meet me over there

I'm growing a new blog. Fresh start. New me. Mountain get out of my way. I want to write again and I think this might help.

If you'd like the address, e-mail me and I'll be happy to share: haikugirl at gmail dot com.

I may post here. I don't know. Never say never, right?

if i kiss you where it's sore

It’s been one of those days/weeks/months. It bleeds together like my skinned knee into my favorite pair of blue jeans. How it’s always a blur, a soup, a fog - I'm not sure. I wonder if I float above my days. Touching my toe down here and there but rarely making contact with the sidewalk. The soles of my shoes still look brand new and reality is for other people. Not me.

It’s been awhile but all that’s been missed are a number of happy days and a handful of ones that were not. And the drama that comes from the in-between. The switch from major to minor. The switch from go to no-go. That moment when you pull out your umbrella on the walk home from work. I don’t manage those transitions very gracefully. I wish to. I try to. But. My personality gets in the way. I’m tenacious. And direct. And sometimes I just don’t get it. And "no." Try telling me no. I don’t hear it. Literally. This is why I’m in sales. Wait. That’s not right. It’s not why I’m in sales, it’s why I’m good at it. I get praised 40 hours a week for something that causes people who love me to beat their head against a wall and not want to answer the phone.

So these months that are all the same month. This ying and yang that are all the same ying and yang. Hmmm. I think I stopped making sense back at “It’s been one of those days...” But there is something to say here.

Right?

Maybe about getting back up on the horse because for all the floating and for all the times I can’t hear you because I have my headphones on the one thing that always always happens is eventually I hit a wall and bounce on the ground and one second later I’m brushing my pants off. And one second after that? My shoelaces are skimming the tops of trees. He’s calls me unsinkable.

But that makes me want to sink.

He says all the right things but only some of the time. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Laying on the couch this weekend he told me that on my birthday I became his best friend. I let my guard down. Shared all my dirty secrets and shined a light on all my darkest fears. He dabbed my cheek with a Starbuck’s napkin that day. And no matter how many times I apologized for the melt-down he would volley it back with a no-need-to. A please don’t. He even said he was jealous that I could do that. That I could just be like that, a pile of goo in the front seat of his car. That made me his best friend.

Wow.

But after that. It was all mouths and legs and hands and spit. And today it’s all phone calls and emails and a .jpeg I found on the internet of a busy guy. With four arms. And he was sweating.

Is this pretty? Spilling words like this? Being able to spill words like this?

Worthy of jealousy?

Or even just worthy?

suppose i never ever let you

He asked me to write this all down. Save it in a bottle like a scoop of ocean water and sand. He likes how I write. Thinks it’s pretty. He’s bonded to our story like he has to the smell of my soap. Holding my wrist to his mouth and breathing in. My fingers unfolding into his hair. For me it’s been a string of coincidences and moments like that. Almost sickeningly sweet. Dimly lit. In soft focus. But that is what this is. What these weeks are. The weeks before we one day disagree. The weeks before the day to day can even touch us. The weeks when seeing his name pop up on my cell phone gives me butterflies.

These weeks are to be savored.

I have this idea. Or picture. It’s more of a picture. Of all these very public diaries written by boys and girls and men and women. Posted with wordy snapshots and punctuative ideas of what life is like for us. What it means to share 2007 with a planet full of people who are more alike than different. I can see this timeline in my head. Of all the people before us and all the ones yet to come. Slices of who gets to share today. And it will be a slightly different slice tomorrow. All these people telling their stories of falling in love, of being in high school, of what they had for lunch. We’re documenting life in a way that its never been documented. Turning history books to puzzles where the pieces are scattered about and each one fits with all the others.

This is what I tell myself when I write down how he smells my wrist and how we were at the same punk show in Green Bay, WI summer of 1988, and how I knit stuff and how my cat did something cute. I’m adding to this collective story. Just like you are. Just like she is. Just like he is.

I had lentil soup with spinach for lunch. Keith taught me how to say “Where is the butter?” in French as though I was extremely cranky to have to ask.

