Toying with my toys

Spring being the time for renewal, I am considering a couple things more closely than I have in the past. Two things that push me past my comfort zone to a future that is scary, unique, and possibly promising.

The one I have time to write about now, before work, has to do with stuff. I have lots of it. I come from a family that collects stuff. Not quite Hoarders-style, but close in some regards. Close in that individuals are unaware of the magnitude or oddness of their stuff. Unaware that in some ways it perhaps holds them back from a life spent far differently. And it's not my problem, so I try not to concern myself with any of it. And that forces me to consider my own stuff. And, because I'm moving AGAIN, I have no option but to consider my stuff over the next few weeks.

I have always had a lot of stuff. High school, college, adulthood. So much stuff to move from dorm to dorm, apartment to apartment. Somehow, I managed to make it all work wherever I landed. Made it all fit. Like squeezing into tight jeans--lying down, sucking in, repositioning until it's all in and looks like it works. Sort of.

Now that I'm alone, in my 30s (damn, that was depressing to write), I am becoming weary of my decisions to keep stuff that feels so . . . heavy. Journals since childhood, hundreds of books read and not read, college papers, notebooks full of writing that may contain promising nuggets for the future, CDs for fear of losing my iPod, clothes that might fit at some point (or do for a couple weeks out of each year when I'm good), exercise videos that I might someday follow faithfully. The list continues into the sunset.

And as much as 75% of me "gets" the realism of the situation and can rationally say it's time to let a lot of it go, there's a quarter in there somewhere that is not entirely ready. Like starting a diet or quitting smoking, one has to be ready to purge possessions.

So I'm doing it, little by little. Removing three books from the bookcase, donating beautiful shoes I will never wear, going through 10 years of issues of Real Simple. TEN YEARS' worth of a MAGAZINE. On it's fourth move. Because I think it's a pretty magazine. I can't entirely give it up, but I've been tearing off each front cover and tearing out anything I like or consider useful. My intention is to scan it all into OneNote (a new little obsession of mine). And, admittedly, it has felt triumphant to get rid of all those magazine holders filled mostly with advertising.

So, slowly, I'm making smart decisions about my stuff. I'm reading a lot of minimalist blogs. They are far more extreme than I would ever consider. (Owning only 50 things? I want to be able to breathe, not be a vagabond. I intend to keep my horrid high school yearbook.) And perhaps that's because the majority are written by men, who don't mind owning three outfits and wouldn't have to count things like, oh, say, tampons. But the inspiration is there, nonetheless. I'm turned on by the peacefulness of the outcome of simplifying. We'll see how it goes as I begin to pack up boxes. And, I'm on the hunt for more female minimalists--so far a tiny niche online.

Beyond mere stuff, are the "floating" things in our lives--TV, Netflix, gym membership, a landline that rarely rings. When I moved to Newmarket, I got rid of some premium cable channels. Didn't feel a difference. I never figured out what I did with the cable to hook up my DVD player, so Netflix has not been utilized. And the gym. Oh, how kindly I donate money each month to a massive building I never visit. Getting rid of the landline, Netflix, and gym membership would save me an estimated $100/month. $1200/year that could go toward travel. Because I should be having my own adventures, not watching others have adventures on TV. Or hearing about them on Facebook.

This is my baggage. I think I can unload it. Bigger, more extreme changes will have to wait. I'm not ready to give up my HBO or bookcase just yet.

Achy Brakey Heart

Though it's unfortunately rare, every once in a while, you talk to someone who makes you think. I got that opportunity this weekend.

This person, whom I'll call Gemini, is like no one I've perhaps ever spent time with. And since the conversation, I've had a hard time not thinking about it. And it's like this: I'm a ballsy broad half the time. The other half of the time, I'm a completely insecure mess. There. Cover blown. And here comes Gemini, who's got that fantastic screw-em-if-they-don't-like-me thing going. But the difference is that Gemini means it. I can say it, but comparatively, I don't think I mean it.

I'm challenged by Gemini's words. We both agree that talk is cheap. Actions speak volumes. However, we react very differently to Inaction. Gemini looks Inaction up and down and gets pissed and walks. I look at Inaction. And then I keep staring at Inaction. Then I tug on Inaction's sleeve and ask why. Then I brood over Inaction. I cry because Inaction doesn't comfort me. I hate myself for wasting time over Inaction. I sit under a tree close by and watch Inaction for a long, long time. Eventually, I walk away from Inaction, but it's with one eye looking back, wondering whether Inaction even notices. And while my wounds from Inaction leave me scarred like a strong warrior, I'm always just a little bit more broken.

Yeah, that's me. It took Gemini's daunting confidence to hold up a mirror that showed me completely naked and vulnerable. Pants down. Outside of work, I don't stand up for myself. Yeah, it's kind of that simple.

