Why all the fuss?

OK so I finally got Google Analytics to work. It told me what I already knew, which is no one stops by here anymore, which means I need to start posting every day again - that even though (as discussed) the narrative arc has closed - there is more to say.I'll start with the obvious: what the hell is going on?

In August, after my last day of work, I made the decision to allow myself to be underemployed for a semester in the hopes of getting my mental and physical health back. From September through December, I have been doing just that, and you know what? It has been fucking great.

I feel so much better.

But now it's time to work, and though I am still teaching part time to keep a roof over my head, I need to do more work to make the financial part of my life function. Right now my choices are:

1) get a job in retail. I am thinking Bloomingdales, fitting gals for bras. I would be so good at that.

2) go to a temp agency and indicate that I am good at several office type skills and see if they can give me a job two days a week.

Please note: everyone thinks I should go with option 2 because it is far more professional. But I kind of want to help young ignorant women learn how to pick out a bra.

What say you?

PS another foot of snow to fall tonight. Yippee!

Wonder

I wonder, too. Where is she? Where is that other, better voice who thinks all this is a story, rather than an merely a break down? Where is the person who makes all the drama into four paragraphs that end in a joke? Where is the person who makes all my problems funny? Where the hell is Nina?

Well.

Nina's here. The reason she isn't saying much is that her primary fuel is intensity - usually negative intensity; she talks when things are the most scary, the most painful, the most chaotic.

Note here the absence of these from my life: fear, pain, chaos. I don't have these things. All I have is sweet, uninterrupted calm.

Ever since I lost my job (last day: August 8th), I just haven't felt anything but completely serene. This makes no sense at all - considering the following:

1) I have no job (August 8th).

2) I have no money (OK, I have a little - but it is owed elsewhere).

3) I have no one to fall back on (no parents, no spouse, no trust fund).

4) I have no ambition (unless you count remaining calm - this I fully intend to accomplish).


I think my cousin Meg said it best the other day when we were having lunch. I listed all the reasons I should be feeling bad and she said, "Eh. You have misery-fatigue. You're just out of bad emotions the way you might run out of milk or eggs. You'll feel bad again someday. Probably just not any time soon."

Is that not about the smartest thing you've ever heard? I told her she was perfectly right. I just don't have anything frenetic and scary in my nervous system - so Nina has nothing to say unless I teach her to speak another language.

I didn't realize it at the time, but when I posted that picture of me in Iceland, I posted the last image of me ever taken before my dad got sick. That picture (2006) is therefore the last known image of me feeling good until very recently, when I started, due to misery-fatigue, to feel perfectly fine.

I'd take a picture but I've gained weight and - oh my God - did I tell you I bought a scale so I could see how bad it was?? HOLY BABY RHINO. I am going to lose weight even if it takes a chainsaw.

Next post will be about THAT. Or THIS (Nina looks down at her inexcusable breasts) and how much less (or is that fewer??? - Ugh, the grammar of them - there needs to be)) and how she plans to go back to normal. Hint: fasting causing hallucination and panic and sometimes just mundane hunger.

How are you?

(I feel pretty much awesome, in case that wasn't clear).

Nina is naked

Ok, not really.

But take a look anyway:



I left here some number of months because I feared I could not speak the truth about the day to day everything going on in my life without injuring others and bringing Nina (who is, after all, me) into personal relationships with readers - and finding myself by way of such conduct - unable to live up to whatever it was I thought Nina was. I felt unequal to the challenges I saw looming ahead if I continued to write here.

That feeling of inadequacy, more rightly called ineptitude, was easy to spot (and easy to despise) when I held my own blog up against those of people who did not work so desperately hard to maintain anonymity or privacy - in other words, people grown up enough to lay it all out there and say "take it or leave it." I love their blogs and I admire their transparency. In no particular order:

Neil Kramer, famed author and standard bearer for our beloved Citizen of the Month. Neil is,first and foremost, a wonderful writer. To prevent myself from rambling further, let me say that Neilochka is what we who despair of ever finding such call a good man. Go instantly and give Neilochka the worship that is his due.

What can I say of Avitable? I have knitted the gentleman one sock - and declared it not nearly pretty enough for his excellent left (or right) foot. So I still owe Adam a pair of handmade socks. I have committed other crimes against Adam that I will not describe here. What I love most about Avitable (aside from his extremely forgiving nature) is his openness. Those of you familiar with avitable know that what you see if what you get when you read Adam's blog. He writes about any and everything and somehow manages to protect his marriage and his business from the becoming involved in the blog. I resoundingly failed at doing what he seems to do effortlessly.

Everything I just said about Adam, I want to say about Lisa. If you have followed her story, you know she is fighting cancer for the third time, and doing so in a heartbreakingly public way. And yet she, like Adam and like Neil, has managed to share her life with other people while still protecting her privacy and that of her family. Lisa's time left is limited, but she has Karl (also an excellent blogger) updating her blog. Go see these excellent folks and appreciate their greatness.

