a wealthy white woman. Maybe a plantation owner. A dead one. From what I know of St. Martin's history, it's a lot like the other Caribbean islands where they had sugar cane plantations, slaves, and white landowners and all that. So maybe she's cursed? 

Before I saw this picture (I'm not ashamed to tell you), I was pretty skeptical about ghosts and the whole "a ghost appeared in my picture!" thing. But then I got to thinking about ghosts, rituals, and voodoo and the like, and I realized that because I believe in the dual nature of things (sorry to all you deconstruction, post-modernists), it stands to reason that there are rituals and powers of darkness that might be able to bind people.

But THEN, just now I realized, that perhaps covenants and things that bind are in direct opposition to chaos and disorder, which we all know is at the root of all evil things. Hmmmm.

Well, it's a conundrum. Either way, the picture's freaky as hell, no?  

__________________________

Related Post:

Overcoming Nightmares Brought on by a Bestseller

Dude. Seriously. Porn in the Coffee Shop?

I have always wondered WHO on earth would use bikini-clad women as their desktop wallpaper. Anyone? Really? You're that starved for visual gratification?  

I think to myself, "I don't really know anyone like that—NO ONE I KNOW would have the sort of mentality such a thing would require." I'm pretty much right.  

Although, now that I'm seriously considering it, I have a coworker who MIGHT do something like that. It's strange too, because he has a daughter . . . that's the kind of thing you think will change a man*. You know, make him realize a bunch of things about women, like that they're people, with hearts and thoughts and emotions, and how they want to be loved and all that and that they should be treated chivalrously despite all their chants about equality. 

Ok, so that's me, not women in general, and I guess not everyone is as thoughtful as I am. Heh heh.

So my curiosity was finally fulfilled last week at Starbuck's. There are only a few locations in the place I frequent where you can have laptop-screen-privacy. And this guy didn't have that. No big deal, really. I mean, he's obviously got deeper issues—what with thinking it's perfectly normal to use mostly nude women as his wallpaper. I thought I saw a wedding ring on him too . . . so even stranger. But I guess there are women who find that acceptable. To each their own.  

The point is, why would you subject yourself to such a distraction? If I understand men at all, visually that kind of thing is WAY more distracting than say, MY wallpaper (homesick-inducing landscape pictures of the Utah desert) and so how can he get any work done?  

Guess I don't understand men.

BUT if that wasn't enough for this trip to Starbuck's, the guy sitting next to him pulls out his phone and begins looking at porn. Right there. In front of me.  

Well, not quite in front of me. I was sitting behind him, so his phone was facing me as he perused the material. It was distracting. The mind is thinking, "What the hell. Am I really seeing this?  I could be mistaken. Perhaps it's a medical website."  So then I check again. And yes, it's porn. Then the mind thinks, "Am I wrong to want to censor this? I mean, this is a public space. There are children in here. There's a major aisle behind him. Whose rights are more important here? Who determines what's wrong and what is right in this scenario?"  

At any rate. I don't believe in censorship. I think people should be free to choose according to their desires. But I also believe in decorum and that there are times and places where certain behaviors are socially wrong. Such as looking at porn in a coffee shop where everyone can see it. Call me crazy. 

At that moment a mom entered the coffee shop with her little boy. He was probably five or six. Tall enough to see over Mr. Porn's shoulder and see it. And I thought to myself how scarring it would have been for me at that age to see something like what that guy was looking at. I really did. And then I felt like a jerk for all the selfish things I had ever done (weird, I know, but sometimes that's what you think about when you're faced with an uncomfortable decision), and I thought about the mom trying to explain to her son what that man was doing and why was he looking at that. 

You could argue, if you're an ass, that the little boy has already seen porn if he's six and he knows how to use the internet. And if you are that ass, I would say to you, "I'm sorry for whatever bad thing happened to you in your life that you think children aren't fragile and that they shouldn't be protected."

And I would mean that.  

So after my courage was all wound up based on my racing thoughts, I stood and tapped Mr. Porn on the shoulder. He looked up at me, surprised and scared as his phone snapped shut and I said, "You do realize that other people can see your phone, don't you?"  

"Fine, fine, sorry," he answered, sounding guilty. I wasn't rude or anything. I don't think I was. It's kind of a blur now. After I sat back down, the college student sitting with his back to me thanked me, which was kind of shocking.

At the time I took it at face value, like that he was trying to study but Mr. Porn's phone was distracting him. I laughed and said something back, I forget what. But looking back, now, I can't decide if he was THANKING me or CURSING me for having ended the free porn. Stoker pointed out that it's not that difficult to find free porn, so it probably wasn't that. Good laugh, that.

  

It was all very strange.  I've never been flashed, thankfully, but I imagine it's a similarly disorienting experience. The kind of thing that's so outrageous you can't believe it's happening and you sort of feel like you're floating out of your body. Because you've come to really believe that people don't do crap like that in public. But then later, upon further reflection you realize that people can really be messed up.  

I guess I love them anyway, as I am messed up too, in my own ways. And by love I mean charity. The kind of thing where you let your heart feel empathy for them because maybe at some point they were like the little boy in the coffee shop, all innocent and naive, but nobody looked out for them. Or something.  You know?    

But seriously. Don't look at porn in the coffee shop where bystanders can see it too. It's damn awkward. ESPECIALLY when you're visibly reacting to it. Thanks.  

*I should point out that I really appreciate that there are still men in the world who appreciate the female form and all that. It's not like I'm saying men shouldn't feel things. I'm just saying. It's weird that this guy had skanky wallpaper. That's all.  

