Bunny Boiler

There is now a man in the world who thinks of me as a bunny boiler. I really think he does. And it's such a fucking shame. I was giving it a try. Just trying to see if I could give it a try. And I must of overdid a bit. Smelled as desperate as I probably was. And now, a perfectly nice friend thinks I'm going to cling and stick.

Now he won't even politely respond to emails. And, it's not like I would have clung and stuck. A polite no thank you would have made me go away just fine. Now there's no path to normalcy. Doesn't that suck?

There's no way to reach out and reassure him and make peace . . . because he's spooked.

Amazing.

It's amazing to me . . . and very troubling. Now I have this freakish, awkward thing that won't get fixed. A friend lost. And me feeling terrible about myself, my attempt, and any future interactions.

Just sucks, is all. Without ever meaning it, I'm officially the bunny boiler.

What makes life so fucking stupid, sometimes?

Fuck.

Reunion Aversion

I am freaking out at the idea that I may have to reunion with old high school theatre buddies.

I don't want to.

I'm having a pathological fear reaction to the thought of it. Literally. Mike called and I looked at the caller ID and I thought I would throw up. I backed away from the phone and curled up into the chair for a long time, trying to convince myself they couldn't see me.

I don't want to go back there. I don't want to go to a reunion where I will be forced to remember. All that hope that there was actually a future for my art. I'm done with that now. And not in a terribly traumatic way. I'm so much happier in the reality in which I now live. I don't want to be an actress ever again. I never want to delude myself with all that who-ha. I don't want to go in a group and try to remember things I will never remember that they remember and expect me to remember. I don't.

I don't.

I really, really don't.

I don't perform any more, so I will refuse to be on stage. I don't remember fondly this theatre teacher we are all being gathered to celebrate. I remember her yelling at me, and telling me she would only give me a lead role if I promised to lose weight (Nice, Bitch) and I remember all the drama . . . buckets of drama that ended up stirring shit and meaning nothing. Fuck the drama. Fuck the past. I'm trying to go forward here, people! I don't want to go and mingle in a crowd that will revert to the crowd it once was . . . and that I flung myself from by going to Antarctica and hanging with construction workers.

No. No. No.

I don't want to go and force a smile and feign interest in the breeders and the theatre passionate. No. I believe in nothingness and bleakness and hard landscapes and hard work and no art . . . anymore. You can't do art unless you live life and I didn't live life then. I barely do now . . . I'm so scared of it. But no more pretending. No more living in my fabricated emotional memory. No thank you. No more actors. No more. No more.

I'll call Mike back and talk with him. He's a nice man I always loved.

But, I won't go to the reunion.

Why would any of us ever go back?

In the Middle of Then and Out There

Recently I pulled some photos out of a box of a trip I took Sophomore year in college. My friend and I went to visit this other friend from high school, and the other friend and I finally sexualized our relationship. It was a really intense week. And my friend had her camera with her and took lots of photos of all of us, and they are the best photos I have. They captured the look and feel of Baltimore. They captured our really hip clothes and attitudes and washed us all in creamy orange, skin toned light. They reflect back to me how arty and cool I was, how confident I was that I had an artistic future, how love had endless possibility, how music was urgently important, how smoking wouldn't kill me. We were creative and intense and went out and made movies and had coffee and ate peanut butter cups for every meal.

This week I have been trying to really clarify my future self in my mind. What woman do I want to be? When I think out there into the future to the successful business owner and land baroness, what is she like? And I have been trying to be that woman now. She's confident and friendly and kind and funny and well read and informed and compassionate and fit and eats well and cooks food for people and grows her own vegetables and wears linen and is productive after work and laughs a lot.

Right now I am between these two me's. And what I really want to do is gather them all back together here now. I don't want to believe that the arty hopeful hip me is gone. I don't want to believe that the confident capable me is out of reach.

I want them all back together here . . . in the middle of then and out there.

Red totem

Red is every where in my juju lately. I need to see red. I need to go and buy red clothes. I want everything to be red right now.

Red red red.

Sign Reading

I search for signs. This is how I negotiate with the universe.

Smiling means someone is happy to see you.

Happy laughter indicates enjoyment when in conversation.

You are spiritually where you are supposed to be when the numbers on a clock make a good pattern.

The tulips were pointing down, but now they are revived in their vase, so things must be looking up.

When someone reaches out to touch you, they physically manifest the connection they feel.

A kiss on the mouth at the end of a social engagement indicates romantic interest.

But sometimes none of this is right. Sometimes it really is just 3:33 p.m. Sometimes the tulips just needed a big drink of water to stand back up. Sometimes an awkward friend does feel friendship for someone, and enjoys their company, and kisses them on the mouth, but may not want anything romantic.