And about two months ago I met a boy. Met him because he was wearing a wrist band and I think wrist bands are totally hot. Met him because he said he was brave enough to be truthful and had gone from punk rock kid to irreverent adult with a healthy dose of grown up and dad and guy next door. Met him because I couldn’t get him out of my mind once our paths crossed. 24 hours later I was sending him an e-mail and crossing my fingers. Now he’s having his mom analyze my handwriting and wearing a scarf I made him as he visits his family in DC. His 14 year old son in tow. His cell phone charger forgotten on his kitchen table. His dad wanting to take him to church.

Everyone, this is Bob.

Bob, this is everyone.

i got lost in the sounds

Instead of blaming it on the New Guy, I’m going to first blame my hiatus on Flickr. That whole “a picture is worth a thousand words” thing is really appealing. I’m still in the honeymoon phase with my wee digital camera and it created an unholy alliance designed to bring down my blog.

Next up, I’m going to blame the weather. It’s been all end of the world here. Hail. Snow. Torrential rains. Wind storms. It was all I could do to make it to work on time, and by on time I mean, you know, like by noon.

After that I think I’ll blame laziness with a pinch of writer’s block tossed in for good measure. I tried to write. I really did. But it just wasn’t happening. If my blog was judged by hours put in and not words, I assure you November would not have gone by unnoticed. I spent at least 10 hours looking at a blank page and another 20 contemplating why that was so.

If I was forced to come up with a Top 5, maybe, MAYBE, the New Guy would make an appearance. But to say he’s an obstacle to anything is silly. He’s a distraction, sure. A very cute distraction who happens to be an excellent kisser. But he’s really Grade A Fancy fodder. I have a novel kicking around in me with him as a main character and to tag him a threat to this lil ol’ blog is preposterous. Instead, it was more like waiting to introduce a new boy or girlfriend to your kid. You know, you wanna wait to make sure it’s worth the trouble. Nothing is worse than waxing poetic about how fantabulous he is only to have him be yesterday’s news quicker than I can change my MySpace status back to single. But it’ll be 2 months on Christmas Eve and, dang it, that seems like something. 8 weeks of goo-goo eyes and flirty e-mails. 8 weeks of worrying about what I was going to wear and if I smelled nice. 8 weeks of constant smiling and butterflies. It’s been pretty neat.

I think I’m blushing.

In other news, Best Boss Ever left to go back to radio. He was a gopher on the set of WKRP when he was in college and apparently that had a mighty big impact on him. His leaving triggered my third mid-life crisis. Now I’m on this kick where I want to care about my job. Have it mean something. I have my eye on the perfect place and my fingers crossed. My step dad had heart surgery and is going to be ok. But, man, what a week. The scare made me realize I loved him and I told him so after 23 years of not telling him so. One of my friends is pregnant. And I couldn’t be happier because the world needs more curly haired cutie pies. Clover is robuster than ever. Boo is gonna be in Revolver magazine cuz she rocks that much.

Winter is the new metaphoric spring.

a thousand words

I've been a lazy writer.

Lazy.

While this piece of internet real estate has been vacant, over here it's hopping. Fall makes it easy to take pretty pictures and being lazy (as previously established,) I can't pass that up.

However, if I have any hope of selling this blog to Google for 1.65 billion dollars I really need to update it weekly. So things are a'brewin. Perk-a-lating. French pressing.

I'll post something new this weekend. Pinky swear.

i'm blinking off and on and off again

HOLY MOLY.

Writing is hard. Writing stories for newspapers that care about details and “getting things right” is extra hard. My sophomoric effort to the ass story made it’s debut on Sunday. I haven’t read it yet. I just can’t. It’s been the subject of enough e-mails to bring down AOL. It’s been passed from editor to editor with more frequency than a really bad cold. It’s been the inspiration for passionate rants in the parking lot about whether a word should be in italics or in bold. People. That is not worthy of a passionate rant. So this Sunday, I just let it come and go with nary a clinked glass to my second stint as a freelance writer. But let you not be fooled. I’m already signed up for round three.

It’s like San Pellingrino that way. It takes a little getting use to but once you like it you feel significantly cooler.

Want to know what is not cool? Amateur magicians.