I thought I would never return here, but I do so now. Naked. (Sort of). Why? Mostly because it is time for me to grow up and take responsibility for what I have to say online. If people get pissed or run screaming away from my internet diary... *yawn. * It can't be nearly as tragic as I previously imagined. In any case, if my cover gets blown or someone figures out where I work or where I live, hell with it. I ain't Princess Diana. It's simply not that important. The blog is mine and I belong to the blog and I'll take whatever consequences arise, whatever they turn out to be.

Summary: I am back. Long time no see. I have missed you. How have you been?

Love,
Nina

So much to not say

This has never been a blog about politics, and I have never pretended to endorse a politician or even to have feelings about anything related to local, or regional, or national politics. (I am against feelings. If you read my blog, you know why).

Time will come that I will talk about what it is like to live here (ie, the place I am living) and what it is like to be a New Yorker, probably for the first time, and to witness this election... from here, where people are delighted and dancing in the streets and setting off fireworks and chanting "Yes we can".

But not today. If you are among the 4 people who still stop by here, bless you. If you stumbled in here by accident, I hope you return.

Thank you for reading.

River walk

It's funny what a walk down to the river will do for you. (Or in this case, me). I did a lot of thinking. About everything. Where I am and where I am going, what's going to happen and what I want the second half of my life to be like. These reflections brought, as they commonly do, good news and some bad, too.

The excellent news is that I know what I want. More on that later.

The less than ideal news is that due to my recent reflections on what the first half of my life have been like, I have had to face some distressing facts about what I have been been calling mytragic, unfair, almost mythologically terrible life. The facts are the my life has not been tragic or unfair and I realize too that mythologizing my... wait for it... pain (*sob, sob) is... wait for it... selfish and immature.

What the fuck? Seriously.

I got born in the richest country in the world to parents who loved me. I got born white* and with the exception of some early life kidney issues, healthy. My parents are no longer here because of cancer and its special brand of terrorism, but so what? What grounds have I got to even complain about that? Orphaned at 38. Bah. What a crock. Being disinherited? Well, so what. I could also have been born to people who had no money at all and I could have been raised in the kind of house where no one aspires to anything more than drinking PBR and moving up the ladder at Wal-Mart. I could have been born, in other words, to people who didn't steer me right. But I wasn't. I had great parents. They died. It sucks, but heart attacks and car accidents and freak accidents on roller coasters happen, too. So again, so.... WHAT?

I also got born into an extended family of honorable, decent people. I might be parentless, but I have my aunts and uncles and my brother and his wife and nephew. I have more friends than I deserve.

And then there is the fact that I wasn't born stupid or ugly. True, I am not as smart as either of my parents were - and like anyone else, I am rarely the smartest person in the room. But I am not exactly running a second rate brain, either. As as far as being not ugly - I didn't say I was beautiful. But I am standard issue blond Irish-American and as long as I don't let myself get too fat and I don't run my mouth life a sailor, other people assess me as pretty enough.

I have an education, too. And a master's degree. And I have a good job that doesn't keep me up all hours of the night tossing and turning about my place in the world. I know very well what it is: I am a teacher. I teach. It was not only what I do; it is what I am. 99% of the rest of the world does something they hate for money to pay bills they would rather never have incurred because life... even in the richest country in the world... is hard.

And then if you look at my romantic ungoodness, well. What the fuck ever. I dated some nice men. I dated some bad ones, too. I just never got married. Big deal. If you consider the.... emotional attention that needs get paid to family issues when people have cancer, it's hardly surprising. My mom was diagnosed when I was 16 and she died when I was 25. My dad - you already know about. It's arguable that there was time in between for me to find someone and blah blah blah - and believe me, I tried. But from where I am sitting right now, I can see a certain divine wisdom in keeping me on my own. Those between years were spent getting an education and changing careers and adjusting to life in New York - and there were boyfriends, yes. But none of them was the right one. What? Was I supposed to drug some poor fool and drag him off to Vegas? Plus, I know a thing or two about myself and commitment. I don't commit well, mostly because I take commitments so damned seriously. It's no wonder that the marriage and kids thing didn't happen for me. When was the timing right? When did the right guy appear? Never and never.

My money problems suck, but they are not my fault. I worked and worked worked. I got rooked in nine different ways. But who doesn't have money troubles? Big f-ing deal.

So I sat there at the river and faced the facts: my life hasn't sucked. It has been more good than it has bad. What has sucked is my immature sense of entitlement to something different, something better, something else. Well, Jesus Christ on a cracker. WHAT?

So now i return to what I want the second half of my life to be life. Since you are surely entitled to sainthood after reading this post about, oh, ME, and my issues (self-centered, much, Nina?) I'll list what I think I want in round two in list form.

1) I want to run again. Little known fact: I used to marathon. I was never fast, but I was good at it and I am convinced it would produce something akin to joy if I were able to find a jog bra that fit and start doing it again.

2) I want to write. Blog, fine. But I need to write other things. I am thinking of writing books. More on this later when it is clearer to me what those might be about..

3) I want to out-climb that hyper-ambitious ceiling swinging climbing Goddess known as Sri. The itty tiny little competitive streak in me? It popped up and said "Hi" to me as I sat at the river. I want to climb and I want to do it really well.

