In an entirely cool moment, she talked about the people who couldn’t make it to the North Carolina show and asked if they were in the audience.  That’s us!  Kel and Rose**  shouted that we were there.  Vienna asked where we came from.  Kel said near Raleigh (Or Durham.  I don’t remember which).  Vienna was impressed and thankful that we had traveled so far to see her.  Later, Alex told us it was the better concert because he had all his instruments back (recovered by the airline at 4:30 in the morning).

I will admit to another twinge of envy because besides being incredibly hot and gorgeous, Vienna is extremely talented as well.  I played the cello for ten years and would like to pick it up again, and I’ve written a couple of songs (Flaccid Cock, anyone?  More on that in a bit), and I taught myself the guitar so I could write the music as well as the lyrics for my songs, but damn, girl can flat out sing and play the piano.

I liked the way she prefaced many of the songs with stories or just chatter.  She was completely at ease and in command of the stage.  She was low-key, but she had a presence.

Kel had told me earlier that she loved watching Alex play because he was so inventive in his instruments.  He would drum on anything he had at hand (including his body), and he’s a very talented musician.  Plus, he has a good energy/aura, so it’s very soothing to listen to/watch him.

Before she played Homecoming, she told a story of how she was invited to play it for the North Carolina governor’s inaugural ball because it has the line, “I was born in North Carolina”.  Her manager implied that perhaps Vienna did not have to say where she was from (CA).  Vienna said at the ball, all these dignitaries were saying, “Oh, which city?  Maybe I knew you!”  Alex interjected, “I was told nothing about this ahead of time.”  Vienna added, “Too bad Ward (the hot hot cellist, says me, not Vienna) wasn’t with us at the time because he’s actually from North Carolina.”

The whole night was like that.  Easy, low-key, thoroughly enjoyable.  Irish Dancer was sitting to my left and fiddling with her cell phone.  I thought she was texting a friend, but it turned out that she was writing down the set list like the good OCD child she is .

I haven’t been to many concerts in my life, and this one was so damn awesome.  I am not a noise/crowd kinda gal (BIG understatement), so I was glad for a more intimate venue.  Plus, the crowd was decidedly older.  I would say late forties to early sixties.  I had a revelation as I was listening to Vienna and looking around the theatre.  Vienna used to be a Silicon Valley software engineer.  She quit that to take up the music gig.  Now, she’s retiring from music to go back to school to major in green business.

I hadn’t heard of her before Kel brought her to my attention.  However, it’s quite clear that she has a devoted following.  She made a name for herself in the business, touring all over the world.  The people in that theatre adored Vienna, and she adored them right back.   No, she’s not a household word or famous like Taylor Swift, but she made a good career of it.  She did it her way, and that helped me realize that once again, there is no proscribed way to do life.  I admire her for following her dream and for realizing (as Kel pointed out) that fulfilling one dream did not mean that she was at the end of the road.

I will also frankly admit that I got a thrill from watching an Asian American woman with roots in Taiwan being rapaciously listened to by a group of mostly white people.  At the same time, it saddened me because it made me realize how many of the obstacles I faced in my own performance history were placed there by me.  I used to think I couldn’t try out for productions because I was Asian or fat or whatever.  I thought it would be hard to meet like-minded people in Minnesota because of the color of my skin or the content of my soul.  After watching this show, I was forced to acknowledge that a lot of my doubt was based on my own baggage.  This was Norfolk, Virginia, for crying out loud, and Vienna Teng was playing to a mostly-full house.

I’ve had people wonder why I wasn’t having all the sex I wanted, and the brutal truth is that I don’t make myself available.  It’s the same with my creative life. Yes, I have this blog, and I am in the planning stage of a few others, but as long as I hide at home, how can I possibly let people see my creativity?  Locally, I mean?  Thanks to this blog, I have gained confidence in the power of my words.  People actually enjoy what I have to say.

So, again, it’s more about my lack of self-confidence and my fear of being laughed at/rejected than any actual empirical data on said subject.  When I used to perform, I was always warmly received.  I always had people telling me how much my performance/reading meant to them.  Granted, I had the oddballs wanting to worship me or tell me their life woes, but I’m ok with that.

More on that some other time.  Back to Vienna.