Years ago, way back in college, I pined after someone I'll call Local Yokel. Looking back, he was an indiot. Truly. Not bright. Liked country music, for chrissake. A 3 to my 6. But LY paid a little bit of attention to me. He didn't pursue me. We worked together and laughed a lot, and once in a while hooked up. And while I knew we'd never talk about anything that mattered to me (Emily Dicken-who?, Flaubert is not a dessert on fire?), I was, looking back, perfectly willing to put that aside for what love might feel like.

That's where I've gone wrong for a long time. I have been--I AM--constantly hoping to find love. At all costs. But costs only to me, I'm finding out. The world continues on. And I can imagine relatives who've passed away all in the room, watching with arms folded, tsk tsking my feeble walk through life. Ugh.

Gemini gave me quite a wake-up call. Gemini walks the talk. I kinda don't. Well, not in all aspects. So I'm dazed and inspired. If I'm a writer, I should be writing. If I don't like how my jeans [don't] fit, I should be exercising. Yes, my gentle audience of three, this is not a revalation. It's just that Gemini made it so obvious. So what am I going to do about it?

I turned the TV off. I'm writing. I have a book in front of me and the rest of a weekend to think about changes. I think Gemini was a good enounter for helping me with Kelly: Indecision 2010.

Pioneer woman? Not so much.

Last week's storm was a good'un. Some people were annoyed that their cable was out for a day; others are still waiting for electricity and heat to resume after almost six days. I'm somewhere between the two.

Power went out Thursday. I decided to stay home Friday. I relished in the fact that I was sans technology. I cleaned (very unusual). I stitched. I read. I journaled. I was starting to feel pretty accomplished. Then I looked at the clock. Noon. Wow. A day without TV . . . is a much longer day. But I went with it. I stayed on the couch, by the window, and did all my favorite Kelly things.

Once in a while, I got up to see whether anything new had appeared in the fridge. And I had a bit of a duh moment while eating lunch: Eating isn't as interesting when the TV isn't on. Without the trance of that glowing box, suddently eating was something I was very aware of. I was aware that I wasn't hungry. And I felt a bit . . . limited in my actions, frankly, because I was eating. I didn't finish lunch. (This reminded me of when I briefly was a smoker in college. I resented the fact that I couldn't go inside a building until I was finished smoking. Cigarettes, to me, started to feel like a friend who wouldn't shut up. I had to finish my smoke before I could do anything else, leaving me practically tapping a toe and becoming impatient. Much the same, holding a bowl and fork meant I couldn't hold a book, so I lost interest.)

I read and wrote until the sun went down, holding my journal up to the window to capture the last minutes of light to finish an entry. I lit a few candles, sat back on the couch, and looked around. Now what? What the hell is a person going to do from 6-10ish alone in the dark? I read by candle light--but they were Yankee candles and gave me an awful headache. I played mah jong on my laptop until the battery died. I brushed Millie the cat. For the first time in a very long time, I was bored. I heard myself sigh. I listened to my neighbors bang around in the dead silence. I thought about stuff. I read some more. Eventually it was time to sleep.

Saturday was more of the same, but colder as the heat left the apartment. Millie was amused as I fumbled through my camp gear and announced a triumphant A-ha! when I got to my headlamp and wind-up radio. Wind wind wind wind wind. Static tsssssssssss.............NH doesn't offer much for radio stations. I listened to some lousy country music, some bad soft rock. I found myself singing along to Peter Cetera. Time? 6 a.m.

The cold and quiet were starting to bother me, so I took a whore's bath and got on the road to Mom's, knowing she'd have the generator going. The ride there was nifty. Durham later called the storm "Tree-mageddon" in the local paper, which was apt. Big pines were down everywhere, roots and all. I drove by a cemetary in which all the trees were broken in half or just ripped up out of the ground. A bleak site.

Exeter was underwater. Most roads had detours. Route 108 just south of town had a large amount of water running over it. I saw a couple pickups slowly drive across. I saw the DPW truck in my rearview, surely coming to close it down. I said fuck it why not and plunged forth. It was one of my blonder moments. I had visions of being that asshole on the news, sitting on her car, waving to the helicopter for help. I pictured my stepfather watching the news and saying to my mother, "Not very bright." before looking closer and realizing it was me. But I got across. Don't fuck with a determined girl in a Ford Focus.

Saturday night I got my power back. By Sunday much of the water had subsided and mostly what was in the road was brush left behind from tree removal. I put away my gear and enjoyed a long, hot shower. And while I consider myself something of a back-to-nature gal, I realize that I only like camping on my terms. And with someone.