4) I want to untie all the knots in my head and get myself in a psychological position to date again. Not because I want to have kids - that ship has sailed. But recent reflections (see above) lead me to believe that all my NO MEN EVER AGAIN policy is both unrealistic and the greatest manifestation of all that I am behaving - with regard to my past - like a spoiled child. What good is proving to the world that I can in fact ignore the whole business of dating? The only person with anyone to lose or gain is me. And I'd be losing for trying. So I have to stop trying - that is start trying not to look at every dating opportunity as a personal invitation into the mouth of hell. It might be, but if I am ever going to get my psychological outfit into a healthier arrangement, I might need to start looking at men as something other than a guarantee of full-on misery. I don't know if I will make any progress in this area, but try I must.

5) Smile more. Do my job with a little more verve than has been my habit for the last 8 years. And more than that, do no harm. Pain, suffering, misery of all kind is out there everywhere. I don't want to contribute to it at any point, for any reason, for anyone.

So, uh, that was my day.

How was yours?



* I ain't bein' racist. If you want to act like life isn't easier for white people, fine, but I think we all know that it is. At any rate, I'll take the pale, flat and uninteresting skin, SPF 40 notwithstanding.

Review and you

I love this image because my brother created it. It is man-centric (notice the boobs but also the baby is just born - wearing a hat, but no pants - winkle evident) but also is woman and baby positive. The image is full of love and boobs and winkle. It is not about anything else. Does anyone know where this image comes from?


I blog because a whole lot of what has happened to me in the last few years has been out of my control. Writing about it (or not) gave me a feeling of control. Also, it's fun.

Two people I love who you should go check out just because I said so:

Julie who has been my friend through many dangers, and Woodrow who says he will not be my internet friend anymore unless I turn off the spam blocker on my comments function. If you are not reading their blogs, you are a punk-ass. Get to it.

To the right you will find a new poll. It asks you to indicate whether (and what) you would like me to knit for you.

I am preparing a mighty tribute post for you, my readers. If you wish to be linked and included, please comment. (Lurkers: feel free to comment anonymously so you can preserve lurker status. I love you, too).

Baby, what did I say?

Rather than give you a bullet point list of Grip's crimes, I will tell the story of the time I saw Grip. (Well the last time I saw him before he started stalking me. But I don't want to confuse you. This is the last time I "saw" him).

Grip had told me on our first date that his first marriage had not worked out because they were "too young" and that she had left him for an older man who could "better provide for her." I found this discomfiting but I made no comment. Several weeks later, Grip and I were in his living room on a Thursday afternoon. I was reading Burney's The Wanderer and I came across the word "delusory." Grip was on the other side of the room, reading The Times.

"Grip," I said, "Delusory. What does the word delusory word mean to you?"

"You are getting a PhD in English, and you don't know what delusory means?" he replied.

"Of course I know. I just wondered what you thought it might mean." I handed him the book. He read the sentence I had marked.

"It means delusional," he said. He handed the book back to me.

I read for a bit longer. Grip had put down his newspaper and was staring out the window.

"Why didn't you go to work today?" I asked.

"I wanted to spend the afternoon with you," he said.

"Ah," I said.

To this day I don't know why I said this. This would be the part of the meltdown that is my fault.

"Why did you leave your wife?" I said.

I expected him to be angry, but he simply sighed and stared at the floor. Then he turned and told me this little gem of a story.

"About two years after our wedding, a buddy of mine invited me to go to conference about thinking positive and building confidence. It was a three day thing and I really just went to support my friend because he was having a hard time. Well the whole seminar was about positive thinking and believing in yourself and making decisions based on who you want to be and it totally changed my life. I realized within half a day that I had married Meg because I had been too scared to try to get someone better. I realized I had married her based on an idea of myself that I didn't want to live anymore. Once I knew I could do better than Meg, there was no way I could live with her anymore. I moved out as soon as I got back."

I, speechless, considered a moment before answering.

"Did she love you?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. Then he whipped around in his chair and gave me the anger I had been expecting ten lines ago.

"It's like you," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You with your reserve and your quietness and your ridiculous ideas."

"Me?" I said. I had no idea that the end of his marriage had been about me. I couldn't wait to hear more.

"Yeah, you. You live this tiny little life with, as far as I can see, nothing in it. You like me, so don't try to pretend you don't. There are at least ten ways of preventing pregnancy, and yet your refuse to have sex with me and don't even give me a reason." Then he threw his hands up in the air and stomped off the to kitchen. I could hear him making espresso. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might pop right out of my chest, grow legs, scurry into the kitchen and kick him square in the ass.

Perhaps I should have mentioned before: I was not sleeping with Grip, nor anything near it. I didn't want to. It was too early and I was unsure of him in at least nine different ways. Plus I didn't want to and there is also a rule, among people raised in plaid skirts and knee socks, about not doing it. (But I won't pretend that rule was driving my behavior. The not wanting to was far more operative).

So I read a few sentences and waited. He returned. He handed me a tiny cup of coffee. I wriggled back into my shoes and waited for it to get worse, which it did.

"It's like, you know," he sat again at the window. "It's like we are different on some cultural level or something. There's no reason for us not to have sex and you act like there is no reason for us TO have sex. Ridiculous."