The last song she did was Irish Dancer’s favorite song.  It’s called Grandmother Song, and she performs it as a call and response.   It’s about the advice her grandmother has given her from the viewpoint of the grandmother.  Vienna encouraged us to respond with boos to the parts of the advice we didn’t like and to cheer for the parts we did.  She had us practice, and then she kicked into the song.  When she reached the part about being nothing without a man, Kel booed lustily.  Since I didn’t know the lyrics, I was a bit behind, but I was just as enthusiastic.  The couple in front of us (including the woman with the overpowering perfume) looked at us strangely, but who the fuck cares?  Vienna wanted a response, so I was gonna give one.  I love that shit.  It was a great way to end the concert.

After the show, we went out in the lobby to wait for our chance to talk to her and Alex.  It seems like everyone else was waiting, too.  Punk Girl was waiting where she thought Vienna would emerge, joking, “I’m going to jump at her.”  I quipped, “Just don’t jump into her arms and say, “Catch me, bitch!”  I mean, she’s retiring, but still.”  Quick background.  Punk Girl has a cousin, son of Rose, whom I shall call Tank because he’s built like one.  Punk Girl will launch herself at Tank, yell, “Catch me, bitch!” and he will without even moving.  Punk Girl is several inches taller than Vienna, so the end result would not be so sanguine.

Alex and Amber were swarmed with people, so we waited.  I checked out the CDS on the table, but most were sold out.  After a bit, Vienna came out and was engulfed by the locusts–er, fans.  We finally went to talk to Alex, and he was so cool.  Very sincere and down-to-earth.  He resembles an ex of mine pretty strongly (who also happened to be a percussionist) so that was strange, but I was able to shrug it off.  Alex was touched that we drove such a long distance to see them.  I joked with him about wanting to take a pic with the Oriental sign.  He smiled and said, “I did it!”  He added, “I asked at the concert if they had a more politically-correct name for the town!”  He told us the concert we went to was a more complete one because he got his instruments back.  He was just way cool.

When we finally got to talk to Vienna, we were pretty much the last people in the theatre.  She was gracious as well, especially as I babbled at her about being Taiwanese, too.

Emerging from the theatre, I was boiling.  I almost took off my top, but I stopped myself.  We hit the road to find the hotel through the road construction with the help of Joe, the trusty Aussie GPS voice.  By the time we hit the hotel, it was pretty late.  We heated up our food in the microwave on the ground floor (deep-fried gizzards, yo!) and then ate a late supper.  We were all in one room.  Kel had asked me earlier if I was fine with sharing a room with them or if I wanted my own room (because I like my space, to say the least).  I thought it over and decided I could handle being in the room with them for one night.  Kel and Rose took one bed; Irish Dancer and Punk Girl took the other; I had the sofa bed.  I felt odd about sleeping the way I normally do (nekkid), but I stripped after the lights were turned off and I was already under the covers.

To my surprise, I wasn’t uncomfortable at all with being in the same room as the others.  I can’t help but think back to the time I was in the same room as my mother and my grandmother for a family reunion.  That was, to put it politely, sheer hell.  It didn’t help that my mother guilt-tripped me into attending.  I arrived at 1 a.m. and then was informed that the tea ceremony was going to be at 6:30 a.m.  Hell no, said I.  My grandmother insisted, but I continued protesting.  She grudgingly pushed it back to 7:30 a.m.  Then, the hotel had no tea, not even Lipton, so we had to use Mountain Dew, but that’s another story.

Bunking with Kel’s family was like having a slumber party.  We giggled and we gabbed–not for very long, though, because Rose  had to be back fairly early the next day.  She’s a home nurse, and she had a couple patients added to her docket.  It was at this time that she gave us each a yellow rose for friendship.  It was a really thoughtful gesture.

I know I keep comparing how my family works and how Kel’s family functions, but it’s only because I’m blown away by how relaxed and comfortable they are around each other.  In my family, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells all the damn time, worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing.  In Kel’s family, I can pretty much be me.  What’s more amazing is that they actually fight.  That was verboten in my family.  Which meant grudges were built up and stored up.  I much prefer duking it out metaphorically, clearing the air, and being ok afterwards.  I think it’s ultimately healthier.

