Ohhhhh, ohhhh I'm still alive...like Pearl Jam

So, I've had a lot of death going on this week. Well...not really this week so much as yesterday. I got the double whammy yesterday when I lost two people who mattered to me. The first, my grandma, passed away at about 2:30am Tuesday morning. We'd expected it, but only since Saturday. At some point I'll talk about my experience with "saying goodbye" and "giving permission" to die...but that's not this post.

The second person actually died back in June, but I didn't find out until yesterday afternoon. Already raw from my Gram's death, when I opened the casual email from the St. Olaf education department asking for my deets so they could update their database and read their announcement of "oh, by the way, Mark Schelske died", all I could do was drop my jaw and stare at the screen. Again, at some point I'll talk about Mark and what he meant to me personally and professionally, but this is not that post.

Whenever someone dies, I become an insomniac. And not a tired insomniac, but a fully energized, no concept of time insomniac. Last night when I cracked open a diet coke and sat down to read and waste time on Facebook, it didn't even occur to me to look at the clock until the Golden Girls was over and Cheers had begun. It was 1am.

It's like I want to take over the living for those who have died. Or, like I suddenly get a shot of the reality of how little time we actually have on this Earth. Sleeping isn't a waste of time, of course, but when it's compared to death, well, I guess I feel like doing anything is better than sleeping or dying. And I wonder if the two are so connected in my head that, especially when I'm presented with death smack-dab in the face as I was yesterday, maybe I kind of feel like if I go to sleep I'm dying a little as I go.

Either way, I'm not happy to have lost two people I care about. And I'm not happy to not be sleeping (even though it's more or less my choice--I probably *could* sleep if I, you know, went to bed). So, right now, this girl isn't happy.

Cleaning up the Hermitage (and the longest story about tampons I've ever told)

I'm having company today. I think. It's still somewhat up-in-the-air, as these things often are. But, last night and today I've been cleaning my house. It occurred to me while I was scrubbing my toilet on my hands and knees (don't all profound thoughts happen around this time?) that the last time anyone was in my house except for my parents was back in August at the Social Reincarnation Soiree. That was a bit over five months ago.

The thought first came to mind last night when I was reorganizing the bathroom off of my bedroom. I just got a nifty cabinet from my parents because they're redoing their bathroom, so I was filling it with standard bathroom fare. I put a container of tampons on one of the shelves and then paused. Should I put them there? Just out in the open for anyone to look at? Then I thought, "who will see them?" I tried to remember the last time anyone but me was in my bathroom. Then I thought about who, since I moved in, had ever been in that bathroom. And I decided to keep them there because anyone who makes it that far into my 'inner sanctum' knows about tampons and probably knows me well enough to not be bothered. At least I hope so.

I kind of wonder why I'm so protective of my space. It isn't that I don't have friends, or that I'm not sociable. I just always end up going over to other people's places or out to restaurants/events. I never invite anyone over, and of course no one is ever "hey, let's go to your place!" Maybe it should be another new year's resolution to open up my house a little bit to the people I'm close to. I have no idea why I'm so afraid to have people over. And not even "people"--just "person." Anyone who doesn't walk on four legs. Very odd. I am a very odd girl.

But, back to cleaning. Because today someone is coming into the hermitage. I think.

Attachments

So, last week I opted to stay home and study rather than go to Fabulous Rita's CorePower yoga class. The week before I was too hungover to speak on Saturday morning (the reunion) and the two weeks before that she wasn't teaching. So, you can imagine how much I was looking forward to her class this Saturday.

She's not teaching for at least the next two weeks. Anywhere. She's still on the schedule for November, but, well, frankly after this week with Carina the Chiropractor falling off the face of the earth, I'm a little nervous about whether or now I may have missed a possible goodbye with Rita last week. And I'm a little upset.

