Kickin’ back

In which I’m looking forward to the weekend.

Work’s been slow lately. I’ve been stymied trying to migrate websites from one server to another because my fucking end users can’t update their DNS; it’s beyond rocket surgery to these people.

“But… but… why can’t you do it?” they whine. “Because I DON’T HOST YOUR FUCKING SHIT!” I say. I have sites I’ve been trying to upgrade since August. Literally. It takes people that long to login to GoDaddy or what the fuck ever and click the Edit button.

11-30-2012

My gig-free month ends today. Tomorrow night I’ll be with the Kings in Richland; looking forward to performing, yeah, but not so much the driving and loading in and setting up and tearing down and driving.

Sunday afternoon I have a date with g’ma. We’re going for pedicures. Taking a pedi with your g’ma on a Sunday afternoon is a wonderful thing, by the way.

I started going to yoga again, and I’m here to say fuck chiropractic, really. I realize Westernized yoga is categorically and emphatically not yoga, but it does provide the best spine health ever ever ever. (I hadn’t even realized how locked up my lower back was until walking out of the studio Wednesday night.) Also, in partially related revelations: I have short arms and long shins, so certain poses are, like, impossible for me.

I got paid yesterday and promptly spent all but a couple hundred bucks of it. I bought stuff for Xmas gifts, I sent my dentist a payment on my root canal, I paid for the DSL, I paid my absurd fucking cell phone bill, I paid my housing donation, and I bought about $100 worth of assorted clothes for myself — mostly bras and undies and socks but also a pair of jeans and a jacket. (I found myself wearing panties the other day that were literally sagging off my butt. Unfortunately I was half-naked in TinyChat at the time, so, yeah, that was awkward and caused an immediate NOTE TO SELF TO BUY SOME GODDAMNED UNDERWEAR and full-on follow through.)

I’ve been rockin’ the jazz Christmas carols up in the office this week. I should put some Christmas lights up around the door, too. I love Christmas lights.

In other news, riding one’s bike to and from work in freezing fog in the dark is FUCKING COLD. Just FYI.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s my lunch hour and I’m going to the post office now.

A blog post.

In which I blog more because it’s time than because I have anything to say.

I got my hair cut and colored after work Thursday night. It’s got honey blonde highlights and medium brown lowlights and it’s been cut into layers and it feels great. I also got the shit waxed out of what had become some truly gigantic unruly eyebrows and look like a girl again. The experience cost $102 plus tip, and was worth every. single. cent. My stylist had discovered The Secret in the past year so there was some “the world is as you are” midst the gossip, which was good because it reminded me it always starts somewhere, even though to be honest The Secret is really baby tier spirituality about getting desires fulfilled more than anything else.

Then I went to Marcy’s and drank my dinner so yeah, Friday morning sucked ass, but I had fun and got to see Kimi whom I’d been missing, so: totally worth it.

I’ve been weirder and more emotional and internal than I’ve been in a loooong time. It feels like some important evolutionary phase, somehow, but I have to be honest that the mood swings are so bad they’re almost hilarious. I’d suspect perimenopause except I’m ovulating like clockwork so it’s more likely I’m just being crazy (although what with last month’s loooooong term bout of The Dread and now this… hmm. yeah. beginning of the end, probably). These unexpected bouts of, like, heartbreaking existential loneliness have been bizarre. All kinds of midlife-crisis loops playing in my head (WHERE IS MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE etc), plus the short days and the fucking rain and overcast skies and glacier-paced days at work and, as usual, knowing basically no one my own age and, well, I can go days without even really talking to anyone that isn’t a customer. Oh, the human condition: you’re just so funny. None of this matters, except oh holy shit it fucking matters. Gah. (tl;dr The panic has passed and now I think I’m a little depressed.)