OK.  Getting long once again (and this was just Saturday night!).  Will continue with Sunday in the next entry.  In it, I visit McDonald’s for the first time in months, compose the instant classic (ha!  oxymoron, that), Flaccid Cock,   and tackle Soccer Boy’s puzzle one more time.  Stay tune for the next exciting installment of Minna takes over Kel’s household, and everyone lives to talk about it!

P.S.  All the songs in these vid clips were also performed Saturday night.

*It was a homecoming of sorts for me to meet Kel’s family and to see Vienna perform, thus the title.

**If you need a primer on who is whom, refer back to this entry.

OK.  Saturday morning.  Soccer Boy woke me up at ungodly o’clock.  I got ready, and then I gave the puzzle to Soccer Boy so he could reset it.  He did, saying with a smirk, “At least I didn’t solve it before resetting it” and then handed it to me.  I replied something to the effect of, “If you did, I’d have to kill you.”  Then this sweet boy looked at me and told me not to bury him “there” (and he pointed outside) because there are rocks there.  We then spent about a half an hour riffing on burying his body in Jersey (Kel has a friend who lives there).

Then, Kel came down and made the beignets.  Oh my god.  It’s like a little slice of heaven doing a happy dance in my mouth.  Nom nom nom beignets and powdered sugar–a great way to start the day.

Then, I got to watch the highly-amusing drama of Punk Girl sullenly moving around while slowly waking up and Irish Dancer racing around because she’s late, she’s late, for a very important date!  Then, we were off to the soccer fields which were an hour away.

Kel is the team photographer, so we sat in the end-zone.  Oh, wait, back the truck up!

Kel gave me my birthday prezzies in the morning, and they were goooood.  First is the t-shirt I am wearing right now.  It’s black (of course), with a snowwoman on it.  She has her stick hands on her hip and is giving attitude.  It says, “SNOW GIRL” right under her.  I’ve been wearing it ever since Kel gave it to me.  Next up was the second LOLCat book.  Since I love the website and I have the first book, it was great to get the second.  Last up was a gorgeous handmade journal from the Dominican Republic.  It’s beautiful.  She rocks.

On the soccer fields, Punk Girl and I had sports chairs and were lounging as Kel sat on the ground and took pics.  Irish Dancer was walking someone’s very friendly black…poodle?  Help me out, Kel.  The game was fast and furious.  Soccer Boy played his ass off, but his teammates, not so much.  It was fascinating to be a Soccer Aunt for one morning, in part because I’ve never been part of that scene.  It was…strange for me.  I thoroughly enjoyed watching Soccer Boy do his thing and joke with Punk Girl while watching Irish Dancer dance an Irish…jig? during the halftime.  I had a blast as I got a sunburn (or sun rash.  I’m actually leaning towards the latter) on my thighs.

Punk Girl had to bring a drink to her brother, and I was getting frustrated watching her walk.  She’s a striking, stunning girl who just shrinks into herself as she walks in public.  I scolded her for it, partly because I know what it’s like to want to disappear from view.  I told her to own her space.  When Irish Dancer walks, every eye is on her.  She owns her space, and she swishes her hips as she walks.  Not on purpose, but as Kel said, she shouldn’t be walking in any narrow corridor.  I told Punk Girl, “Chin up and boobs out.”  Irish Dancer said that her dance teacher told them the same thing.  She said you have to roll your shoulders, and she demonstrated.  Only, she added a little pop at the end.  So, for the rest of the weekend, we all joked about rolling and popping.   “You just have to roll…and POP!”

Our team lost 2-0, and Soccer Boy was really pissed.  When we got back, we females flew to get our shit ready for the trip to Norfolk.  Soccer Boy was about to take a shower.  After I was done gathering my stuff, I started in on the puzzle again.  Soccer Boy smirked and snarked at me, so I advanced upon him.  He ran into the garage, and I locked the door.  He went around to the front, but it was locked as well.  Now, it was my turn to smirk at him.  He started ringing the doorbell, and I was about to let him in so Kel wouldn’t have to come down, but Irish Dancer stomped down the stairs to let him in.  After I threatened him some more, he went to take his shower.

Finally, we women left.  Soccer Boy stayed behind, and he texted his mom sometime during the trip asking why I didn’t take the puzzle with me.  I told her to tell him because I wanted to enjoy the trip, thankyewverymuch.