Great Day for a Pilgrimage

Spring days like this remind me of college, especially the years that I read the Canterbury Tales, which, looking back, seems like every year in college. I was in college for eight years. And what do I have to show for it?* Hahaha. Oh the humor, oh the enormous student loans.

If I could go back, of course I'd NOT take out student loans. But hey, who I am today has been shaped by the weight of those student loans. Right? It's a compression chamber. I'm stuck in it and I'm looking beautiful. The gray hair, the wrinkles, the advanced old age and I'm barely thirty! (I can still say that at 31, right?)

Well anyway, it's an awesome day and here I am at the a coffee house working on a short story, that is, I'm not outside enjoying this absolutely GORGEOUS day. I've been extremely absent from blogging and at this point, I don't feel like a moron when I tell you that it's largely because I've spent every spare writing minute working on a novel. And now I have two novels, and it only took me . . . three years to get to this point. Three? Or two? I'm not about to try to figure out the exact length of time on that, but you'll understand when I say that spare time doesn't just happen. A person has to rob other parts of their life to get it, and when one does that, whatever one uses that time for better be for a good cause.

Maybe it was different for you, but when I was in elementary school, there was a spot on my report card for a grade regarding time. It read like this: "Uses time wisely." And I think we were given a number grade, like 1 for good, 2 for ok, 3 for "thinks eating paste is a good use of time." I never stop hearing that terrible voice in my head (your report card didn't have a lording tone to it? Hm. Weird. Mine did.), "Uses time wisely." And I'm constantly being judged. I can't even sit down to play Assassin's Creed II on a Saturday morning without hearing the damning echoes of the elementary school report card all around me. Back in elementary school, I think I always got 1s on "Uses time wisely" because I ruled in elementary school. If only it had carried over into the rest of my life.

But it didn't and that's why I'm using one of the most perfect Saturdays of the year to sit indoors and finish a short story. I could be halfway to Canterbury Cathedral by now. I could be laughing my pants off at the Wife of Bath and her gap-toothed smile. I could be spinning my own tale of tragedy, romance, or heroism, and maybe I could win. Well, I guess sitting in a coffeehouse, writing a short story is the closest any of us will get to a story-telling contest on the way to a holy shrine.

Yes, I'll sit here while others laze about in the sun, soaking up the rays and reading the paper, and others roll leisurely by on their bicycles. I'll just pretend I'm going to win a contest. I'll just tell my story-telling guts out. Maybe I WILL win and this day won't have been a waste after all.

*Just this:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote/ The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote, / And bathed every veyne in swich licour, / Of which vertu engendred is the flour; / Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth / Inspired hath in every holt and heeth / The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne / Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, / And smale fowles maken melodye, / That slepen al the night with open ye, / (So priketh hem nature in hir corages: / Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, / And palmers for to seken straunge strondes, / To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes; / And specially, from every shires ende / Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, / The holy blisful martir for to seke, / That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.

Beautiful? I know. Thank you, Geoffrey, thank you. Worth eight years of my life? No argument there.

Yeah, Like I'm Going to Post P90X Results Here

My P90X dvds came yesterday, finally. I bought them from a seller on ebay and was a little worried I had been scammed or something. But no, "product was as described." Shipping slow. Very slow.

I think I will start on it next week. First I have to "get my kitchen ready" as the supplemental material suggests. Also I need a decent pull up bar. I bought the Iron Gym from Target last week and it doesn't fit around any of my doorways. They're enormous, you see, because I live in an old house. Pretty lame that they didn't make it adjustable. So I returned it to Target. I hope Target sends it back to the manufacturer and the manufacturer begins to get the message. One can only hope.

I bought about a million dumbbells and the thing about that is, when you're buying a twenty pound weight for twenty five dollars, all you can think is, "I'm paying money for weight. Weight! The object is nothing but weight." For some reason, it seems so indulgent. What a statement of the advancement of our civilization that people will actually spend money on WEIGHT*. I mean, sixty years ago my grandmother would have been ashamed to hear about someone throwing their money away on weight. But back then you worked hard for things, and unlike me she didn't sit around all day in a tiny cubicle reading for a living, cut off from the land. She was out in it, with the sun on her face, planting her garden. Ok, yes, I totally romanticize the hell out of my grandma. And yes, I would love to have a homestead and not work in an office. I love my job though. I really do. The days fly by and what more can you ask?

And by the way, I heard through the grapevine that my younger sister went to visit my grandma, who is sort of on her last leg, and my sister told Grams that they were going to name their baby (due end of this month) after Grams' mother. And Grams said, "That's cute as hell." Or she may have said, "Hell that's cute." The person telling me the story couldn't remember perfectly. But is that cute as hell? Grams says the cutest things. If you knew her you'd understand better why it's so cute. This grandma of mine isn't your sailor-mouthed, chain-smoking, somewhat frightening grandma. You know the kind. The kind that scares you with their tiny vicious mouth and wrinkled tattoos and husky voice. My grandma is pretty gentle and happy, and she has this laugh that sounds like bells and sunlight. She usually has a smile on her face and she's small, but strong. So when she says, "Hell that's cute," the contrast is fantastic and therefore adorable. Well, I miss her.

Next month: Before and after shots of P90X results.



*This topic is very similar to my recent experience and enlightenment about such things as "We pay cash for gold. Bring in your old jewelry and we'll PAY YOU for it!" I will relate that story another time.

Autumn, Grandma, and that Pensive Brooding Brought on by the Season

Where the H have I been? I'll tell you, it's been no cakewalk here. I've been deathly busy. But I don't feel like going into it, so, sorry, you'll just have to accept that I've been MIA for a while.