Since my last post I’ve actually managed to sleep a lot, hit up Goodwill for some jeans and tops, sign up for a yoga class, buy groceries, make Egyptian and Turkish dishes, and take a bubble bath. For someone who never does anything I’m pretty good at crossing items off of to-do lists.

The Internet crush, surprisingly, continues apace. It’s pretty cool. There may be plane tickets at some point.

I’ve now been employed again for long enough that I’m living for weekends. Damn you, 40-hour work week: damn you and your soul-killing length.

In other news, Barnes & Noble bought Fictionwise awhile back and now, of course, they’re closing it. I received an email inviting me to transfer all my Fictionwise books — many many hundreds I’ve purchased over the past 8 years or so — to a Nook account. There was no way to bulk-download my purchases, nor any easy way to download the DRM’d items in multiple formats. I’ve basically lost access to a bunch of shit I OWN because I happened to buy a Kindle instead of a Nook. Good job, the publishing industry: you suck at internet.

Dark in the morning

In which I bitch.

Fuck yeah weekends.

Work changed my schedule three weeks ago when someone quit without notice; I’m now working 8 – 5 instead of 9 – 6. Adjusting my schedule by a single hour in the month of October literally kicked my ass and yes, I still loathe waking up before full light. Wednesday was the first day I woke up before my alarm, but I still stayed in bed too long to eat breakfast and had to take it with me to work and eat it cold because FUCK IT, IT’S STILL DARK OUT, I AM NOT GETTING UP YET. I kept going to bed early and waking up at five and then not being able to get back to sleep and blah blah blah REM cycles all fucked up and it sucked and now the clocks are going to change and I’ll be readjusting right back to where I started. So fuck DST.

The weather has turned cold and grey and rainy. Being cold makes me grumpy and inward. I hadn’t been to the bar in a couple of weeks before Thursday night because when I get off work all I want to do is get home before it gets any darker and colder. I spend my nights in my room drinking too much wine and either marathoning original ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ episodes or fucking off in IRC with a bunch of people half my age. Bitches have no idea how many millions of keystrokes I dump into multiplayer notepad every week. I will never finish any of my knitting projects.

Oh, yeah, and speaking of IRC, I’ll just go strait into shameless full-disclosure mode and admit that I have a brutal and enthralling internet crush on a 28-year-old IT guy from the east coast and yeah, perhaps I should grow up but fuck it he’s entirely too awesome. I mean, what’s wrong with being attracted to an agile intellect that isn’t also some Dawkins-worshipping pseudo-eurofag nihilist, I ask you. Such a beast is rare, no matter its chronological age. My friends are all giving me shit about my ‘irc bf’ because I actually check my phone now to see if he’s texted, which means they could actually get a response out of me in under 30 hours if they wanted, but none of them have wanted because I see zero texts from anybody that isn’t either sweet IRC bf or my debit card company. So keep on teasin’ me, assholes: at least I’m having more fun than you!

I have no gigs for the entire month of November and I cannot even begin to explain to you how happy that makes me so I will use bold for emphasis.

I need to get my hair done. I need to get my eyebrows waxed. The worst vanity of my life has set in now that my facial skin is losing its elasticity and I look fucking old in the mirror in the morning. (Midlife crisis crush, anyone?) (Hey, fuck you, man, I had no idea how old he was. It’s a text-only medium, your IRC chat room. Sheesh.)

My three week long panic attack seems to have abated, finally, the motherfucker. I have no idea what happened; I haven’t had symptoms like that in years. I just couldn’t calm the fuck down and was so adrenaline-saturated that I was having multiple PVCs per hour, which of course would feed my panic which would cause more adrenaline… it’s so weird witnessing yourself being utterly fucking crazy. Yesterday was nearly normal and today so far I feel mellow, so here’s hoping I’m out the other side of that bullshit, because smelling like stress-sweat all day for weeks on end gets old.