I’ve been to many an advertiser recognition party. I’ve worked in media since you were a toddler and I know how they are supposed to go. The recipe is as follows: open bar, decent band. It’s really that simple. You are supposed to flex your market might to snag a band and venue that your competitors could only dream of. Then you get everyone drunk, fill them up on finger foods and watch the magic happen NOT hire a magician! His first trick were those hoops. You know the ones - where you clink them together a few times to no avail and then suddenly - poof! - they are magically linked together. “Can’t you buy those at Walgreen’s?” I asked Chris. “I’m fighting an urge to make balloon animals.” he said back. Thankfully, they nailed the open bar part.

It’s day 16 sans sugar. Feels a little like day 116. Keith seductively licked a Twix for my benefit. I passed up the prettiest little fruit tarts. I’m really really - really - sick of raisins. Day 21 will be on Saturday freeing me up to eat a wheelbarrow full of brownies on Sunday. Or not. The idea behind this little experiment is to reset my sugar tolerance. I want to feel it when I eat sugar. The highs. The lows. I want to face plant into my keyboard 90 minutes after eating a doughnut. I want to find candy too sweet and maybe, just maybe, chose something like an apple over something like a cupcake. I know it’s a long shot. These hopes typed from the fingers of someone who, say just 17 days ago, considered chocolate chip cookie dough a perfectly acceptable dinner.

Uncooked.

What else? What else? Chris accidentally dressed like an American flag one day. I’m undefeated in fantasy football. Clover The Cat tried to communicate an emergency to me using just her eyes. Boo finished her quilting project. That’s huge. BOO FINISHED HER QUILTING PROJECT. You know what that means ... pole dancing lessons are next on her agenda! This week is the corn-off! My coworkers and I are having a contest to see who has the shortest time frame from corn consumption to corn ... ah ... deconsumption? (a.k.a. pooping.) Kay’s having a football party. I’m making Chex Mix!

Woo-hoo!

Wanna come?

sing me the alphabet

I’m quitting sugar for 21 days. Cold turkey. When chocolate chip cookie dough sounds like a good thing to have for dinner, you know you have a problem. Or perhaps a number of problems. I’ve made it through two full days of turning my nose up at all things sweet and delicious. So far so good. Keep in mind that the Hawaiian economy may collapse but I can’t worry about island states when there are peanut butter labels to read. And jams to shun.

Yes. I've shunned jam.

But I don't shun prophetic dreams! People are having dreams! People like Kay. People like Diana. In these dreams I'm hooking up with a certain boy who makes me laugh like a goofball and who also happens to star in the following snippet. Names have been changed to protect the inocent.

Zach Braff: Hi, this is Zach.
Me: You referred to yourself in the third person.
Zach: What do you mean?
Me: This email. It says “Braff doesn’t like that.” and it’s from you, Mr. Braff.
Zach: What’s your point?
Me: Referring to yourself in the third person is kinda ... um ... weird.
Zach: Braff doesn’t think it’s weird.

Then he hung up on me. Click. For comic effect. And today. I caught him looking at my butt.

I finished my story for Gender F. Gender Foosball. Gender Foxy. Gender Fifth of Gin. It’s about crafts and girls. Girls and crafts. If you’re in the knitting know you’ll be able to make a pair of leg warmers by following the bouncing ball. It hits the streets on September 25 and get this - THEY ARE PAYING ME AGAIN. I thought the first time was some kind of accident but apparently it’s on purpose. Even more amazing - I’m gearing up to write something for a section that is not special and is not about women. Hint: It doesn’t start with and G and end in an F. It’s about my friends and their super cool company and social networking sites and saving the world and doing what you love and seeing how many bottles of Perrier you can drink in an hour without blowing up.

The jam I shunned was blackberry.

I’m thinking of going back to school. I dunno for what. Maybe law. Or maybe French. Or art. I need more assigned reading in my life. And index cards. I’m severely lacking in index cards. Preferably scribbled with words in a foreign language and held together with a rubber band. I might just decide to bake raisin-walnut bread instead. Or join a particularly challenging book club. I could always take up Latin again. Nothing cured my want of an education as effectively as a quarter of Latin.

Ah. Those were the days. The frustration. The erasing. The cassette tapes.

I’d write something snarky here, in Latin, if I was able to retain anything that I could use in somewhat normal conversation. Instead, all I can say are things about killing. And herding sheep.