"There isn't," I said. I put my book back in my bag and moved to the other end of the couch.

"Great!" he said. "That's just great! Next I bet you'll try to tell me it's some kind of thing about morals or something. Jesus!"

This is the point at which I started laughing, but it was nervous laughing, the sort that also makes a person cry and also, regretably, makes a person's hands shake uncontrollably. Very inconvenient if one is trying to shrug into one's coat and flee the apartment of a madman.

Grip stared at me, astonished.

"Are you," he gasped, "crying?"

"Whatever it is, I am doing it," I stammered. By then I was on my feet and half way to the door. He came after me.

"Baby, what did I say?"

This is the part where he put his arms around me and was backing me up against the wall and was looking at me with almost believable compassion. Next was the part where I tried to wriggle free. But no luck! He grabbed my face with his hand and started kissing me. To his credit, he let go of me when I said "stop."

I left without another word.

Grip, poor fellow, has been calling me off and on for five years. The messages have ranged from abject begging to pathetic, tearful, mega-abject grovelling. A maximum of three a year, a minimum of one.

Here is the one I got in December:


Hi Nina, this is Grip Spitzer. I know it's really strange that I am calling you, but I just woke up and I just had the strangest really strong feeling that should call you. Um, well, there is more to it than that, but I think there is something that we really seriously missed out on, um and, so, I guess what I am asking, if you are still single would you please, please have a cup of coffee with me? Because, um, I think that I was really really really not ready, and not who I am now in terms of what I want out of life when I met you, and um, I should have grabbed onto you and held on to you with all my might when I had the chance. So, um, if you could, give me a call, ---,---,----. Hope you are doing well. Bye.

Do you think he means, perhaps, that he is now ready in terms of you know, doing better than the wife he abandonned? Might I be the lucky woman he considers up to his standard? Or does he perhaps mean that he is not who he was in terms of, you know, being prepared not to bully a woman into flinging her underwear on a lampshade just because he wants her to? What do you think he might be ready for? Who might he be now?

Well.

What do you say we never find out?

Happy Thursday, and thank you for reading.

What you asked

Em asked: If you could change your race what would you want it to be?

The short answer is: I don't have a race any more than anyone else does. But of course, I do. The one I resemble. If I could change my appearance, I'd like to be dark - Phillippino? Laotian? Indian? Some kind of Pacific Islander? African would be good, too, but I have to admit, I am fond of my straight, maintenance-free hair.

Effortlessly Average asked: if you were to look into a passenger side mirror with a pair of binoculars, would everything appear normal sized or would the mirror itself just appear closer?

Answer: I do not have a car - or binoculars, but my guess is that I'd see what I would normally see if I looked into a regular mirror with a pair of binoculars on front of my eyes. (Binoculars).

He also asked: What do you look for in a guy? Nothing. I haven't dated in almost two years and have no plans to start again. If I were to date, I can only tell you I know what I like when I see it. Back when I was looking, three things mattered more than any others: brains, integrity, and because I am slightly shallow (get it?) height. I 5'10" to 6'1" is perfect. Taller is acceptable, but not ideal, Shorter than 5'9" just doesn't attract me. I also like outdoor people who are not fussy and who don't care about money.

123Valerie asked: what is your favorite number, and why?

Answer: My favorite number is eight (8). I have no idea why I like it so much, but I always have.

Molly asked: If you could live inside of any book, which one would you pick and why?

Answer: What I really want to say? Bleak House. But of course, I am lying. I don't want to live all cooped up in a castle bent over my needle-work. (My life is like that right now).



Bermudabluez asked: Ok.....how about....are you a city girl or a country girl?

Answer: I am a country girl living happily in the city. I love being outside, so I try to get out of Manhattan as often as I can.

Avitable asked: I can't ask dirty questions? Damn it!

Answer: What your question, the answer was probably yes. So go ahead and giggle.

byJane asked: what's your dissertation [going to be] about? Or at least the title, including all ellipses and the obligatory shit after [out of] the colon.

Answer: My dissertation is about Depression Era literature having to do with post Civil War social problems involving race. The main idea is that modernity (in the form of the introduction of electrical power in the south) and other forms of technology causes anxiety similar to the anxiety caused social problems of race. Several novels demonstrate this by using unusual and striking metaphors involving the violence of change brought about by technology - and that the metaphors appear in racially charged situations. If you don't have any idea what I am talking about, congratulations. It means you are still sane.

Nightfly asked: What brought you to blogging?

Answer: I started blogging during the summer of 2007. I did so because my professional life was falling apart at the same time as my personal life, both in terms of my family and my friends, was also falling apart. With everything around me out of my control, I wanted to be able to write and create the illusion of agency that having my very! own! website! would provide. It has worked out nicely. I am a leaf in the wind of other people's plans in my real life, but THIS? This is MINE.

He also asked: My word verification is "kmarjf." What is a kmarjf? Or, how does one kmarjf? Or is it an adjective, as in "That's kmarjfy, man."

Answer: I am going to guess that kmarjf is a verb, and that the verb is regular, and that is means "observe with compassionate interest." Example "When I got to the party, I kmarjfed that Nina was wobbling down the steps with two glasses of wine."