This weekend I intend to do laundry and buy groceries and cook Egyptian and Turkish recipes. There may also be wine and brie. I may nap a lot. Perhaps I will watch a movie or three. Perhaps I will go out and patronize live music instead of making it. Perhaps I will go eat chile rellenos at Rosita’s for the first time in a year. Perhaps I will take a bubble bath or go buy jeans at Goodwill. WHO KNOWS.

Like I said, fuck yeah freetime weekends.

On God

In which there are quotes from some favorite non-fiction in my library.

The truth is that we are all inclined to flatter ourselves – despite our daily experience to the contrary – that we spend our time thinking logical, consecutive thoughts. In fact, most of us do no such thing. Consecutive thought about any one problem occupies a very small proportion of our waking hours. More usually, we are in a state of reverie — a mental fog of disconnected sense-impressions, irrelevant memories, nonsensical scraps of sentences from books and newspapers, little darting fears and resentments, physical sensations of discomfort, excitement or ease.

The mind seems to be intelligent and conscious. Yoga philosophy teaches that it is not. It has only a borrowed intelligence. The Atman is intelligence itself, is pure consciousness. The mind merely reflects that consciousness and so appears to be conscious.

The external world, even in its most beautiful appearances and noblest manifestations, is still superficial and transient. It is not the basic Reality. We must look through it, not at it, in order to see the Atman.

PatanjaliHow to Know God: The Yoga Aphorisms of Patanjali
by Swami Prabhavananda, Christopher Isherwood, Patanjali

 
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Getting rid of stuff

In which I have too much shit again.

It has come to my attention that I do not like to own too many things. It just bugs me when I have more stuff than I can interact with in any given year.

This may be my real nature, or it may be the result of having over the years lost entire households worth of stuff and realizing that stuff always, in one way or another, equals work and woe; but either way I just feel claustrophobic when my belongings start leaking out of cupboards and off of shelves, or when in order to find something I have to dig through six other things I haven’t used in three years.

When I moved into the upstairs bedroom five years ago, I had exactly one jeepful of belongings. I moved 80% of it into my room, and the other 20% — household items I had no need of here in this fully-furnished home — into the attic.

That perfectly adequate amount of stuff has bloated. There are no empty spaces on my shelves; the floor of my closet is packed with shit; my stash has quadrupled (I have boxes of yarn) and I no longer seem to knit very much anyway.

G’ma and I dropped the equivalent of ten lawn bags off at Goodwill last month, but I still have too much shit. It’s hard to get rid of excess stuff. I know most people just throw it out, but that’s not my way. I want it re-purposed, donated, or recycled, and that takes effort and time. The idea of putting perfectly useful items into a landfill because you’re too lazy to get it to where it should be offends me, but man sometimes I just want to fill up the dumpster and call it a day just to get this shit out of my closet so I can find my Polaroid cameras!

Do not even get me started on the multiple computer and monitor carcasses my family members have given me ‘just in case you can use it!’ that are heavy as fuck and have to somehow get to e-cycle.

The day after the Goodwill run I filled two more bags with clothes. I barely even buy clothes and I’m still getting rid of stuff my aunt gave me when I first moved here, stuff I’ve literally never worn. As for the rest of it, I have no idea where all this stuff even comes from.

Why do I have these stacks of CDs? Why do I have so much defunct electronic equipment? What do all these adapters go to? What’s all this miscellaneous crap in this basket? Did these jeans ever fit anyone? How did I get so many film cameras? Why do I have a trapeze dress for a rhinoceros? What am I supposed to do with these posters? Why do I have to keep so many pieces of paper? Am I required to keep these well-intentioned but useless Christmas gifts?

Gah! Clutter! I hate it! I don’t want to own this crap. I don’t want to be surrounded by things. I want air and light and space. I want the things I own to be things I need and use, and not tchotchkes and clutter that engender guilt each time they’re encountered.

It’s amazing how much shit one acquires with no effort, though. Nature really does hate a vacuum.

Glass jars: inexplicably, I’m super into them.