Let's see. A couple weeks ago I went to the Southern Festival of Books and I got a T-shirt with a dragon on it. The dragon is reading a book. So, that was cool. I can't really wear it yet, however. I have to wait until I'm not in Nashville, or at least until it's been a month. I saw someone wearing one somewhere and I felt sheepish. The shirt was $10, you can't beat that. I wear a lot of T-shirts and I haven't gotten any new ones in a while, so it was nice to find a cheap one that I didn't hate or that didn't have Hannah Montana on it.

I saw Robin Williams there, at the festival. A friend asked if I touched his butt and of course I did. No, joking. I didn't. I could have, he was that close. But it might have proven awkward. First of all, he's a human being; secondly, my life isn't a sitcom. It would be funny if it was, but you know, life is more than funny. I DID scream and tell him how much I loved Patch Adams. Joke, again. Not a funny joke and I've been using it a LOT when I relate the story. I just think it's funny to imagine me going on about Patch Adams.

But seriously, I like Robin Williams. I really do. Or at least I respect some of his work.

Autumn is here. I love autumn. My top two seasons are spring and autumn. I guess that's sort of cheating, because there's only four seasons and most people are going to say they love spring and autumn because those are the transitional seasons. Winter and summer are kind of tough because you get tired of the extreme temperatures, and they're just not as beautiful as spring and autumn. The transition promises something. Winter and summer are the equivalent of saying, "This is it. This is what I offer." And you have to just take it because there's no other option.

Who knows. There are ups and downs all year long and I guess it's sort of ridiculous to try to parcel your life into a top four or top five list. But it's kind of fun to try to categorize stuff, even though I get tired of always having opinions, and I begin to wonder what's the point? I don't know how I'm going to make it through an entire life having opinions and feelings. I've got to lighten up and learn how to be zen or something, otherwise I'm going to have a heart-attack at 35.

So, my grandma has been having a hard time. I can't go see her because she's in Utah, and when I talk to her on the phone it's only for a minute and then she wants to get off the phone. I guess I'm too real when I say to her, "I know you're trying to die, you silly old girl." Because she is. She's tired of life, I suppose, and every time something happens, like for example when she falls down and breaks her hip, she lays there and waits for the angels to come and take her away, and she's disappointed when her rescuer is instead my rail-thin cousin Ariana, picking Grams up with super human strength and carrying her inside out of the winter weather.

It's humorous and tragic, because I know it's got to suck to be 90 and to have outlived your husband and two of your kids, and most of your friends. It's got to feel lonely and irritating to have to depend on others. I'm sometimes ready to go myself, and I'm just a few months into 30. I mean, the world is a rough place. I know it's always been rough, and I guess that's why people get tired and they're ready to move on at 90. I just don't want her to go, that's all. It scares me because when she dies, I won't have her stories any longer. When I want to know what it was like in 1940, or when I want to know who my great-grandmother was and what she was like, I won't have my grandma to ask. When I want to know what it was like to live through the Depression, who will I ask?

My grandma is my link to the past and once she's gone, I won't have anyone to ask. My mom always says, of late, "'We all become forefathers by and by,' like Dan Fogelberg says." And she's right, and then it makes me want to cry. It's really mind-altering to realize that, to see your mother becoming the matriarch of your family, to watch your grandmother becoming a ghost. It's really really bitchy, sometimes, to think of this design. Life is this way to teach us things and the lessons are hard, but I guess if you let yourself learn, you become beautiful, like my grandma, and I guess that's when you're ready for the next phase of your existence. Something cool like that.

Air Travel

I leave for Utah today and I can't think about anything else. I'm plagued with worries. Traveling sucks, in a way. I don't mind the part where you're on the road or in the plane, but everything leading up to that time is rather stressful. All I can think about is getting to the airport on time, or being certain I've packed everything -- as we all know, if you forget something the trip will dissolve into a nightmare. Not really, but with the way I obsess you'd think that was the case.

In other people's lives, I'm sure that traveling is really smooth. Other people appear unruffled. These are also the kind of people who never pass gas or do the dishes or put their pants on one leg at a time. They walk through the airport with their laptop bag slung over their shoulder, their suits are neatly pressed, they exude confidence. They hang out with their peers at the airport bar, drinking and laughing like a beer commercial. Their teeth glimmer when they smile, their eyes are bright and sparkly and photoshopped. Everything is easy. Everything is good. Before the trip they have a manservant pack their bags for them. They know if they forget all their pants or socks, they'll just buy a new wardrobe. No big deal. A limo picks them up and takes them to the airport on a private back road. They can charter a helicopter if traffic is monstrous.

At least, this is how it looks from the outside. There's always people running around the airport who you'd think could never afford a ticket. They look like they just rolled out of a garbage can. There seems to be a windstorm of chaos following in their wake. You see them and expect to find loose newspapers trailing behind them and cookie crumbs stuck to their sweater. They look like they couldn't decide whether to travel comfortably, in their sweats, or business casual, in their freshly ironed sweats. You pass them as they sit in the McDonald's of the airport food court munching on fries and they look as harried as someone forced from bed at three in the morning to pick up their son who just got a DUI.

I fit into the harried crowd. I look like I've had second thoughts about my carry-on, like I wish I'd checked it after all. I look like I'm always just about to miss my plane and I'm lost and I can't read the sign announcing my gate. I don't wear sweats, but I'd be at home in them and everyone knows it and the flight attendants always ask if I want a blanket and a pillow as though they suspect I might have my own in that carry-on I've been sneering at the whole time. That would be wise, actually, since the blankets have been used by other passengers and who knows what diseases they were carrying. Small pox. Measles. Something like that.