First up, we went to pick up Kel’s sister, whom I shall call Rose because she gave each of us a beautiful yellow rose, signifying friendship right before we went to bed that night.  It was a thoughtful gesture, which is an indication of her generous nature.

Let me be frank with you.  I was most nervous about meeting Rose because she’s not wacky like the rest of us.  I was worried about offending her (yeah, yeah, it’s a common refrain of mine), but when she smiled at me and hugged me tightly as we met, I knew it was going to be all right.  OK, I didn’t really, but it eased some of the tension inside of me.  She has a dry, wicked sense of humor, and she can deliver a zinger with the most deadpan look on her face.  She’s very down to earth, and she seemed to get a kick out of my zaniness.

A confession:  I am not fond of road trips.  We did them when I was younger, most notably to Yellowstone Park, but I get motion sickness (ginger pills for plane travel, yo.  It’s much better than Dramamine), so I don’t like to be in a car for that long.  Plus, I can’t read (because of the motion sickness), and the idea of spending that much time enclosed in a car with my family gives me the heebie jeebies.

To my surprise, the four hours felt like nothing.  We laughed and chatted and joked and helped Irish Dancer with her crossword puzzles.  Her mom gave her a brain teaser book in the hopes that Rose, Kel, and I could have an adult conversation.  Irish Dancer smiled at her mom and patted her on the cheek and said, “You keep dreaming, sweetie” when Kel said that to her.  Irish dancer is an inch taller than her mom and has a very impressive presence.  I cracked up when Kel related this story to me.

Anyway, Irish Dancer hates crossword puzzles because she’s not good at them, but, once she started one, she couldn’t stop.  Plus, she was doing the puzzles in order, and she couldn’t skip any of them.  I completely understood this as I have esoteric rules like that in my head, too.  I happen to be really good at crossword puzzles.  The NYT Sunday crossword got to be too easy for me after I did hundreds of them.  Rose has an English minor.  Kel is a teacher with an English background.  In other words, we fucking rocked the crossword puzzles.  Punk Girl, meanwhile, was in the back texting and presumably listening to music.  Much hilarity ensued as Irish Dancer would say something like, “I need a three-letter word that means something on your head.  It starts with an H and ends with a T.”  OK, I’m exaggerating, of course, but it was funny.

We were having a blast helping Irish Dancer with her crossword puzzles, even though I was tweaking Kel by doing my OCD alphabet thing.  If Irish Dancer said she needed a word that was blank A-R-T (made-up example), I would go through the alphabet and put each letter in the front.  Therefore, I would mumble, “bart, cart, dart, fart, gart, hart” until I hit the right answer.  I told you briefly the story of me trying to rhyme gelid with a color (I will get more to that when I hit that part of the story, chronologically).

The brain power flying back and forth in that van was amazing.  It always excites me to be around people with brains, and these women had them in spades.

The drive was fun.  We stopped early on at Sheetz to fuel up and get food.  We don’t have Sheetz in MN, so I was fascinated by it.  They have an in-store burger making thing going on.  I had a turkey pretzel sandwich which was awesome and their fries which rocked.  I also got chocolate because woman cannot live on savory foods alone–at least this woman can’t.  The drive was so much fun, I would actually do it again.  That’s saying a lot.

When we hit Norfolk with the help of Joe, Kel’s Aussie GPS, it was already 6:30 p.m.  The concert was at 7:30 p.m., so we decided to forgo swinging by the hotel before heading to the theatre.  There was a Chinese restaurant in the nearby strip joint, and we went in to grab some food.  I ordered deep-fried gizzards.  I love gizzards.  My mom used to make them, boiled, not fried, and they were a delicacy to me.  No one else agreed with me nor wanted to try one, but that was fine with me because that meant more mouthwatering goodness for moi!

We were pressed for time, and the restaurant (more like take-out place with two small tables) didn’t have a restroom, so we drove the van, parked it, and then changed in the van.  That’s the closet I got to being arrested in Norfolk.  The van has tinted windows in the back, but not in the front, so anyone passing by would have seen me in my full glory (almost.  I was wearing a bra, of course, but no panties).   I gobbled down some gizzards, making little moans of appreciation as I ate.