Maybe I got so excited for an opportunity to try, that I went head over heals too fast and just got irritating.

Whatever is actually true . . . and in my world view all of it and none of it would be true all at the same time . . . this game feels off again. He was confusing last year. He's confusing this year. I tried to be my confident future self and maybe went a bit too fast. I can learn from that. And, it's not surprising that this mysterious man is mysterious. Mysterious men usually are.

Throttle back.

Sink to coasting.

Turn this around and focus on the Exit Strategy. I've signed up for a free seminar. I've started the journal. Instead of exercising the predator in me . . . I'm going to amuse myself in the art of opening a business. There is a lot to learn and a lot of exciting research to do.

There will be other gorgeous, attractive, interesting men to meet later. And hopefully they throw their signs more clearly.

Better Now

It's amazing -- the healing power of art.

After my pity party in the morning, my father and I went down to the art museum. Since last I visited, it has GROWN . . . the new building is open. And it was beautiful and fun. Dad dragged me around the building, showing me it's angles and his favorite pieces. We lunched in the fancy restaurant with the big windows and watched the snow and the city people walk by.

I had forgotten how a city is in snow . . . how good brick looks on a gray day . . . how long black wool coats look good on every single person who wears them.

And suddenly my future seems kind of possible. Suddenly I'm not afraid of the boy and I'm not thwarted by work stuff and I'm not nearly as miserable. This morning I cleaned the kitchen. Sure sign of mental health.

Ahhhhhhh.

Little Green Man Weekend

I may be having a little green man weekend.

They happen from time to time.

In Season 5 of Northern Exposure, they introduced this little green man who would follow Ed around and torment him. He was the physical manifestation of the voice inside Ed's head that would tell him he was incompetent and stupid and ugly and dumb.

I'm probably having a little green man weekend.

I woke up fighting with a coworker in my head. She's hopefully temporary . . . but she's being really awful to people and hurting my friend's heart and I'm just over it. I don't have the energy to deal with her stubborn quick temper, and she had no right to jump my shit over shit that is no longer her business.

Then I thought about my last interaction with EWAK and he seemed just distracted and not at all attracted to me. He didn't have that gaze and smile that he usually has . . . and so I fell straight into the deep dark stinking hole of doubt. How could I have asked him OUT on Tuesday? Oh holy Jesus. It's going to be awful.

Then I thought about how badly my feelings hurt because I don't get to go to this very important meeting about the future of South Pole. I know, I know. It shouldn't be a big deal. Technically, I wouldn't have a lot to contribute. I deal with the real people . . . not the theoretical. And I run the stupid store, for fuck sake. But I found out yesterday that my boss submitted my name to go and I was taken off the list . . . either by the NSF or her bosses. They obviously don't think I would be useful. And that kind of pissed me off. Yes, I run all the soft and fluffy stuff and yes there are far more critical staff people who need to be there. But, it feels like EVERYONE else is going. (No offence because he is a really good guy . . . but the fire alarm tech gets to go?) And it didn't help that the people who are going kept telling me I really should be going. Great. "Why aren't you going? You really should be going!" Yeah. Thanks. I'm not going.

Because what I do for South Pole doesn't actually matter.

And this is the phrase that the fucking little green man keeps repeating.

What I do for the South Pole doesn't actually matter.

At least the Art Museum was pretty.

Why Erik Nichols is Right

Sometime during the course of the summer down in the far away place, I wrote that I had a feeling I would know myself better after this season. I would know more about where I was going and what I was willing to put up with.

One of the biggest revelations for me was the "drink with the drillers" revelation. I spent a far amount of time last season drinking whiskey with the IceCube drillers and I realized I liked it. I like sitting around and drinking with people. When I smoked at Pole I would go up into the bar all the time and do the same. And I have found the best folks with whom to drink are men who have worked a day or two. Interesting, capable women who aren't talking about their men or their children are great too . . . but drinking with old working men is the best it's going to get for me! World-wise, crabby old guys with lots of wild stories, who flirt and laugh at my jokes.

What better?

And for some reason admitting this to myself has been really hard. In America we aren't supposed to like these guys . . . they are "uneducated" useless drunks, dangerous to us somehow. They can't commit. They don't like spending time with their children -- or worse yet, they never had any. They aren't responsible. They don't want to settle down. They work overseas. They DRINK TOO MUCH -- and that is bad for you! Always. Alcohol is always bad. Bad and wrong and dangerous and to be judged and promptly avoided.

We were founded by Puritans, after all.