Wish me luck.

Records, Compost, and Rain Barrels

Two weeks later and here I am. My blog looks better on a Mac, with two big flat panel screens, if you know what I mean. Last week was rough, the kind of rough where you think you might not make it out alive, and when you do you wonder how the heck you ever doubted yourself. That happens to me all the time, perhaps because I'm just a negative S.O.B., right?

But it looks like I made it, baby.

Totally unrelated, I bought the most perfect gift for Christy Baugh. It's a record. She's going to love it. I found it sitting right out there in front of everyone at Phonoluxe in Nashville. I can't believe no one else picked up this sweet gem before I got to it. That's all I can tell you about it, but I wish, I really wish I could divulge more info about it. I might snap a picture of it and post it up here, but who knows. I'm usually all talk when it comes to taking and posting pictures. I'd tell you I'm more of a Polaroid girl because that sounds interesting and borderline artistic, but it would be a lie. The truth about me is that I'm lazy and unartistic. Before I married Stoker, two and half years ago, I started working on this present for him that involved some creative effort. It was going to be a wedding present.

I'm still working on it.

I have some good news. I found a place to buy a compost bin for $40. I've looked into them and have wanted to start my own little home compost pile, but I've only found the bins online and the cheapest the good ones run is about $100. Plus shipping and all that. So when I found out that my city, the Metro Nashville Public Works people, offers them for $40, I almost had a stroke. I was that thrilled. It means no shipping and no waiting for UPS. I also found a local place that sells rain barrels for relatively cheap (Gardens of Babylon), especially when compared to the stuff online and shipping costs. Anyway, that's where I'm at. Looking for rain barrels and compost bins and maybe some backyard chickens.

Now I just need to build a small chicken coop. I've been doing my homework. If I get some chickens, I'll definitely post about it, maybe put up some pictures. Again, that could be a lie. I like to keep you guessing. Honestly though, I might get a beehive and buy a colony of bees. And for sure I'll plant a garden this spring. I'm all over it.

Job Security

Almost two weeks ago, I got some unsettling news. "They" were "reorganizing" the "company."

It was difficult to hear my boss telling us what was happening. She talks quietly and sometimes it seems like the timbre of her voice blends with the beautiful white noise the "company" pumps into our office space. Sometimes I really appreciate the white noise, other times, like when we're being told borderline bad news, it's infuriating.

She delivered the news. Everyone stood there. "What is she saying?" We were all thinking. Our job descriptions were changing, we were all being bumped up, would be earning salaries instead of hourly wages, we'd do less copyediting and more farming out. "So, we're not being laid off?" I asked. I could tell everyone was kinda sorta wondering the same thing. I also asked if some other employees in our office would stay where they were. They would. And those employees were also wondering the same thing. I'm a mind-reader.

But two of us would be moved to another department. Everyone was thinking the same thing: it would be me and the other employee who was hired about the same time as I was. Last in, first to go. So we prepped ourselves for the move. We heard nothing else about it, except that the change needed to be completed by February. We had two weeks to adapt to the news.

The following Tuesday morning, just as I walked in, a coworker asked me if I'd heard that it was me that would be leaving. I hate mornings, and though it's been on the books for many years that I'm waiting to become a morning person, I especially loathe Monday mornings. I even feel snarly on Tuesday mornings masquerading as Monday mornings. This was one of those. So I wasn't in the mood to deal with emotional upheaval first thing Tuesday morning. My co-worker -- there were two of them actually -- asked me if I had heard the new news. I said "no."

"You're the one who's leaving," they said.
"Just me?" I asked.
"Just you," they said, nodding.
"Oh."

I sat down, trying to hide from their eager faces. I couldn't tell if they were glad or what, exactly. They seemed excited, but it wasn't clear whether they were excited that it wasn't them (or the person who was hired two weeks after me -- that person is, admittedly, better than me at what we do. Older. More experience), or if they were just putting on a happy face about it for me. I felt a little let down. It was one thing to be shuffled around along with a coworker, a peer. Another to be the only one picked out of the litter to be carted off.

A senior coworker asked if I wanted to go see where I was moving to. I said maybe later. Then, literally a few minutes later, after I'd been stewing over my irritation that the "company" had lied to me, that it was only me leaving and not two of us like they'd said, the senior coworker popped into my cubicle with my future boss, and insisted on introducing us. They led me back to the new cubicle.

Two flat panel computer monitors. A Mac G5. Oh how those sweetened the somewhat bitter deal. Yes, I can be placated by better technology (for a time). Because I love technology.

And the raise isn't so bad, either.

But I ask myself, over and over again: is all this worth my life? My life is the time I sit here in this cubicle, fulfilling the dreams of other people. This isn't my dream. How many of us sat through high school classes, elementary school classes, and dreamt of a far off cubicle decorated with pictures of loved ones and other reminders of why we endure the bourgeoisie torment? There are worse things, but in this society where we are buffered from physical suffering and other oppressions, isn't this numbness exactly what we fear?

Or maybe I'm just spoiled. I know I am. When the news came that one of us would be going, first I was thankful that we weren't being laid off (though deep inside I felt skeptical, wondering if this was some sort of preliminary song and dance before they cut us off completely), and second I felt bitter that they could bandy me about like an object, a resource sans feelings and opinions (I wasn't ever really asked if I wanted to go). Sure they can placate me with the promise of more money, but what have they taken in exchange for that?