After everyone had slaked their appetites, we went into the venue.  We had forgotten the cupcakes, so Irish Dancer raced back to get them.  As she had tripped on her way to the venue, I was worried that the cupcakes would be squashed by the time she returned.  They were fine.

First thing I noticed is that it was an old-timey theatre.  I love those.  Second thing I noticed–all the reserved seats were empty.  That pissed me off.  I mean, I know there was an opening group, but–by the way, Alex Wong was also in the opening group, called The Paper Raincoats (first vid was the first song they did).  They were really good, and Vienna’s cellist sat in with them.   Alex is amazing as he plays so many instruments, including ones he just makes up.  Oh, the concert started late, and Irish Dancer was grumbling.  She’s fanatical about time, and I told her they were just running on Asian time.  Punk Girl was having boy issues, so I gave her my emergency chocolate (dark chocolate Reeses Peanut Butter Cups) because romantic woes demand to be soothed by chocolate.

Anyway, The Paper Raincoats came out, and the auditorium was only half-filled.  That pissed me off.  The lead singer, Amber, had her puffy beret on at an extremely-cocked angle, which irritated me (Irish Dancer, too, as I later found out).  Halfway through their set, the people in front of us showed up.  The woman in the couple was wearing two gallons of perfume, and I had to lean back as far as I could without giving upside down head to the people behind me.  I am allergic to all scents, especially manufactured ones, and it was agony.  Then, a woman arrived late and tried to sneak into her chair.  The only problem was, she was wearing a necklace that went chi-chuck every time she walked.  She left the theatre two or three times to go to the bathroom, and I got pissed off each time.

See, this is why you can’t take me anywhere.  I am not able to block my surroundings, so all this bullshit takes away from the experience.  I have sensory issues, and it really bothers me to not be in control of my surroundings.

Anyway, The Paper Raincoat were really good.  I’m not a huge fan of Amber’s voice, but I loved Alex’s.  All their songs are about characters they created and where they are at in certain points of their life.  It’s cool because I see it as an aural graphic novel.  I love Alex’s voice and his virtuosity with his instruments, but the cello player blew me away.  I used to play, and I think it’s the sexiest instrument ever.  I leaned over and whispered to Kel that I would fuck Ward (the cellist) solely because of his cello skills.

Then, they had Vienna join them on stage to do a song with them.  It was a great song and funny as well.  Oh, I forgot to say that it was better to see them in Norfolk than in Oriental because the flight lost half of Alex’s instruments, and he only got them back for the Norfolk show.

I didn’t know who The Paper Raincoat was before that show, but I really dug their music.

Next up was Vienna.  She is a stunning, amazing, beautiful woman, but she was wearing the ugliest boots.  Her dress was OK, but I don’t dig florals.  Still, I have to confess that I am jealous of her looks.  Her parents are from Taiwan as well (though they are Mainlanders), but she is as far from me in features as is possible.  She is slender and tiny with gorgeous hazel eyes.  Her skin is flawless, and her hair is lush.  I felt like a galoot next to her (we met her later).

Damn it.  This is getting really fucking long, and I haven’t even finished Saturday yet.  I’m going to post this and move to the next entry.

P.S.  Every video I posted in this entry was performed that night.

*Blue Caravan, in honor of the navy blue mini-van that Kel drives.

First, I have to give you some background on my family–specifically, my brother’s family.  At his house, I am not allowed to say gosh (derivative of God), darn (damn), shoot (shit), or anything that resembles any swear word in the slightest.  When my niece was young, I once was having a conversation with my brother in which I said something was stupid in response to something he said.  My SIL overheard us and got that ‘I just ate a lemon’ look on her face.   She said in a snippy voice, “We don’t use the word stupid in this house.”

I didn’t say anything, but I thought many nasty thoughts.  Stupid is a perfectly good word, and it wasn’t as if I was calling a person stupid–though I don’t think that should be a problem, either, as there are many stupid people in the world.  I love words, so it bothers me when someone bans one for no good reason.  Dare I say it’s stupid?  I do!

In addition, my brother is worried that I am a bad influence on my niece because she looks up to me so much.  I cannot talk about being bi, about not being a Christian, about premarital sex (not that I would, anyway), about my vaguely pagan beliefs, or anything else, really.  I have pretty much stopped going over there because I am not really wanted.  Plus, my SIL can suck the joy out of a room without saying a word.  I dealt with that with my father while I was growing up; I do not want to do the same now.