Which got me thinking. When did I start forming these lifelong attachments to people I don't even know? I know nothing of Carina's personal life, and even less about Rita. Yet both of these women are important in my life--they make me feel good when I'm with them, I look forward to seeing them, and I'm sad when I miss the opportunity to interact with them. And this week has been unnecessarily hard on me, not because anyone did anything wrong, but because these darn people keep living their lives without consulting me first! And I'm really starting to get confused by it all.

When I was growing up I used to form "attractions" to women--camp counselors, teachers, etc. It wasn't a sexual thing at all, but more of an "I want to be you" sort of draw. I wanted to be exactly like them--be their best friend, be their sister, be someone important to them. This carried on to a few people in college but faded as I became an adult.

Now it seems as though it may be back. I can't label the attraction this time, though, because adulthood is more complicated. It's more sexual in the way that I want to be *with* these women, as opposed to "being them"....but it's not sexual in the way that I can't imagine ever having sex with another woman. So not for me.

So I don't really know what to do. I think my life would be a lot easier if I didn't develop feelings for acquaintances beyond what is probably socially acceptable. I wouldn't feel a sense of loss when they moved on. It's not like I'm devastated for the rest of my life or anything, but when I lose someone it definitely puts a dent in a few of my days. Mostly I want to know *why* I do this. It's not being starved for attention or affection or anything, because it's not ALL women (or men), it's only certain women. But its been four women in the last calendar year. That's a bit much. Even for me.

The weekend was so big I need to break it up into parts...

Taking my last final on Thursday morning at 8am (ended up with an A, thank you!) started a four day frenzy of activity that I won't be recovered from for at least a few more days. Thursday and Friday I cleaned the house and got set up for my "social reincarnation soiree"--a party to celebrate my finishing summer classes and getting back in touch with all of the friends I've neglected for too long.

The party got going at around 6:30 when Erica showed up, followed shortly after by Jessie and Brian. Then Jodi arrived, and my parents came to take the dog and things got going. The highlight of the night was the opening of the Olympics, where everyone who isn't a smoker was glued from 7-11pm. It was really cool to see friends from drastically different areas of my life meet together and get along with one another. At one point I looked at Yoga Molly and said "this is the most eclectic group of people that could possibly be in a room together." The die-hards stayed up until about 2am and then we retired for the night.

It was a lot smaller gathering than I had planned, but enough people who were there promised me it was "intimate" rather than "totally lame" so I'm happy. It did remind me, though, why I have parties so infrequently. As an introvert, it's really strange for me to have a whole lot of people in my space. I love to have people over, but I'm really a lot happier with 4-5 people than I am with 30.

The next day Jessie, Brian, Rocket and I went to breakfast at the Teepee on the Rez, and the breakfast was so fucking good it was the only thing I ate all day without realizing it until the next morning when I woke up starving. I love the Teepee.

I want to believe the truth is out there...

Let me say that if I have to point out a single piece of American culture that molded me and shaped me into the person I am today, it was The X-Files. Hands down. It's hard for me to talk about it, though I do tend to joke quite ab it about it as I "come out" to people close to me about my X-Files fetish. I own all of the seasons. I own 90% of the trading cards. I know the most obscure trivia. In short, I am an X-Files fan. To the core.

I expected to go to X-Files I Want To Believe by myself, but fortunately good friends Josh and Michelle humored me and agreed to see XF rather than Batman. The movie was, initially, a disappointment. I sat there while the credits rolled shaking my head and saying "what?". And for two minutes, I hated it. Then, walking out of the theater, I said "It just wasn't what I expected." Because, you see, there are no aliens. Not a one. There's no CSM, no cornfields, no bees, no space ships, and no black oil. Instead, the movie features a psychic pedophile priest and Amanda Peet.

Not what I expected.

And yet...

As I walked to my car, I got nervous. There was a man walking in the next aisle over, no doubt toward his car, yet I got nervous. I watched him, and he watched me (probably thinking 'what the fuck is that girl staring at me for?') and when I got into my car I locked the doors. Because, you see, rather than use aliens to frighten us, this time the X-Files addressed not the fears we do have, but the fears we *should* have. The monsters that are not of other worlds but from this one. Terminal illness, stem cell research, religion and faith, animal experimentation, illegal organ donation, even car accidents on snowy roads were the featured monsters of this movie and they worked. They worked on a level that only Chris Carter could produce.