We exchange our dreams, I guess, for the security of a promised income and the benefits to patch the wounds we cultivate from sitting motionless in our cubicles. Some of us break away and become the owners of the "company," and they know just what we'll sacrifice for those feelings of security, because once they were one of us.

I am a slave to the feeling of security. Will I ever achieve my outlandish dreams while sitting in a cubicle? Or do I have to up the ante by putting myself in harm's way first, by losing the benefits and the steady income? Who knows.

The Inherent Flaw of "Original Idea"

So last night as I was falling asleep, this brilliant idea struck me. It electrified me and I couldn't sleep. It was for a website, and I was so sure it would be the thing that made me rich. It would revolutionize a bunch of stuff, it would rake in the dough and then someday I'd sell it to Google for billions of dollars. I'd split the money up between my investors and co-designers, because obviously I don't know the first thing about programming or design.

The idea wouldn't let me sleep. My mind was buzzing with possibilities and ideas and how I would do it. I was networking with friends in my head already, planning on who I'd involve and who I'd ask for help. I was coming up with clever stuff. I felt like giggling. I was hysterical over this idea.

Stoker woke up to roll over and he muttered something to me, something about loving me I think, and then I started telling him my idea. He was coherent enough to ask me one question. I launched into my answer and was waiting for some positive feedback when I noticed he was snoring already. It irked me. I mean, just because he worked a 16 hour day, he's tired? Yeah right. And just because he worked a 14 hour day yesterday. . . he always pretends to be so worn out . . .

But the idea kept going. I couldn't sleep. I felt exultant over my ingenuity. Of course, when I had tried to tell Stoker about it, it sounded ridiculous . . . yet I knew in my heart of hearts that it was truly brilliant.

Then the dread hit. I had been afraid to even utter my idea, knowing that ideas attack in blitzkreig fashion and that somewhere, someone else might be having the same idea . . . or someone had already HAD the idea.

I was tempted to get out of bed and check online, to see if anyone had already done it. I didn't. But I went to meet the problem anyway, advanced worry, if you will (it's the way I am). I felt an ulcer forming in my stomach, a new one, a companion for the old ulcer, which began when I first discovered that I'm not the center of the universe (two years ago). A wave of nausea swept through me. The thought rang through my brain, echoing, "I'm not original."

This morning I checked. Every address I typed in has been used for websites of a similar nature.

I can feel another ulcer forming.

Daily Hilarity

One of the funniest posts I've read recently: some HILARITY.

Email to a Company with a Crappy Ad

Have you seen the internet ads with the dancing woman? I was trying to read the weather on weather.com and there were three of them! I could hardly concentrate on what I was looking for -- some kind of link about weather and health, which I read about in a cnn.com article.

The ads were strategically placed in three different locations all over the page. The top, the middle, and the bottom. So almost anywhere I scrolled on the page there was a dancing woman taunting me. No, they're not nude or anything. It's not like that. It's like the moving thing draws your attention.

So I emailed the company behind the dancing woman ad:

Your internet ads are an embarrassment. And they're annoying. I will never ever never ever never never never ever never use your service. I can't believe you're affiliated with Experian. You bring shame to the Experian name. Maybe you haven't realized that a company CAN display class when running banner ads. Your ads simply scream low-class, sleeziness. If I DID need help lowering my bills, I certainly would not click on an ad running an obnoxious dancing woman. I would think there's more to the psychology of the human than simply appealing to the irritant reflex. Sure, the ad makes me want to destroy the movement, in the same way I want to slap a mosquito buzzing around my face. But you must have forgotten about the refresh key. I'll click that before I click one of your hideous ads.

Think about it. I'm more likely to click on a tightly designed Nike ad with beautiful graphics touting a sale or something. Even an AT&T ad or a Verizon ad. Their ads are enticing while yours are repulsive. I don't even like AT&T but they understand the power of color. Your ads are so irritating that I'd rather write an email than use your services. I'd rather go to the pawn shop or use my car title to get a loan than use your services. That's how crappy your advertising is.

Thanks, have a nice day.

Was I too harsh? Probably. But you have to be firm to get through to people.

Reader's Digest Is Like Rain in the Desert After a Day Here

I've got to vent.

My job….if it had a neck, I would throttle it. Punch its face, if it had one. Kick its shins. Smack it. And I'm not even a violent person. I'm not. Really.

Somehow I landed the unenviable position of copy editor. I'm surrounded by words all day long, and I love them. I do, honestly. I enjoy the way they sound, the ways they can be fitted together to make a sentence, their precision, and the possibilities. I love struggling to find the right words. There is a right word for everything. There are those who are skilled at finding them. And there are those who are not.

And it's irritating when a writer is one of those who is not. It's also irritating to read books all day long written by people who aren't in love with language. They're writing to make money (not much, usually . . . but there's always the chance that this, THIS could be a surprise best-seller), to prove a point, to gain recognition in their circle of colleagues, to be able to say, "My book is actually about this very subject we're discussing . . ." or even, "I've arrived, yes, this is my thirtieth book . . ."

Editing someone else's work isn't easy. I enjoy it on many levels, but it also makes me apprehensive. Will the author be offended by what I've changed? I wrestle with myself, knowing I could have said that sentence better. I leave the sentences as they are, unless they're totally confusing. Then I try to clear it up with just a few changes. I only change what I must, so the work reflects our house style, which usually follows the Chicago Manual of Style. And I correct to fix grammar errors.

But you get prissy authors. Princesses who can't stand to have their work altered. They feel it, somewhat understandably, like a slap to their face. It stings their pride. They revolt. You should see the wars they wage. If you were sitting in this desk and you were me, you would have probably already asked your evil, mad scientist sister to train her death ray on them.