Because of my experience with my family, I was wary stepping into another person’s family.  Kel kept telling me to be myself, but I couldn’t quite believe that I should take her at her word.

Until I met her clan.  They are nontraditional in many ways.  Both daughters were homeschooled, for instance, and Kel swears in front of her kids.  In addition, they swear at home, but not in the classroom or other inappropriate places.  They joke about many topics that would be considered taboo in my family.  They are loose and comfortable with each other, even when they are fighting.

I stepped into a house filled with love, laughter, life, and joy.  I could tell that they loved each other and truly enjoyed being around the family.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am not saying they are the Waltons, god forbid.  They fought with each other and got on each other’s nerves from time to time.  Kel (and I) threatened to kill one or the other kid on a daily basis.   Sometimes, we would tell the kids to get lost so we could talk.  I chose a favorite kid sometimes, and it would differ depending on who was annoying me at the moment.  Kel yelled at her kids, and they got snarky with her.

However, underneath all of it was a healthy dose of love.  Her kids never have to doubt for a moment that she loves them and would do anything for them–that forgives a multitude of sins.

A quick backtrack:  I have written often about the lost fifteen years, years in which I was steeped in depression.  Part of the problem was that I knew I didn’t want a traditional life, but deep down, I still thought I had to have one.  I wanted to be a good girl, despite my outward appearance of rebelling.  I thought that if I couldn’t do a traditional life, I couldn’t do life at all.  Now, mind you, this isn’t something I consciously thought.  It was just how I was raised, and I had embraced it to my heart.

I have defined myself for most of my life by what I am not and what I don’t like far more than by what I am and what I like.  I knew early on that I did not want to have a corporate job, get married, or have kids.  Back to my mind getting blown by Kel’s family.

They are unlike any other family I know.  They are not traditional at all.  And, I fit right in.  I didn’t have to tailor my personality or my mouth (much).  Sure, there are still some age-appropriate things I didn’t talk about (like my sex life, duh!), but that is just common sense.

Why is that mind-blowing?  Because I never fathomed a family like hers could exist.  Oh, I’m not saying this right.  I realize that there are nontraditional families, intellectually, but I haven’t ever been immersed in one.  I was immediately at ease with Kel’s family, and believe me, that doesn’t happen often.

The thing is, as my therapist pointed out today, my mind has been getting blown in many different ways in the past few years.  One other major mind-blowing occurrence was the first party of Choolie’s to which I went.  I was so nervous, and again, I fit right in.  Not only did I meet fun, talented, witty, artistic people with whom I enjoyed talking, I realized they enjoyed meeting me.

I have also realized that despite my earlier belief that I didn’t want to be in relationship, I do.  That blows my mind, too.  My longest relationship lasted four years, and it was long-distance the whole time.  I have never cohabitated with someone, and I have rarely lived in the same state as the person I’m dating.  I convinced myself that I didn’t want to be in a relationship when the real truth was that I was afraid that I was so inherently unlovable, no one would ever want to be with me in the long-term.  Now, while I’m still not certain I can find someone with whom I can make a long-term relationship work, I can at least be honest with myself and acknowledge that I long to try.

Wow.  That’s fucking scary to think, let alone type in my blog.

Another mind-blowing event:  Knowing that people actually read my blog on a fairly regular basis.  People actually find something worthwhile in my blathering.  That surprises the hell out of me.  A year and a third later, it still startles me when I get an email from a stranger telling me how much an entry of mine meant to him/her.

Now, for the hard part.  The mourning.  After I returned from Kel’s place, I felt blue.  Part of it was the normal after-the-trip letdown, but a bigger part was because I was grieving.  Even though I’ve been having my mind blown in various ways over the last year, year and a half, the trip to Kel’s was the one to really blow away the dust from my eyes.  I never fathomed a family like hers.  Now, having experienced it, I realized that living a nontraditional life is possible.

Looking back on the lost fifteen years, I realize that many of the things I did in order to make myself feel safe were not necessary.  I kept making my world smaller and smaller in order not to feel so afraid.  Yes, there were some outside obstacles preventing me from having the life I wanted, but to my dismay, most of the obstacles were placed in my path by me.

