Sometimes I sit down to write a post and I feel uncomfortable. I’ll think about work, or my writing, or how I’ve got to squeeze in a visit to the grandparents over the holidays, and I’m struck with how little reality I’ve gotten away with here.

My age, my hometown, my city of residence, my specific job title, the number of pets I have…these are things I’ve done without here. It has helped my writing in some ways. I’ve stretched to describe, elaborate, be specific in ways other than just talking about the facts. Of course, it also might be confusing. You might think a post directed at the certain boy was about my soon-to-be-ex husband, or vice versa.

But the reason for skirting issues that might make me say “software engineer” or “28” is not that I want to write vague and confusing posts. Or because I’m shy (I am, but that’s not the reason).

I want put my writing out “there” to see the reaction. Am I funny? Touching? Can people relate?

I don’t put myself out here because I want someone to know who I am. I cringe at the idea of most people in my life reading this. Because although every word I write is true, it’s also fiction. It’s a story, a present with words twisted in pretty bows. I write here with a passion that isn’t contained by the idea that I am liable to the real world.

And I guess I’d like to think you know me well enough by my posts. I could invite you to a party, all my friends are there, but you’d be the only one who’d know that the plunger on the balcony was purchased on a sick day, why there are four pillows on my bed, or the significance of the pewter statue on my bureau.

Actually, the point of this post was to share some facts, pretty-bow-vagueness aside. I’m coming up to a crossroads of sorts, career-wise. Trying to figure out the best course of action is so daunting that my brain immediately sends out random electric pulses to distract me. I’m cold, my left eyelid twitches, my right hip pops, and I have the hiccups.

I thought sharing some specifics here, making myself grasp those thoughts onto media, would help. But I guess I’m not ready.

Not only am I shy, I’m a little paranoid as well. Would you expect anything less from a drama queen?

Having a Sunday

I should probably start off by saying I am having a Sunday.

My teeth itch. I’m dying to be social but fed up with people. It’s as if a fourteen year-old is learning to drive stick inside my brain.

Which is not to say it’s been a total loss. I watched a movie, made some OK hash browns, brushed the cats, and started addressing Christmas cards. All in my PJs.

But now I’m dressed and about to run errands, except I’m stalling because I’m not quite sure how to do it.

Do I hit the pet store first? What about Target? Where did I put that list anyway? Was I going to buy a wreath? What if the grocery store doesn’t have a good crock pot? Shouldn’t I really tell someone I need a crock pot for Christmas rather than buy one? But then what would I do about the turkey meatball recipe I want to make? And why do I even bother buying vegetables only to steam them incorrectly after three days, leave them in tupperware for another four before throwing them out and starting the process again? Shouldn’t I just buy them and immediately toss them in the garbage?

Where am I going again? Why did I ever get out of my PJs? No one should have to navigate such difficult situations on a teeth-itching Sunday.

Making Contact

Isn’t it always the case? Just when you think you’re going to get to perfect your pity-party routine, and perhaps actually catch up on your sleep, you become a social butterfly.

I arrived home last night from volunteering, called a co-worker, and met her and a friend for Thai food. They were calling it a night, but there was a message when I got home from a dear friend explaining that he was inviting the “gang” over. I was out the door again.

And, by the way, I looked great in my new boots and motorcycle jacket. Everyone commented on the jacket, from the co-worker surprised to see “another side of me”, the host running to his closet to produce his similar version, to the friend whose eyes lit up and exclaimed, “you still have that jacket? You were wearing that the first time I met you!”

(In fact he said I looked exactly the same as I did when he met me, except then I had bangs. We all lamented over how horrible they were. Someone said they had wondered if I was going for the Cousin It look.)

We had eggnog and cookies. We made plans for the Return of The King premiere. We discussed cats and careers and then watched Pirates of the Caribbean. I got home after my bedtime.

Now I’m up way too early for another fun day volunteering. I’m urging the coffee through my veins, debating packing a lunch, and looking forward the dinner plans of homemade tortilla soup tonight.

One reason I’m looking forward to it is that someone mentioned last night another friend’s very stressed right now and it was pointed out to him that he has two wonderful masseuses available to him – one of those being moi.

I hope he’s at dinner tonight so I get to show off a little. Because I am good. But also, what would make this weekend perfect would be to satisfy that itch for human contact. I’m getting antsy to pull my feet up under someone and get them warmed, have fingers linger in my hair after a “hello” hug, or make a crude joke and have someone pull me into a headlock then keep their arm around me.

So I’d like to get my fix in a perfectly respectable way, helping out a friend, before I start standing too close to strangers in the check out line.

Filling in the blanks


I finished my novel around 10:30pm on Saturday, November 29th. I got it verified and I am officially a winner. 50,053 words.

It ended strangely, not how I expected at all. I think I like it. I’m giving myself a week off before I start editing it.