I joke. But seriously. I'm not saying my writing inspires awe or anything like that. I'm saying there are rules and I can't argue with every author who thinks they know better than the Chicago Manual of Style. They think their book is the only book I'm working on. They think they're God. They think their book exists in a vacuum, that it is THE book to set all standards, that all rules about grammar, common sense, punctuation, spelling, SHOULD FLOW FROM IT.

It's exhausting. I've written SO MANY e-mails, trying to salve their stupid wounds, explain our house style, explain WHY their sentence is unclear (I can't be the first to have read this . . . can I?). I'm not diplomatic by nature. I just want to tell them, "Listen, you sucked right here. This sentence? I had absolutely no idea what the hell you were saying. Fix it, or be embarrassed when it hits shelves. Thanks."

If only.

Random Email to Dani: Epiphany #132 -- Happiness*

Today I had the same epiphany I've been having over and over again all my life, only this time I wasn't smoking weed. Just kidding, I never have ever never smoked weed.

I realized that for some reason, I'm waiting for something to make me happy. To arrive at some point, to finally have no problems, to be comfortable in my own skin. Then I slapped myself. Because violence is my way. Just kidding.

But why do I do that to myself? Be unhappy, I mean. It's not that I'm necessarily UNhappy, it's just that I'm not happy. And by that I mean, I'm not content with what I have. I'm still waiting to be satisfied with the house we bought, like, to feel like it's good enough as it is, that I don't have to keep making improvements. And the house is a metaphor for my own mental/emotional condition, or rather, my life.

Of course, the epiphany seems more profound when it strikes and now it just sounds like the same old crap everyone is always saying, like in books like All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, by the beloved Robert Fulghum (I had this teacher who loved to say his name and quote that book and so it's an inside joke with myself to say his name in relation to beloved). And it's one of those things that doesn't mean a dang thing unless you figure it out for yourself. I'm lucky because I keep realizing it. Over and over, at different times in my life because I forget it really quick, like the proverbial goldfish.

See, what happened is Christy Baugh said she saw a movie called Juno and said I need to see it and said that M____ saw it and told Christy that the girl in it reminded M____ of me (Nicole). Christy said she agreed, and said she thought it was a great compliment. Then I was thinking to myself later on, after I'd read the synopsis of the movie ("A whip-smart high school girl finds out she's pregnant and deals with it blah blah blah" -- I presume the whip-smart aspect is what reminds them of me -- which, who can blame them?) that it's sad, really. I remember being a young whip-smart girl, in junior high and high school and even in college, a girl who unintentionally offended people by saying what was on her mind, who was probably a bit spunky and all that, but who now can't get away with baring that part of personality because she's older and hyperaware of how she offends others, and is hypersensitive herself and thus would NEVER intentionally make someone feel bad.

It's gauche for me to be like that, but not adorable like it is on a young girl (like it used to be on me. Am I delusional? :)). So then I realized that I've been walking around feeling like I'm crippled by my personality, afraid to be that whip-smart girl because I'm not in high school anymore. "This isn't high school, Nikki." Is that a quote from a movie? If it's not, it should be. It would be too funny.

That's when it hit me that I'm waiting for something to happen to make me feel like I've arrived at happiness. But see, happiness isn't a destination. We're the happiness. We're the destination. Happiness should be inside us.

Hmmm. I had such high hopes for that. I thought it could be turned into a proverb or something. It fell kind of flat.


*A slightly edited version of this post appeared in an email to the author's sister, Dani.

A Rowan Atkinson Classic

A few years ago I saw this Rowan Atkinson skit with a friend. It was hilarious and I've always wanted to see it again, but the last time I checked, Atkinson's stand up stuff was only available on vhs. It's out of print and cost a million dollars. So, I bless YouTube. For once.



I think the tights are priceless. For more, see Welcome to Hell, Mr. Invisible, and Invisible Drum Kit.

Bursting at the Seams. Running Out of Time. Climbing up the Walls.

Is it just me, or am I running out of time? Today I feel like I'm about to burst out of my skin over this sense of urgency to get things done. Maybe it's a caffeine rush on an otherwise empty stomach, maybe it's the guilt over having wasted hours and hours playing Morrowind. Maybe it's because the year is nearly over, or because in four months I'm going to be 30. It may be because today my mother is turning 60 and in less than five months my grandmother will be 90. There's a nice triangular pattern there, don't you think? Beautiful.

I feel like I need to do a billion things or else I'm going to die or, worse, regret a billion things. Death is preferable to regret. I guess. I mean, why would I say it if it wasn't true? As I once told Stoker (when he told me that he felt fat), if you feel it, then it must be true (Stoker is anything but fat -- that's what I should have said, but I'm a moron sometimes). Great logic there. I know, I know.

Also, my dad is dying. Slowly. This agonizingly slow death. And I feel like I need to write him a letter telling him that I'm sorry I didn't invite him to my wedding and that I'm sorry I didn't speak to him for a year or two, that I love him, but I resented him for essentially going crazy and being a bad father (but, could he help it? He was crazy. I guess it depends on what you believe about mental illness). I feel like I'm mature enough to have known better. Maybe I need to forgive myself for that. In any case, he's dying and being cared for in a relatively nice assisted living home in Utah, and I feel this other pressure to hurry up and get his life story before he dies. To record it so that I will always have it . . . so that I know where I came from, I guess.