In which I write a post about fucking JARS because clearly I want to die alone.

I’m sure you’ve heard me praise the cuppow, which is merely a piece of plastic that turns a jar into a go-cup:

Cuppow

And you’ve probably seen my Mason jar pinterest board (which exists because I’m a fucking ‘tard).

I even backed a Kickstarter because who wouldn’t want a leather Mason jar cozy?

Then there’s the mayonnaise jar, which isn’t a Mason jar but which does have the same mouth and threading as a Mason jar:

Iced Mocha

You can even put food in jars, did you know this?

Bento #293: Mason jar bento - Mexican

So basically there’s a pantry full of jars in the basement that I ignored for four years, then I found this little hipster-made piece of plastic and now I want to make Mason jar lamps and candles and shit.

But I probably won’t.

#dumbest_post_ever

Family everywhere!

In which I’m glad to be back at work where it’s quiet.

On Friday, my maternal grandmother turned 90. The entire family descended upon the house to celebrate. This is many, but by no means all, of them:

09-16-2012

(I appear to be related to a bunch of white people.) (This never ceases to surprise me, for some reason, even though I’ve always been related to them.)

Friday night I drank heavily with my brother. (What.) (It’s a Morgan family tradition.) Saturday there was a 4-hour party at the museum and I think there must have been 80 guests. Saturday night there was a family-only function at the house; I declined the champagne and went to bed as early as I could. Sunday morning there was a brunch and family picture shoot.

By Sunday afternoon I was so exhausted I retreated to my room and knit quietly in between taking out garbage, doing dishes, cooking, and in general trying to be helpful while not getting sucked into any even remotely political discussion (most of my relatives are conservatives).

Taska

All that aside, I know a lot of people who don’t have much family. I’m blessed and I know it, although I was pretty grateful to bail out of there this morning and come to work where it’s quiet!

Upcoming birthday

In which I no longer have any choice but to self-identify as middle-aged.

I’ll be 44 on the 29th of this month.

I feel mature, but I do not feel like an adult… whatever that means. I still feel like an idiot high school kid every time I’m startled awake by an alarm clock.

20 days

I do not have the things adults should have. I do not want them, to be honest, but sometimes I feel guilty for failing to accumulate them even though I didn’t intend to fail. I don’t mean ‘mature’ in the sense of material things anyway; I mean that I’ve found the inner guru and everything from here on out is a-okay. I mean that though I am indistinguishable from a worldly person, I’m not one and if I die living in a cardboard box under a bridge, it won’t be a tragedy.

My grandmother will be 90 on the 14th. The whole family will be here for her birthday party this weekend; I’m really looking forward to it. The last time we were all together was for her 85th, the party at which I decided to move to Walla Walla.

I’ll have been here five years in October! Since the end of my 30′s! The woman I came to help is only now beginning to slow down; maybe I’ll start being useful to her at some point. Sadly, I’m not any good at gardening but I can lift and carry well enough, and I can shop and do laundry and follow directions.

Of course, she might just retire into the Odd Fellow’s home, which means I’d be renting a room somewhere, and that’s okay too. Some of my aunts and uncles may retire here; it’s nice to have family around.

If I move again, I might go to a coastal town so I can meditate on the beach and cultivate an elaborate coffee addiction and fit in with the locals by bitching about never seeing the sun. I love the ocean. When I lived in Pacifica within sight of it I did actually go to the beach and walk and breathe and sit, which is why I think my love for the coast might not just be entirely tourist-love. (My tourist-love is New York, of course, but I’ll never have the money to move there and that’s okay. Plus I’m old now, aren’t you even paying attention?)

I have a Turkish coffee set but I’ll need to replace the gasket in my stove-top espresso maker if I’m going to start really nerding out on coffee again.

Autumn is weeks away. It’s dark by eight o’clock. I’ve put a quilt on my bed. It’s cold in the mornings. I hope there’s no ice or snow until February.