Two years ago, I never would have gone to Choolie’s party.  Two years ago, I never would have went to meet Kel.  Hell, as I told Kel, two years ago, I never would have been on FB, and I certainly wasn’t blogging.  As I expand my life bit by excruciating bit, I realize how much I have truly passed over in my lost fifteen years.   Because I had bought the lie that I had to have a traditional life or a spectacular life (ironically, I was supposed to have both simultaneously), I ended up having no life at all.

I grieve for those lost years.  I grieve for the part of me that was so damaged, it was necessary for me to lose those years in order to survive.  I grieve that I have wasted so much of my life and have nothing to show for it.

I have to grieve and mourn in order for me to be able to forgive myself for the lost years, let them go, and move on.  I struggle with not berating myself for being so stupid and weak and fearful during that time.  If only, if only, if only.  Well, I can’t change the past, no matter how much I wish I could.  Therefore, I grieve, and I mourn.  It’s time to say goodbye to my past.

I was nervous as I got off the plane because I still harbored the fear that I would disappoint Kel. It’s something that is ingrained in me from years of disappointing my real family. I had learned my lesson well–I am not enough. No matter how much Kel reassured me that I just had to be myself, I still had a fluttering of doubt as I stepped off the plane. Before I went, I emailed her to see what I should and shouldn’t say in front of her kids. She told me to just be myself, which wasn’t very reassuring to me. I told her I was bringing underwear because I didn’t want to offend/disturb anyone by going commando under my boxers. She told me not to be ridiculous–they didn’t wear unders, either, under their boxers. Still, I packed the panties just in case.

I called Kel as I got off the plane, and to my dismay, she didn’t answer. She ALWAYS has her phone on. I told her to turn on her damn phone and that I would see her in a few minutes.

When I saw her, I hugged her tightly and felt as if we were just continuing a conversation that we had started a year ago. We started babbling at each other as she took a pic of us to send the kids, her sis, and her husband. I stuck out my tongue, and we were off to the races after that.

Her house is an hour away from the airport. On the way, I texted everyone who texted her and made ribald suggestions (no, really?). She and I talked about everything under the sun, including what we were going to do the next day. The kids were at home waiting for us to return, despite the fact that it was going to be after midnight by the time we finally touched down. As we approached her house, two kids burst out of the garage door and started fighting with each other. Kel laughed and said they were fighting to see who would hug me first. I had started to get out of the van, but I quickly got back in and joked that I was skeered of them.

Finally, Soccer Boy won the battle and grabbed me in a big hug. Then, Punk Girl (middle child) hugged me fiercely, too. They were both so excited, I felt like I was the president of the USA or something like that.  I looked around for my Irish Dancer, and there she was, slowly sauntering out the door.  She hugged me tightly, too, and I felt the last bit of my tension seep out.

Soccer Boy took my bags into my room, and then he went to bed.  Kel, the girls and I stayed up until roughly two in the morning talking.  Kel’s husband, the Triad Legend, Bear Oak Druid was out geocaching, so I didn’t get to meet him until Sunday night, sad to say.

The girls were so excited to see me, they were bouncing–literally.  I was gobsmacked by how readily they accepted me into their lives.  They chattered away at me as if they’d known me forever.  I mean, they’ve been FB friends of mine for awhile, but still.  This was the first time we’d met in person.  I email with Kel every day, but not with the girls.  I was blown away by their enthusiasm for me.

Kel and the girls finally staggered off to sleep.  I surfed the net for a bit before hitting the sack.   I fell asleep around four.  Kel woke me up at seven so we could take Soccer Boy to school.  She said I could sleep in, but I wanted to tag along.  We stopped at Starfucks on the way home, and then we just chilled and talked for awhile.  Then, she made a yummy omelet, and I stripped so she could shoot me.  No, I am not using a euphemism this time.

Let me digress for a minute.

As regular readers of my blog know, I have struggled with issues of sexual abuse from my childhood.  A tandem issue has been my ED shit.  Both of these together have given me a very very dim view of my body.  In simple terms, I hate it.  I hate it for being fat (right now), but I hated it when I was thin, too (for a variety of reasons).  I read awhile ago about a woman who photographs abused women in the nude to give them another perspective of their bodies.  With this in mind, I asked Kel how she felt about such photographing.  She was cool with it, so we planned on doing it when the kids weren’t home.