I bought a fake tree, after much debate. Actually, the debate occurred as I drove home with said $16.99, 6’ fake tree. Made in China. I hemmed and hawed. I really love live ones, but know we will have one at home. How many trees must I kill in pursuit of a Merry Christmas? Then again, how many young Chinese women must I exploit for some fluffy green plastic?

Yes. I seriously think like this. If I become a drunk, you can point back to this post and say, “I saw it coming…”

Ultimately I decided that after many Christmases of disappointment, my joy over hanging ornaments was worth a little sweatshop sweat. I was worried about the cats peeing on a live one.

It’s a spindly little Charlie Brown type thing, and looks perfectly silly with my hodge-podge of decorations. I love it.

The cats have shown their approval by chewing on it.


I tried a gingerbread latte. It’s good, but I’ll stick to eggnog.

I consumed my latte while sitting in the coffee shop’s gorgeous, plush purple chairs with a wonderful friend. I have only known this woman for a few months, but we get talking and can’t stop. It’s amazing how a few hours of good conversation with someone with which you are completely comfortable can rejuvenate you.

She helped finish off my Christmas decorating. Not only is my tree lighted, but also the entranceway to across my bedroom/bathroom and all around the dining room. I’m typing this by rainbow glow.

I know there are lists somewhere that need check marks, crossed-off lines, question marks, margin notes, numbering, and even perhaps indented alphabetical sub-lists.

I hope they enjoy the night off. I have.

Pile It On

I have listened to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” for the first time this year. It is now officially Christmas season for me.

I think I shall ask Santa to bring me someone who will sing it with me.

I have 2,943 words left. My back still hurts and I don’t think typing is making it better.

I’ve decided that I finish tonight, no matter what. So far today my consumption has included 4 cappuccinos and the crust of leftover pizza. That pretty much screams “masochist” already, why not just pile on?

No Good Answers

Oh, so you’re having one of *those* nights, are you? You’re tired and cranky and you’d love to whine to someone except you’re worried that if they suggested you relax, you just might beat them.

You are beyond relax. You need a coma.

So why are you still up? Why aren’t you showered? Why aren’t you snuggled in those sheets that are better than sex?

And while we’re asking questions, why don’t you have any clean socks?

Software Engingeering Isn’t All Bad

Who knew it is was possible for you to have a good day?

Not that everything went well. Not that you felt you were spectacular. But you got up in time, pushed some of the right buttons, gave some good explanations, had answers, asked some good questions, made some good jokes, and taught someone something that they were interested to learn.

That’s pretty cool.

The one day a lunch break is actually called, we had lunch ordered in. No way were we letting what happened yesterday occur – a harried run at 2:30 to the sub shop.

We had Chinese food. There were two fortune cookies left on the table as we were packing up. I grabbed them and put them in my jacket.

Two fortunes:

1) Your exotic ideas lead you to many exciting, new adventures!

2) In order to take, one must first give.

Pretty cool day indeed.

Dear Neighbors

Dear new downstairs neighbors,

I apologize for everything up front.

Yes, 7am is the latest I ever sleep. If you have ideas on how to rectify that, please drop them in the suggestion box.

No, I don’t have Great Danes galloping through here. It’s just a cat. A 20 lbs. cat. Yes, he’s on a diet.

Yes, that was water dripping onto your front step. I am horrible at caring for my plants. Drought or drown is my method. You seem to have lots of green things on your patio. May I steal one when mine dies?

No, Trick Pony is not just a phase I’m going through. Wait until I have a really bad night and put “Secret Garden” on repeat 53 times. You have my permission to come knocking and inform me that although it’s not too loud, it’s just too damn annoying. I’ll agree wholeheartedly, I just won’t be able to make myself stop without interference.

You’ll still appreciate that more than when I have a really good night. All bets are off on a good night.

Yours, J

Only In My Dreams

I had two disturbingly vivid dreams last night.

The second one made me think I needed to call someone as soon as I woke up. It took several layers of thought to re-discover reality. The clock radio from my parent’s kitchen is stuck in my mind right now and is making me very homesick. In my dream, the radio played a song that I have been hearing a lot lately and feeling it’s a sign. I heard it through the window as I sat on our air conditioner, smoking.

In the first dream I was been reprimanded for what amounted to sexual harassment at work. Among the complaints against me was, “You should really wear panties with those ripped nylons.”

My retort? “I was wearing panties with those ripped nylons.”

Even in my dreams, I am a fashion goddess.

Of Lists and Lemons

I get the point.

Flexibility, it’s all about flexibility.

Because the moment you say, “I’m going to make lists and check some things off” the toilet will overflow.

So I bought conditioner and a plunger.

Then, my body decided to defect to the “you’re too busy” camp and sleep. Yeah, I thought I’d take a nap at some point. But I’m talking two cups of coffee and I still crashed so hard I couldn’t remember my first name.

Since the whole day was going out the window, I’m baking lemon squares. I might eat them all tonight. Start tomorrow with a clean slate.