But I like these guys. I like them a lot. They have more fun. They have better stories to tell. They live more honestly. And because they aren't living like they don't want to, I find they have a lot more integrity than the "good" man. These guys aren't cheating on their wives, because they don't have wives. They aren't hypocrites. They work hard and know what it takes to live. They aren't scared of losing everything because they know they can work hard again and get it all back. They no longer make promises they don't keep and they don't try to win you over with false representation. Not to say they aren't telling great fish stories . . . But they say what they mean, even if you're going to find it offensive. They have seen a thing or two and no longer subscribe to the bullshit. They are road savvy and road weary and because of it, they are tolerant and wise.

And I love this. I feel comfortable here.

Erik Nichols is a young version of these guys. He left his proper, white-shirted engineering job and started working in construction. He's an iron worker. This year he and his crew built a huge telescope, making all kinds of news. And Erik Nichols is known to drink a bit . . . and get rather wild and big and hugs on everyone and laughs really loud. Erik and I have talked about his decision to leave that other world behind, and how his whole family called him up and told him he was ruining his life. He and I have also talked about what it means to be a "grown up" and he poo-poo'ed the entire conversation. He's not interested in "growing up" in the traditional sense of the phrase. Erik seems pretty happy. He has money in the bank and he's traveling the world and he's hanging out with like minded guys who drink and laugh and travel the world as well. What's wrong with that?

Why is leaving corporate America still some kind of revolutionary act? Why is stepping out of the fold seen as so careless? Why is it hard for me to admit I would rather live like these guys? Why is it that Francie and Joel and Glenn and countless others felt perfectly justified calling the IceCube guys drunks, but forgave the younger, party people the same behavior? Frankly, I would rather sit around drinking whiskey with the "drunks" who tell thoughtful and interesting stories and go to bed by nine, than whoop it up with youthful idiots who over-indulge and puke all over each other.

Isn't it interesting that admitting that I see this way of life as one of the most truthful and honest is so hard. So hard to explain to myself or anyone else. So hard to admit that I like drinking whiskey with rough around the edges people. That I am attracted to their devil may care honesty, their fearlessness and their choices to forego what was expected and to honestly admit where best they fit.

Erik Nichols is right. It doesn't matter what "grown up" means. It matters that we make choices for ourselves that fit, whether or not our family will understand.

DSL Life Change

Oh, holy heavens! It's like a miracle! A miracle, I tell you!

This morning I connected my super fast DSL connection to my brand new gorgeous iMac.

It's. So. Much. Better.

Gone are the dial up days, lumbering along with an 8 year old laptop and it's dead mouse. Gone gone gone gone.

I feel free. I feel the ultimate technology that this ultimate technology is all about.

Yee haw!

Rumor Control

The other night I was caught telling a rumor to someone. Not blatantly caught – or caught out . . . but caught. I met my old boss for drinks and was telling him stories from the past season at the far away place, and I mentioned the most extreme story about his replacement . . . that the replacement was so drunk in the bar one night that he pinned the stupid, loud-mouthed electrician boy up against the wall by the neck and yelled at him.

Then, low and behold and as luck would have it, the replacement called my old boss' cell phone and he joined us for drinks. And, of course, the story came up from him. Go figure. We were talking about how small the far away place is and then the replacement proceeded to tell us the most amazing rumor he heard about himself. He couldn't believe it, it was so ridiculous.

Guess what it was.

"Yeah, that's not true. That never happened. Don't you think my boss would have talked to me about it if it did!"

Great.

So, minutes before, there I was telling this same rumor to my old boss . . . and then boom, none of it was true.

Driving home from the bar, as I felt increasingly embarrassed and sickened from my blunder, I tried to make myself feel better by fighting with the replacement in my head. "But, you WERE really obnoxious and agro and drunk all the time, and you DID sleep with people inappropriately and and and . . . "

I realized that the rumor about him slamming someone up against the wall wasn't ridiculous and over the top like he thought . . . it was totally believable. His behavior throughout the season, and especially at the end, made that story ring true. We didn't check it against probable procedure or investigate the allegation because we SAW him too drunk after gatherings. We SAW him lose his temper publicly. We comforted the GA's he yelled at. We watched as he groped his own boss all over the New Years Eve dance floor. We defended HER when people thought she was the one who was too drunk. We didn't investigate or poo-poo the notion of him slamming someone up against the wall because it was no more inappropriate than the things we KNEW he actually did.

And this got me thinking about how we actually are kind of responsible for the rumors that go around about us. If someone told the same story about me . . . no one would believe it because they have never known me to be sloppy drunk and violent.

So, in some ways I feel better about talking out of school. Maybe it is just a rationalization. Mostly my observation made me want to remember to remember not to blab about people I work with to people who know them. And it also made me grateful that I am fundamentally fear based and old enough and wise enough to try to behave myself in a small community. Makes everything easier.