And I feel like I need to get more of my grandmother's story, before she dies. Because hell if she's not TRYING to die. Last I heard she was trying not to drink water because then she has to use the bathroom and she's tired of using the bathroom. What a woman. What a woman. Yeah, so she's been getting sick from not drinking water. She's very stubborn.

So, anyway. I'm about to burst.

Mainlining Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind

I've made a huge mistake. I bought myself a copy of Morrowind and now I can't stop playing it. If you need me, I'll be in Balmora, pawning dishes, goblets, and vases so I can increase my alchemy skill and maybe afford some spells.

Two days ago I got lost on my way to Mt. Zand. I ran across an escaped Argonian slave and decided to have mercy on the fool (he really is a fool: he says weird things. But maybe that's just the language barrier. And maybe it's because he was emotionally abused as a slave and I'm just an insensitive jerk). Now the two of us are on our way to Ebonheart.

I can't tell if I contracted a disease while in the creepy mountains, but for some reason my character kept wanting to ask the Ashlanders (mountain elves) about disturbing dreams. A bit later I read in a book about vampires (in the game) that people who are becoming vampires report having disturbing dreams. To be on the safe side, I drank a cure disease potion. I don't want to become a vampire. Maybe another time.

If I sound like I have no idea what's going on in the game, it's because I don't. But I love it just the same. Don't try to talk to me when I'm playing. I'm a zombie. Don't even come around once I move on to Oblivion (Elder Scrolls IV). I'm behind the times, but I predict that I'll find its name perfectly descriptive. Stoker will feel like he no longer exists to me once I begin playing it. I'm disgusting. Don't look at me. Yes, that's drool. I forgot to swallow, so sue me.

Sleeping at Work

I could fall asleep right now. I'm sitting at my desk at work and I can barely keep my eyes open. It's very difficult to stay awake while sitting in front of a computer, motionless, reading manuscripts. It's even difficult, lately, when I'm reading the news.

Can you believe the news? When I was a kid, I thought the news had clout. I believed it was The News. But now I see behind the news and it's just the news. Am I the only one who blames Ted Turner and his stupid idea for a 24-hour news channel?

Maybe I'm not eating enough protein in the morning. You've heard, of course, that the experts say that if you want to be alert in the morning, eat protein. They have, and I usually do. Eat protein, that is. But lately the cottage cheese and pineapple hasn't been getting the job done (are there any Texans in the room? They might be able to help) and instead of being alert, it's like I've been tranquilized.

Even now, as I write this sentence, my eyes are closed. But, like I need my eyes open to know that I'm writing the most beautiful words you've ever read. This is the next Great American Novel. The Sleep Chronicles. Yeah, that's a beautiful title. My eyes are now open and I'm re-reading the past four sentences with a smug grin. Gorgeous. I'm very pleased. Perfect wording. Mark Twain would be proud.

Oh man, I just had a dream, it was a soap opera of sorts, the leading lady and her male counterpart were arguing. All I got was this conversation: Him: "Yes, I do." Her: "No you don't." Him: "Yes I do." Her: "NO, you don't." I'm not sure what they were arguing about, but he was standing in the parlor with his hand on the door knob, like he was about to storm out, or maybe leave quietly. It was a dramatic moment. A very pivotal argument. Maybe it's part of The Sleep Chronicles.

I don't know why I'm dreaming soap operas, as far as I know I've never ever gotten through an entire episode in real life. I think my record is two minutes, then I change the channel or turn off the television in disgust. The news is better than a soap opera. A game show re-run is better than a soap opera.

Well, I'm going back to sleep. In a few moments I'll wake up and realize I sleep-posted, that's the blogging equivalent of sleep-walking. And then I'll be tempted to delete it. But I won't. I promise.

Sleep, Read, or Watch T.V.?

Why can't I go to bed earlier? All my life I've been a night person and I really suffer in the mornings, like right now, when I can barely keep my eyes open. I curse the TV. On a nightly basis, Stoker gets home and wants to watch a quick episode of the Simpsons or Futurama, to wind down. The problem is that he falls asleep while watching it, and I'm wide awake laughing.

So then, I'm like, "Wake up! Drink your tea," and he's like, leave me alone. And then we have a comical little tiff wherein he blames me for keeping him awake. Ha ha. So then he goes into the bedroom and I brush my teeth in the bathroom. He sprawls on the bed and falls asleep again. "Did you brush your teeth?" I ask, because really, he might have brushed them an hour ago without me noticing. But now he's asleep again, and this question has woken him. He growls at me.

And then I say real sweetly, "Well, maybe you should just get in bed." And he tells me that he's just going to start going to bed when he's tired. Only he says it like it's a threat, and it'll ruin my life because I always want to watch the Simpsons, every night. By now he's in the bathroom brushing his teeth and his eyes are totally bloodshot from being pried open several times by my rousing conversation.

At this point in the night, after he's fallen asleep everywhere but in bed, under the covers, he's really just sleepwalking*. So I don't hold the childish fit against him, I've been known to have my own bursts of indescribable rage at being woken from my after school nap**. I respond to his "I'll just go to bed when I'm tired" jab with, "Great! I don't care if I don't watch television all night before bed."

Because I really don't. I love Futurama and the Simpsons, but moderation, people. Whatever happened to reading books? I miss books. I try to read a book and it's like pulling teeth. Stoker and I don't keep the same work schedule. Usually I'm home before him. But instead of reading, I run around like mad straightening up the apartment, or as my cousins used to call it, doing my chores. The new habit is to have the television*** on when I'm there alone. It's like a Ray Bradbury book. I have my fake family chattering away in the background and I don't feel so lonely.