Woodrow asked: What are you listening to? Reading? Thinking? Drinking?

Answer: I am listening to John Eliot Gardiner's "Israel in Egypt" - and when I am not listening to that, and I am listening to "Mantra Mix." I just got done reading Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert.




It is a psychology book that explains is accessible, but scientific terms, how and why people miscalculate what will make them happy. Interesting read. I am half way through reading Larry Brown's Big Bad Love



for the 100th time at least. Before that I read Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey

and CHarles Bukowski's Ham on Rye.



Sandy asked: What was the last meal that you cooked?


Answer: Tilapia with balsamic vinegar reduction, snap peas, and mashed potatoes. I made it for my dad.

and Do you really knit a pair of mittens every week?

Answer: Yes, I do.

and Do you put dunk your oreos? If you were to eat oreos. In milk of course.

Answer: I don't eat oreos. I just don't like them much.

Cajunvegan asked: What is your most unusual nighttime ritual?

Answer: I don't really have any. I used to have an elaborate skin care ritual, but the last few years I have been more concerned with other things, like sleeping, to worry too much about eye cream. I do floss every night and put in piece of molded plastic in my mouth before I go to bed. If I didn't, I would grind my teeth to dust in my sleep.

e! asked: Mary Ann or Ginger?

Answer: Mary Ann. But I think you already knew that.




Mallory asked: What is your favorite mistake?

Answer: My favorite mistake is a guy named... oh, we'll call him Owen. Owen and I went to graduate school together and dated - or whatever you called what we were doing - for nearly two years. We never had any illusions about having a future together; he was too young for me and also, by his own admission, so screwed up from his Mormon upbringing that he wasn't really capable of a normal relationship. But we were great friends and I think we loved each other. He lives overseas now and though we are not in touch, I think of him all the time.

and What do you feel the most guilt about?

Answer: Having a pretty decent life that I would happily toss in the trashcan right now if I could figure out how to do it without going bankrupt and hurting anyone.

and f I gave you 1 million dollars and told you that you must spend it all on yourself, what would you buy?

Answer: My father's house.

Julie asked: Ok, if you had to go a day eating three meals, which I know you won't do, what would you eat? Would Turkey Meatloaf be a choice?

Answer: Yes. I do not know why I love turkey meatloaf so much. But I do.

Your Questions Answered

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo. I have posted 58 times in 30 days. I have written over 5000 blog-words while grading over 100 research papers and writing five chapters of a novel. I drew four (4) pictures and I posted five (5) installments of Larry, WPITW.

Answers to questions (almost) no one asked:

Q: Did you finish your NaNoWriMo novel?

A: No. Five chapters, 10,000 words. Not trilled that I didn't get it done, but I did write more than I have in years.


Q: Is Joel U. Q. T. Skimpole white? and is he in love with a black woman?

A: Yes, and yes. So what?


Q: Are they both over sixty?

A: Yes. Love doesn't end at forty. At least I had better hope not.


Q: Why are you so angry?

A: Walk a mile, my friend. It's hard being under forty, living in New York City, having mostly blonde hair and a job that makes rent. I have skin care concerns. I can't find my ass with both hands (despite its recently reported expansion). I haven't made out with anyone in... a really, really long time. Don't be so mean.


Q: Did you ever call MHH back?

A: No.


Q: Why not? He's part girl. It was all hot between you. See above, re: you never get laid. DUH!

A: He is married. I don't go there.


Q: Jib will make out with you. He is always available for consequence free nothingness. He would walk across town backwards to not have a real relationship with you.

A: True. But Jib wants a real girlfriend and I can't deliver. It's selfish of me to distract him from finding one.


Q: Prude!

A: *Yawn* Anything else?


Q: Did you ever start The Crazy?

A: Well... no. Elseways I would not be talking about getting wider all the time.


Q: How did that mammogram go? And can we see the films?

A: I considered posting them. They are, after all, textbook examples of uncooperativeness. Medical (and some other) people find them fascinating. And since Maggie posted her uterus films, I thought seriously about it. But I didn't because I thought the films, clinical as they are, might interfere with some unsuspecting person's chastity. For example, the person who keeps landing on my blog by typing "largebreast" (all one word) into Google. You here today, my friend?


Q: You are so full of it.

A: But that's not a question. It never was.


Q: Did you ever confront the house wife next door about her squeaking?

A: No. Instead, I have started sponging off their wireless connection as revenge. It's great. Whenever she squeaks at me, I sit quietly at my computer, all the while knowing that my high-speed internet is paid for by her husband. It's quite satisfying.

***** Here's the part where you are stunned speechless. I'll give you a moment to recover. ******


Q: How's your dissertation going?

A: *fingers in ears, eyes squinched shut* LALALALLLALALAALLALALALA. STOP TALKING ABOUT THAT.


Q: How's your dad?

A: *fingers in ears, eyes squinched shut* LALALALLLALALAALLALALALA. STOP TALKING ABOUT THAT.


Q: Have you started knitting mudflap girls yet?