Note: There are so many good pictures out there, but I am unable to attach them. Thebostonchannel.com has good photos such as this, and Foster's Daily Democrat published stories about each town in the area, along with photos. This was about Newmarket.

Scaredy Cat

I have irrational fears. Simple, everyday things make my palms sweat and my heart race. Amusing to others, these fears are oddly taxing on my self and self esteem. So I'm taking control by listing them and releasing them to the universe. Enjoy:

1. Cutting cakes. 
*Shudder* I hate nothing more than, after the mortification of people singing Happy Birthday, someone pushing the cake to me and holding a knife out. What if I do it wrong? What if my slices are enormous? Too big? Too small? What if the cake starts to fall apart and I toss my fingers in to hold a slice together for transfer to a plate?

2. Making Introductions. 
The smallest introductions throw me into a tizzy. And introducing several people (e.g., bringing the new person around the office)--forget it. I may work with you every day. You may be my best friend. But I will turn to introduce, look you in the eye, and completely forget your name. Blank. In fact, when I see someone approaching, I practice in my mind first and make the introduction slowly.

I blame this irrational fear on my early years working in a small-town video store. Everyone knew each other in my home town. And over the years, I got good at memorizing account numbers or looking someone up on the computer before they reached the counter. But there were days when someone I knew very, very well would be wandering through the store. And it would dawn on me that I'd blanked on the name. On lucky occasions, I was working with someone, and I could maneuver so that the other clerk waited on Mrs. Sudden Blank. But on the unlucky occasions, I'm not even sure how I got through it. Very embarrassing.

3. Writing in front of others. 
I doodle a lot. You can't love pens like I do and not have little slips of paper everywhere on which you've written your name a million times. Kelly Kelly Kelly. The quick fox jumps over... You get the idea. And sometimes I receive compliments on my handwriting.

But put me in front of someone and ask me to write something, and my hand stops working and what comes out is a pathetic scratch and scrawl. Temps at work ask me sometimes to sign their time sheets. The date, my name, and my position. I take the pen, look at the sheet, feel the stare of the temp, and my hand becomes paralyzed. It looks like I'm writing with the wrong hand. I have to force the letters out.

4. Signing cards. 
Signing a card is a weird sort of pressure. Only one chance to get it right. And those cards that are passed around the office are the worst. I think too much about what to write because the generic lines are usually already written several times. Signing a group card is akin to trimming bangs. You give it a go. You see a slight mistake (a spelling error, an underdeveloped letter). You go in to fix it, only to make it worse. You try a little more. And it spirals out of control. I hate signing group cards.

5. Riding a bicycle. 
I see what other bums look like from the back of a bike. I don't want anyone to focus on my bum. Plus, I'm just not graceful. At all. I am a menace on a bicycle on the street. Keep me on old rail trails.

6. Being Seranaded.
Go ahead and roll your eyes--no, this is not a fear I suffer from regularly. But back in high school and college, when eeeevery boy bought a guitar and tried for the stars, I recall many moments when a sweet boy would wind up and go into a three- to five-minute performance. With me as sole audience. And, ladies, I ask you--what do you do for those painfully long minutes? Some boys were unbelievably talented. I just didn't have the attention span or something. I would be excited and smiley for the first 20 seconds. After that, I didn't know where to look--focus on the fingers flying? Look deep into his eyes (usually a friend--awkward)? Get up and grab beers from the fridge? I think that's why I started hanging scientists instead of artists.

7. Blowing Publicly.
My nose, that is. I don't do that in front of anyone. What if I don't get it all?

8. Peeing Publicly.
Horribly shy bladder. I am notorious for never peeing. Part of it is that I am afraid of public bathrooms, and part of it is that someone might hear me doin' my bi'ness. Nope, I'll hold it.

Clearly, I have performance anxiety. I can talk a good game, but I really don't want anyone to know I'm in the room. Or that I perform normal, daily, human actions. Surprising, considering the family in which I grew up. What is wrong with me?!

Ouchie

Facebook is not a single gal's friend on Valentine's Day. Ouch. Should have known better than to look. God grant me the strength and memory to keep my overflowing happiness to myself the next time I have a good VDay.

Much Impact Girl

Sunday, I read No Impact Man, recycled cover to recycled cover. Of course, afterward I was pumped up--ready to change a few things, the world, whatever. Could I brush with only baking soda? Would I be making a positive impact on the world by drinking only local brews and wines? Instead of feeling awkwardly single and childless, could I instead declare it a conscious move toward simplicity and population control? So many things to consider.

Thursday, the documentary by the same name played at the Portsmouth Music Hall. I had asked my boss whether she wanted to go, not stopping to consider that it might not be her kind of movie. Colin Beaven's project is a little out there, even for residents of New Hampshire.