We got a good dose of Scully and Mulder's relationship, and some excellent name drops from the series. Gillian Anderson, David Duchovney, and Mitch Pileggi, the three "most important" characters from the series appeared and, though they were older and wiser, the movie grew with them.

So, though the movie was not what I thought it was going to be, I think it actually ended up being more than what I wanted. It left me thinking about issues that are very real and combined that with my absolutely favorite group of characters. All in all, not too bad for eight bucks.

My annual date with Roger Fererer

Ahh, Roger Federer. Once a year I get myself dressed up and prepared for my date with him at the Wimbledon championship game. Nadal has joined us the last three years, which I don't much care for, but I guess I can't complain too much. He gives my boy a run for his money which, essentially, extends our dates well into the afternoon. I don't see Federer during the year...once in awhile on manly-smelling-stuff commercials or on the occasional Open match, but I don't stalk. I don't seek him out.

Three years ago, back in '06, I had no idea who Roger Federer was. I knew a bit of tennis, like that Wimbledon was important, and I knew the Williams sisters and Steffi Graf, Andre Agassi, and, of course, John McEnroe. But I didn't know the scoring (love? deuce? what?) or care much who won.

But then, I was also dating Greg. Greg liked his tennis. And, as enthralled as he was with the game, he was equally irritated that I didn't understand the simple concept of tennis scoring, so he set out to explain it to me. We watched *lots* of tennis together throughout our tenure. What Greg didn't know, though, was that while he was explaining the scoring, I was listening with about 75% of my brain. The other 25% was devoted to wondering how exactly Roger Federer could have an ass that tight and still be able to move his legs independently of one another. Hinges, surely?

I never told Greg this because our only fight that held any weight was one where he got pissed at me because I was discussing my full-on crush on Johnny Depp. He was troubled by what he described as my "boy crazy" side. So, I left out that little detail about my evolving love and admiration for the Swiss, namely one Roger Federer. (Never mind that while he was on my ass about being in lust with a celebrity who lives in France and has two children with a French model, Greg was in love with a girl from, you know, like, down the street.)

But, fortunately, Federer isn't nearly as judgmental. He's content to allow me to watch him bounce around the court for a few hours once a year and doesn't mind that I *heart* Johnny Depp and a few other highly hot people. Ahh....I love championship Sunday.

Things so beautiful they make us weep

The other night I was watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and talking with Jodi. I mentioned how the scene where Charlie finds the ticket in his candy bar always makes me cry. She asked why, and I said that it's such a beautiful thing--for a deserving person to get exactly what they want. Not to have to work for it always, but for all the stars to align for a good person who deserves a bit of luck and it just happens. It's magic, I think, and that's what always makes me tear up at that moment. That, followed up by his grumpy grandpa saying "There's lots of money. They're printing more every day." And he tells Charlie to use the ticket rather than sell it.

Jodi said that what had made her cry from beauty was Where the Hell is Matt?. I clicked to it, and I haven't really been the same since. I watched it, and though Matt's dancing didn't make me cry (I did appreciate the profound message of it), what moved me, and continues to move me, was the song he dances to.

I downloaded the song and have listened to it almost non-stop for three days. I mean that. I've listened to it almost a hundred times at home on itunes and it's the only song I play in my car. I heard it in my head during my bio test and it got me through it. This has been a tough week--a tough five weeks, really--and this song overwhelms me with the feeling that absolutely anything is possible. The combination of strings and piano with the singer's incredible voice is beyond the pale. It's the sort of beautiful music that makes my chest hurt because I can't breathe for the wonder of it. It makes me smile, it makes me cry, it makes me feel like the moment I'm in is the most exquisite moment of my life.

So, it's a good song.