A: Why, yes! Well, no. I have selected yarn and patterns for the targeted parties, but I won't permit myself to cast on the first stitch until the papers are graded. I don't want to add "unemployment" to my list of difficulties.


Q: Are you... off meds today?

A: Why, yes! Actually, I have been for quite some time. It took some doing, but I convinced Headologist Bootstraps that my needs are limited to 1) my life not sucking and 2) having enough xanax to avoid shredding someone at the airport ticket counter when my dad dies. She would very much like to give me the paper slippers at Bellevue, but I won that argument and got a scrip for xanax and we are all done with Don'tFuckUp and RainbowsyUnicorns (tm).

Q: HOW IS YOUR DAD?

A: UGH... ok. He is fine. Unexplicably feeling fabulous. Unaccountably alive.

Q: Why don't you sound happy about that?

A: I am. If I don't sound all "Praise Jesus!" about it, keep in mind that I've spent the better part of thirteen weeks fighting with my step mother, hemorrhaging money on leukemia related phone bills and plane tickets, and shredding my nervous system to bits every time he so much as sneezes. I am beyond wrung out. I am grateful he is alive, but if this is the new normal, I have not yet adjusted. I still hit the ceiling every time the phone rings. I still wake up every morning and check to see if it's still true and it is and then have to climb that hill all over again. So am I glad. YES. Him being alive is the only reason I am not in lock down right now. But it ain't like I don't have other problems. Can we stop talking about this now?

Yes? Thanks.

Well, perhaps not just yet. I started November by registering for both NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo. I was 100% certain that I would lose my dad in November and that having an overwhelming number of writing commitments would help me cope. If you had bet me $1,000,000,000 that my dad would be alive on November 30th, I would have made the bet and you would have won. While I did win the lottery this month, I don't have that kind of cash.

So no bets this month. We're going to take this thing one day at a time. I might post. I might not. If we make it to Christmas, I promise you this: a picture of the other half of my face. I can't tell you how much I don't want to do that but I will if we make it that far. Not that you care.* Just saying.

Oh, ok. Just one more drawing. It is called "Many Colors of Stars".



Thank you for reading. (And have a good weekend).



* You could fold the image image above in half and copy and get a very good idea of what I look like. Probably. Oh wait... don't do that. That makes me look like a dolphin.

Bet you'd rather be here

Today's post is dedicated to everyone who ended up reading my blog and never meant to. Below, the most research search terms that led people to my barren outpost at the north-northeast corner of the interweb - and a few words from me to these people (or droids - whichever. Droids are people, too. Don't be so mean.)

1) rock climber - glad you stopped by, but good Lord, check my links and go see Climbing Narc, Chuffer, Dropknee and Kelly McBride,. I write about climbing sometimes, but they are dedicated and write about it all the time. But I do sometimes climb, and the image search probably landed you here at the picture Mischa swears she didn't cut my ass out of. Well, ok. If she says so.



2) stitch n bitch mudflap girl pattern - did you find the picture? Did you buy the book with the link I provided? Most inportantly, did you find anyone who wants one? I must make this sweater for someone, anyone who will want it. First person to demand this sweater and promise to send me a picture of him or her wearing it gets one free. Ladies, too.




3) guess what reader is thinking? - I was thinking how much I love you. And love is all that matters.



4) foreskin keeps splitting what do I do? - Read the comments on this entry for full primer (ahem) on how to adjust a tight foreskin. You're welcome.



5) picche mischa - how you named my most recent international trip (sort of) and the name of my tent mate in one phrase, I have no idea, but welcome. If you go to Macchu Picchu, buy the trekking sticks. They are well worth it.



6) homeless woman blog - Well. Not yet, but check back in six months or so when all my savings is gone and I am clinging to the drapes. At that point I won't be above powering up my ipod somewhere like this:*



7) grammar and punctuation - my heart sings when someone comes to my blog looking for help with grammar, punctuation and spelling. I have been teaching first year college students to write for eight years now, and it makes my heart soar like a hawk** when anyone, anywhere uses google for a legitimate educational purpose. And finds my blog about emotional wonkiness, climbing gear, and drink recipes.


toothpastefordinner.com


8) purple hands and feet - normally, we call that being dead. Did you check the subject's respirations and heart rate? If the person is living, a likely cause is congestive heart failure or late stage diabetes. Either way, get OFF the internet and go to the hospital. My FB, Yoyo*** is waiting there for you, and when he gets his hands on you and tells you how you've ruined your health with bad company, tell him Nina hopes he's enjoying being a monument to his selfishness. Sorry. Where was I? These holds are what I was talking about. Rock climbing holds in purple - not purple in your hands.




9) How do I make my boyfriend love me? Oh, honey. Have you ever come to the wrong place. I have no idea. Go see Miss Britt.**** She seems to know a thing or two about collecting the adoration of the male creature.



10) My married man friend says if we have sex the relationship will be over is this true? Oh, my darling friend, YES. Most emphatically, yes. Nothing brings on misery and insanity quite like a man who is not legally free to love you. See below:



And run like hell.


*actually, I have a bridge all picked out. I just need a cubby for my laptop.