Before the show, we went to Popovers on the Square for a bite to eat. We discussed work (ridiculously busy this time of year), living situations, light thoughts on where we see ourselves down the road--regarding both work and location. When it was time to head to the Music Hall, I went to the counter to ask for a take-home container and a bag, figuring I didn't have time to store the leftover quesadillas in the car and should make at least an attempt at concealing the food I would be bringing into the theater. And I was proud of myself for eating a reasonable amount of food and deciding to make two meals out of it. Slightly ecological, no?

I was unprepared for what I received. The woman at the counter handed me a clear plastic container in which one could stow a small child and a plastic bag akin to the size Walmart would give you if you bought a lamp. Wow. No paper bag? No cardboard container? Suddenly feeling incredibly shitty for the waste I was creating just to contain my leftovers, I made a self-deprecating remark to my boss as I loaded my plastic, and off we went.

The Music Hall is a fantastic c. 1878 theater with a c. 2045 lounge area. The lounge was redone over the past couple years, and now it's incredibly funky and holds an air as a place to be seen. Locals all know each other, so there is a lot of cheek kissing, and probably ass kissing, and elegant couples mingle with funky artists. Fur and leather. My boss went to the ladies room, and I stood in the lounge watching the social rituals and slightly wishing, as always, that I were part of a larger scene. In that lounge, you are either invisible or known by all.

Folks don't quickly leave the lounge, so the lone ticket taker kept catching my eye, which felt a little strange. But I decided to ignore it. I tossed my gloves, car keys, wallet, phone, and chapstick in my ginormous plastic bag, vowing to use a proper bag more often. My boss returned, and we headed toward the ticket taker. She took my boss's ticket but then stared at my plastic bag. "Is that food?" she asked. I said yes. She pointed to the bar and told me to give the bag to the bartender, who would hold it behind the bar until after the movie. No problem.

I crossed the lounge with my huge plastic bag, a little anxious that the movie was about to begin. I became more anxious as it took painful minutes for the bartender to look my way. When he did, I barely got the question out and he stopped me with a curt response: "No, that's a health violation." Let me just repeat that: It's a health violation for a bartender to have food behind the bar. Sure. I tried to remain sweet. "Really? The woman taking tickets told me to come to you." Now people at the bar were all staring at me and my huge plastic bag full of chicken, cheese, and belongings. He said no and dismissed me by cutting off all eye contact.

Panic.

The movie was about to begin. I'm a freak about entering theaters once the lights go down. I knew my boss, and a portion of the lounge, was watching me. Bah. I glanced at my boss. She and the ticket taker were watching me. I shrugged, looked around the room, and dipped into the ladies room. I pulled my gloves, car keys, wallet, phone, and chapstick from the gigantic bag. I stuffed the bag and its equally grand plastic container holding perfectly lovely quesadillas and salad into the bathroom trash. Bastards!

I crossed back through the lounge and handed my ticket to the taker. She said, "You could just slip it over here [she pointed to a nook to her left], or in there [she pointed to a coat room to her right]." I smiled and said, "No. All set now, thanks." She persisted. "No, really. If you want to go get it, I can put it aside for you." At this point a line of hipsters stood behind me waiting to get to their seats. My boss was halfway up the staircase. "Yeah, no, I'm not going to go dig through the bathroom trash for it now." I took my ticket stub and started up the stairs. "Oh, the irony!" I exclaimed to my boss. That plastic bag, containing a plastic box the size of Maine and a perfectly good quesadilla dinner will live longer than I will. But I learned my lesson--so much for diets; clearly I should just eat everything on my plate in the future.

Ringing in 2010

I've had a long weekend to think about resolutions and consider the year now behind me. And I'm not entirely sure I have resolutions at all, per se, but rather a goal for 2010.

I want more energy.

Everything lacking in my life, everything subpar, can be traced back to a lack of energy. And I believe that if I can bring more energy to my being, everything else will fall into place. If I have more energy, I will be in better shape and more motivated to move my body and treat it well. I will want to be more social and will make more friends. I will finish more projects, experience more things, and enjoy everything just a little more.

Rather than living life from behind half-closed eyes, with TV droning on in the background, increased energy will see me play with Millie the cat more, create beautiful and unique quilts and embroidered pieces. It will see me cooking more from scratch, feeling the weight of the knife as it slices vegetables, and inviting people over for dinner and good conversation. It will see me out on snowy days and unashamed to smile at strangers. It will make me feel more confident and at peace with myself. Yes, energy.

I will likely finish writing out the list of resolutions I started writing a couple weeks ago because I like to put it out there on paper for me to look at periodically, a reminder of who I want to be--who I can be--who I am. But for now, I just hold this goal up in my hand. Bring on the energy. And make 2010 a fiercely happy year.