How can a book even compete with free television? I can't clean out the cat litter while I'm reading a book, and that's part of the problem. And hey, what's wrong with being alone? Why can't I just enjoy the silence? What's with this dependence on noise?

I don't know. I guess it's habits. It's what you get used to. For so long I was used to being alone. I lived in Salt Lake in a house on a busy street, in a kind of slummy area (Sugar House, the greatest area in Salt Lake City) and I was alone at night quite often. It never bothered me. I used to walk down the street at night to the bookstore or the coffee shop, alone. I had no fear. But HERE, in Nashville, if I'm alone in the apartment and I hear a loud noise, I wish I had a gun.

Anyway, I'd like to read a book instead of watching television. Scrubs is entertaining, for sure, but I can feel my mind melting. Sitcoms do nothing for my intellect. Thousands of words I had learned from my years of bookishness have been replaced by obnoxious buzzwords and rude sitcom banter. That's no way to interact with people—as though you're in a sitcom. Honestly, has anyone else noticed what an effect sitcoms have on their interpersonal relationships?

Lifelong goal: become a morning person. The kind of thoughtful early-riser who sips delicious Celestial Seasonings tea and watches the sunrise color the sky (haven't you always wanted to be THAT person? Like in the coffee commercials, onlyI prefer tea). This WILL take a lifetime, for me.

Immediate goals: go to bed earlier and read books again. Is this possible?




*Remember, he falls asleep ON the bed, without brushing his teeth—and he needs to brush them, we just went to the dentist and they counseled him on not brushing his teeth into oblivion, and yes, floss more.

**"You BITCH." My poor sisters. I was ASLEEP! It's like being held accountable for your dreams. Plus, hello! It was high school. And because it was high school, I got into trouble. Double-dutch trouble, as they say. By the way, Anji, I'm still sorry about that.

*** It's free, like we'd pay for cable, and by free I mean we get about eight stations. Two of them are televangelists.

The Allergy Racket

Did I ever mention that I finally got tested for allergies? After 28 years of year-round suffering, the results weren't surprising or anything. They told me I'm allergic to nearly everything they tested for. The P.A. who spoke to me afterwards seemed to think she was telling me something new, like, "You're very allergic to everything." Laughable.

The reason I finally submitted to being tested was because I finally had insurance, and also because my ears have been popping all the time for over a year now. I think I've written about this before. Anyway, it's incredibly annoying and sometimes painful. Eustachian tube dysfunction, is what it's called. I asked the P.A. about it, "Would the allergy shots stop my ears from hurting," I asked. Then she pointed to an illustrated chart on the wall depicting the inner ear and Eustachian tube, "This is a Eustachian tube. They're a narrow opening between the inner ear and the throat."

By then I felt like slapping her. I don't have a lot of patience for stupidity, but that's the only thing I'm not patient with. Everything else, rush hour traffic, beggars/scam artists, celebrity gossip, I'm patient with (that's funny because it's not true!). Just because I'm not a P.A. or an M.D., doesn't mean I'm stupid. Right then I could have talked circles around her about Eustachian tubes and semicircular canals and the stapes and the malleus and the incus, because I HAVE STUDIED IT OUT.

I don't know, maybe there are some people who don't try to figure out what's going on with their body before they go to the doctor. As for me, I spend a lot of time typing search words like "fatigue+bruising" and "insomnia+heightened body temperature" into Google. If you type some of those search strings into Google, be prepared to confront search results such as AIDS or MS or any other incurable, deadly disease, including Leukemia. I suggest more specific terms and remember, remain calm.

But since I do a lot of researching like that, I rarely feel the need to go to the doctor to confirm anything. I think doctors are a racket. Especially prescription drugs. Never mind that I'm finally on an inhaler that has pretty much put an end to my constant allergies (except for the ear problem), what bothers me is that I HAVE to go to a doctor to get a prescription for a drug that I'm never going to NOT need. That's why it's a racket.

And I feel that this particular area is a racket: the allergy business. So I get tested and the P.A. introduces me to the Eustachian tubes, after all my years of wondering (of course) if the throat is connected to the ear. Then she tells me, "I wanted to meet with you, in particular, because you are SO allergic to EVERYTHING we tested you for. You had the highest possible response to everything: mold, dust mites, grasses." And then she tells me she wants me to start on the allergy shots right away, which should be no problem because they're fully covered by my insurance.

We fight for minute over my cats, because I am honest when she asks if I have cats and yes, they sleep in my bedroom if they want to. There's no settling the argument, because I'm not going to lie and say, "Yes, I'll get an air filter and stop letting my cats into the bedroom."

She clearly doesn't understand that the cats might as well be little humans in my esteem, and locking them out of a certain room would be tantamount to locking a child in a closet. Sure, the cat looks like a cat, but in my heart the cat's basically human. I think they call this anthropomorphism and I think it can go the other way too. My cats clearly don't delineate between me being a human and them being cats. We're the same. We're a clan.

Someday I'll learn to lie when it's appropriate. For now they call me Honest Abe. I have buckled and am doing the allergy shots. That simpering P.A. told me I won't start to see results for about four weeks. This week I asked the nurse when I'll see results. She said, "Hmm, you know, six months, maybe a year."

Do you smell a racket? The office is set up on certain days just for shots. Not knowing what the norm is for responses to the allergens—as far as I know, it's normal to get an 11 from Bermuda/bahia grass— the doctors could tell everyone that they score the highest possible rating for each allergen and they need to start the shots right away, and it should be no problem because it's fully covered by insurance.

The only reassurance I have is that I know my body. I AM allergic as hell to EVERYTHING.