** no, I have not earned that metaphor, but that's how I feel.

*** Be careful - he's a serious undercover Jesus-freak। He'll have you attending the Our Lady of Inevitable Misery before he puts in the first stent.

**** I did not ask for permission to post an image of the darling and ravishing Britt, but go check her out and you'll see what I mean.

NaBloPoMo

Have I said yet what it feels like to know I have committed to one post a day? Have I said yet how the pressure of one post causes me to post two or three times a day? You know, to push the inferior, slapped up material further down the page?

And does anyone know how much it costs to fly to Korea? By the end of this month, I will definitely be a candidate for this.

Six Bits of News

This week's harvest of wisdom:

1) Psyche meds are humiliating, but they work.

2) They also cause crazy-bad insomnia.

3) That I score "above average" on a Wonderlic test.

4) That I have good energry exchange from my second chakra.

4) Chocolate really does cause acne.

5) Your boat has to be 50 feet long or you can 't call it a yacht.

6) Squirrels are delicious.

It's cold and rainy here in New York, so instead of heading off to the mountains to climb, I am meeting Bibi at the gym, where I will learn, once again, that I really can't expect to be a good climber if I don't learn to put down the Pop Tarts and vodka.

Have a good weekend.

100th Post

I have little to say but this:

1) I signed up for NaBloPoMo.

and

2) I signed up for NaNoWriMo.


I have no idea what is with these names. But the month of November is almost certainly going to be an exciting one for me, and not likely exciting in a good way. So instead of drinking myself to death or smoking hookah until my lungs collapse, I plan to try to write my way from November 1st to November 30th and hopefully arrive at December 1st without any major physical damage - unless climbing falls count, because I always welcome those (crash pads, no big deal).

Also, please see updated links list. I have added some climbing links; in particular, check out Kelly McBride for inspiration and some great pics.

And to close I will report (because it's a big deal to me) that I climbed a V1 (that's bouldering speak for almost the easiest thing in the room) without beta (help) and on the first try (onsight). Click here for more climbing terms.

Thank you for reading.

REVIEW

For those of you who asked:

How is your dad?

Gloriously well, aside from the cancer part. He is nearly done with the rock wall and has started the deck work - and is also running plumbing and electricity down from the house. He is going fishing with his buddies this weekend. When I asked him if I could do anything for him, he said "Pray that God takes the leukemia away." *gulp*. "Ok."

Why are you reading so many 19th century novels?

Avoidance, denial, unsociability, and also, well, they are so very good. When I finish with Austen, I am going to pick up The Foundling - or Tom Jones. Delightful. Don't judge me, please. I rock climb, too. That means I am only .843434% a sissy.

What's your status regarding your vow to drink less?

Doing well, except for the two beers I shotgunned at 4am last night because I couldn't sleep. If you can't drink for medicinal purposes, when can you? Besides, I was out of opium. So there.

Did you ever go out for drinks with that guy?

No.

Why?

Didn't want to. Time much better spent pressing my linens and reading 19th C novels. What???

Are you going to call Merry and Lola today and start being a really active living useful sort of person?

Yes. As soon as I finish Emma but before I start Pride and Prejudice. I am sure they will (not) understand, but I am equally sure that with enough supplication, they will only like me .47399% less than they did before. They are pretty forgiving people. (I have no choice but to hope so, have I?)

Things to be done

Finding myself with a total lack anything to post, I will post my list of things that must be done today.

1) grade 13 papers for the LA111 students
2) grade 5 papers for the LA080 students
3) scan and post reading assignment for LA101 students
4) grade in-class assignments for LA 101 students
5) set up rosters and gradebooks for all students (there are a lot of them this semester - could take a while)
6) finish putting away laundry
7) clean floors
8) finish writing letter to my dad and mail it

The items on the above list that really MUST be done: 1, 2, 3, and 8. The top three are somewhat overdue and that last one is nearly done. I simply have to hand write the letter so that what I have to say to my father does not look like a memo.

If I lived in fantasy land entirely I would also add:

9) go to the gym
10) get eyebrows threaded
11) find social security card and bring it to HR at Panic U
12) mail NC tax return (please don't ask... oh please don't)
13) sort through pile of detritus on the floor and soberly dispose of all items not required for future happiness (as if...)
14) call doctor and explain why I need more magical blue pills (as if...)
15) call other doctor and describe the disaster that is (men... close your eyes) my cycle in the last three months and hear one of two things: "you are getting older" or "you are under a lot of stress". Neither response will prove especially reassuring.

None of these are likely to be addressed until Wednesday - and even then, they barely even rate a maybe. It is more likely that I'll be working items 4-7 on Wednesday. Or doing something else entirely, like pulling my fingernails out with pliers. Or getting a pedicure. You just never know with me, these days.

Goodness happens, too

If you have been putting up with my sadness-anger cocktail the last few weeks, you will have noticed that in my last post, I begged for something, anything good to happen.

I have the following to report:

1) Merry is home from her summer travels, and we spent a few hours walking the park today. I can't tell you how much better I felt after laying out all the cards for Merry. I felt better, almost instantly. Whew!