The song is called Praan, and I've wondered non-stop about who the singer is. I assumed she was an Indian woman hanging out in India (mostly because the words of the song aren't a language I recognize--I sound like a braying donkey when I try to sing along.) I googled her, googled the song, googled everything I could think of.

Come to find out thanks to channel 9, the singer, whose voice has filled my soul with a joy and wonder I haven't felt in a long time, is a 17 year old girl from Minneapolis. Her name is Palbasha Siddique, and the song is in Bengali. I wish I could call her up and tell her how much this song has moved me. She was paid $1000 for the song, which is akin in my mind to Edgar Allan Poe's $12 for The Raven.

Beautiful things that make us weep should be celebrated. The feeling of joy that swells within and threatens to burst out all on its own is so rare and, well, beautiful. Whatever its source, weeping for joy and love and beauty is a thing to be treasured.

Ravenous

I'm absolutely starving. All the time. I'm doing that whole Meredith Baxter Birney-Lifetime movie-bulimia thing without the purging. I can only blame it on the fact that I've removed meat from my diet and therefore my body is always in want of the one thing it can't have. But, if I told you everything I ate today you'd hurl on your shoes.

So, what to do? Continue eating like a state fair hog and gain 30 lbs? Eat meat? (Isn't there a short story about a person whose hunger can never be satiated? I think there's meat involved there too.) Starve myself? Rest assured, I'm not losing any weight.

I think I may need to trot over to Whole Foods and find some good meat substitutes. I'm a little afraid to go in there, but it's either that or continue nibbling away at vegetables and fruits like a vegetarian Rainman until I eventually explode and go out and kill myself a steer.

Okay...going to make some popcorn.

"Mary Moo--oo--oon, she's a vegetarian"

So I'm on day whatever of being a vegetarian. Or, rather, I should say I'm on day whatever of not eating meat. I don't really consider myself a vegetarian because I'm guessing this phase will pass eventually....as soon as the memory of the uncanny resemblance between chicken and rat fades away.

But do you know what I miss? Bacon. I miss bacon. It doesn't appeal to me--like I can't imagine eating it--but I miss it all the same. I miss the crunchy greasy fattiness of it. Somehow tofu doesn't have the same appeal.

Meltdown #618

When I spoke of my meltdown last week, I didn't really imagine that I'd have another one quite so quickly. But, well, I guess my freaking out is an hourly occurrence these days. But, last night while I was sitting down doing my accounting and chatting with Jodi about various sundry items, I suddenly flipped out again.

Now when I say 'suddenly,' I mean just that. I mean that like a switch was flipped inside me, 'suddenly' everything was wrong and I was going to fail accounting (well, get a B, which is just as bad) and I couldn't get the problems or the exercises and blah blah blah.

Because Jodi is my friend and knows me well, she didn't bat an eye when I went from normal conversationalist to suicidal bitch. She switched right along with me, complaining about my professor and the stupid exercises and how could I be expected to do work when it's not explained? And that, folks, is a true friend. Sure, she threw Moist Frank in at the end, but it was a well deserved jab.

I've always, to some degree, had the freakout gene. Having classes, though, and being at the break point for stress 24/7 has only exacerbated an already unruly situation.

Undercover

I seem to have developed a disturbing habit: sleeping with my head under the covers. I carve out a small breathing hole but otherwise my head is completely wrapped up in blankets when I fall asleep. If my head is exposed to the world, I lay awake and feel, well, exposed.

I can't help but wonder how a bed companion (assuming I ever again in this lifetime manage to share my bed with another human being) might interpret this behavior. I wonder how I should interpret this behavior. I wonder if it's just a way I'm coping with the stress of Operation: DBH and it'll go away when the classes end? Or maybe I've just taken one step closer to walking off the deep end.

Either way, about a month ago when Jessie and her fiance Brian came to visit, she joked with me about it. "You were, like, totally burrowed in!" And I had to admit my new sleeping position. Hopefully I won't suffocate myself in my sleep. That would be unfortunate.