2) I went to a staff meeting tonight for the other college I am working for this semester, a college we will call Awesome U. * Guess what? I will be teaching a night class populated entirely by local union workers... (that is good news, people) and better yet... my only mandate is to teach them to express themselves. I have taught classes of this kind before, and let me tell you, they are fun. I get to teach them to write not about academic blah - di - dah - but about whatever they want to say about themselves or about ANYTHING. Fun, fun, fun. I learned, therefore, the following about my recent teaching meltdown: It only applies to bullshit four year universities with all their snotty muckity muck. I can happily teach at vo-tech colleges, two years colleges, and adult education colleges, where there is a MINIMUM of academic snot-nosed posturing... because the lack of it usually means maximum focus on student needs and student welfare. And that is what I dig.

So, I begged for some goodness. I got it.

Thank you for reading.

* in case you are keeping track of all the colleges in (and out) of my life:

Awesome U: Night class this semester.

Panic-Hire U: Morning class this semester.

Sweet Little College: My distance education job, without which I would be done for.

Hoops U: excellent public college, mostly known for its basketball team. I got my MA there.

Prestigious U: The nutty place I worked before I landed at Awesome and Panic.

Merciful U: called so because I am enrolled in their PhD program, and they have not yet kicked me out... (I very much deserve to be kicked out, in case you were unaware).

Let's Review

Today, answers to questions no one asked.

Q: How is it that on July 10th you had only $14 left to last you until July 23, and yet on July 21st, you claimed to have $27 left? Are you a liar?

A: My funds increased because I took the drawer in my desk down to the bank and dumped the change on the counter. They gave me $22. And yes, I lie sometimes. I can't go so far as to say I am a liar, however. It's not part of my prime directive. Imperfect as I am, I've got nothing on Larry.

Q: Did you ever get any?

A: I am still working on that. I tried Flanagan's on 2nd and 42nd, but they were all out. Since it took considerable courage to walk into a bar in broad daylight and demand condoms instead of alcohol, it may take me a few more days to amass enough courage to try again to "get some." When I do, I will post about it.

Q: You said you would (maybe, whatever) post pictures of your rock climbing trip. You never did. What the fuck is wrong with you? Liar!

A: Look, I am no Mulgrew (obviously) but since you asked: everything. Thanks for noticing. I didn't post pictures of the trip because we only climbed one day (the next we hiked to Gertrude's Nose) an we didn't even bring a camera. And really, who wants pictures of Bibi's ass? (Oh wait... You might actually enjoy those. My bad). It goes without saying you don't really need so see my ass, since you see it in the metaphorical sense every time you click on my internet diary. Where was I? Oh yes. I am going climbing again this weekend. I will bring a camera. Plenty of Bibi's ass next week. Pinky swear! (Imperfect, yes. Liar, not really. I do break promises sometimes though. I recently broke one to Larry. *snicker*).

Q: You mention Larry all the time as if he is the Worst Person in the World. Ever plan on explaining that? Or are you just going to allude to your bitterness in 67.2349% of your posts until you get the memo that your blog absurd - and quit?

A: I do plan to explain. You may be thinking that another story about love gone wrong or a tirade about a man lying to women is (yawn!) not worth the eyestrain. I wish that were true. When I go get around to explaining why Larry is, in fact, the worst person in the world, you will understand why even the devil himself is embarrassed and ashamed of Larry's badness. In short, Larry will blow your doors off. But it'll take more than one post and it'll take me some time to write. If you really want to know more about Larry, keep reading, and you will.

Q: What is the purpose of your blog? I notice that you post a lot and that most of your posts are without unity or coherence. You are an English teacher. Obviously, you know better.

A: Obviously, I know better, yes. However, from my end of the wireless, forcing myself to write is the purpose. I have not permitted myself to get over-picky about content or lucidity (yet). If you keep coming back, you'll have to find a reason, a purpose of your own, so to speak. I hope you do.*


*If you are the Brazilian person who checks my blog upwards of twenty times a day... please stop. You are scaring me. I have no idea how you found my internet diary and I have no idea why you are reading my posts about climbing equipment and emotional paralysis over and over. If it's because you are waiting to hear about Larry because you think he is Brazilian, no. Brazil doesn't produce people this bad. For this special Grade AAA batch of badness, we have the Europeans to thank. And even the Europeans only manage to produce a Larry once every 200 years (approximately). So, sorry.

Also, if you are hoping I'll disclose whether I get the popular wax job named for your country, please... My mama raised me right. I might talk about other people's wax jobs, but I am a lady. I don't talk (yeah, right) about such personal matters. Where was I? Brazilian reader, I appreciate the attention. Perhaps you should see post from July 18th. I'll wait right here for you.

*****************************

No? Not intereseted? When then, Brazilian reader... you really ought to get a more productive hobby. Go away already! Off with you!**


**Just kidding. I secretly love you (a little bit) Brazilian reader. I know you are not a unique visitor, but you are still special to me. You give me the surface appearance of having a readership... I'm shallow. I'll take it. So, um... I guess you can keep coming back twenty times a day. If you really want to set my mind at ease re: your quality of life, start flying to different countries and checking my blog from unique computers. Or give my URL to other people, check my blog fewer than five times a day and get outta the house, already.

Thank you for your understanding.