So, while the omelet was cooking, I stripped nekkid (not to hard to do as I was wearing a t-shirt, a bra, and boxers) and got ready to pose.  We had talked earlier about what pose I wanted, and I thought a sitting in a backwards-chair pose would be neat.  So, we did that as we talked.  I thought I would be freaked out by it a little, but Kel made it easy for me.  I almost forgot she was taking my picture.  Later, when she was editing the pictures, I realized that I actually liked more than one–of my face, anyway.  That’s a tribute to Kel’s talent.  I will post some of them in a future post (how’s that for a tease?).  I still don’t like my body, but at least I did not cringe upon seeing the pictures.

After that, we went to pic up the girls and get yummies before picking up Soccer Boy.  The girls go to a community college (they both graduated early), and they are very intelligent girls.

Quick primer:

Irish Dancer is the oldest.  She is statuesque, Rubenesque, and dances (literally) to the beat of her own drummer.  As her name suggests, she does Irish dancing whenever the spirit moves her–even on the sidelines of the soccer field.  She has OCD tendencies as do I, so we bonded over that.  We both prefer washing at night in order not to soil the sheets.  She needs everything to be straightened and in its place.  I, on the other hand, am an unrepentant slob.  However, if I fixate on something, I can’t let it go.  An example:  I was trying to find a rhyme for gelid, and it had to be a color.  This was in the van on the way back from Vienna.  I did my alphabet thing (run through the alphabet to see if I can come up with anything simple), and then I got creative.  I did this on and off for a couple of hours.  I finally settled on shallot gelid.  Irish Dancer would say something to me, I would say something in response, and she would say, “You really get me.”

And, I did.  She has way more confidence than I did at that age, but I can understand her thought process for the most part and much of the loneliness she feels in being caught between being too mature for her peers and even some of her cohorts.  I said to Kel, “Ten years from now, she’s going to own the world.  Until then, though, it’s going to be difficult for her.”   She has a natural grace and sensuality when she walks, and when she realizes how utterly devastating she is, and if she ever truly sets her mind on a guy, that guy is fucked.  He won’t stand a chance.  Oh, she also runs into things the way I do, so we bonded over that, too.

Next up, Punk Girl.  She has a firm sense of her own style.  She is slim, long and lean, and she’s absolutely stunning.  Irish Dancer is a classic beauty, and Punk Girl is stunning.  Her problem is her lack of confidence.  As I told her, chin up, boobs out, and act like you own your space.  She is sarcastic and clever and angsty.  She refuses to wear dresses, and she’s more likely to be swinging a bat than shopping for shoes.  She’s sensitive, so she covers it up with a healthy layer of snark.  She’s confident of her brain, but not so confident in other ways.  I can completely relate to that.  She has more people in love with her than I ever did at her age, but I can sense so much of the longing and fears that she has that are similar to mine.

She cracks my shit up, and when she’s up, she sparkles.  When she’s down, though, it’s as if the sun has refused to shine.  Again, I can relate to the moods as mine swing from one extreme to the other (admittedly, mostly in a downward motion).  For her, once she truly grasps how amazing she is, she will be quite the force with which to reckon.

Soccer Boy is next.  He chose to go to public school rather than be home-schooled in part because he is a people person.  He’s a really sweet boy with a flair for smirking.  He’s as brilliant as the other two (also going to graduate early), and his passion is soccer.  Friday night, we watched a futbol game, and he explained the finer details to me.  I know the general rules of soccer, of course (only of course because I’m a sports fiend), but he gallantly explained some of the details that I tend to ignore.

He is a sensitive boy who would be a lousy poker player.  Every emotion is clear on his face.  When he is happy, his smile lights up the room.  When he’s upset, it breaks the heart.  He was the only guy in a house with four women, and he held his own pretty damn well.

Back to my travelogue.  Friday, we chilled in Kel’s room while she edited the pictures.  Punk Girl crashed as she only got a few hours of sleep the night before.  Soccer Boy passed out on Kel’s bed, and Irish Dancer chatted with me while we watched her mom edit my photos.  Damn Kel, she didn’t airbrush out my rolls of fat or my double chin.  Harumph.

After that, we had dinner.  It was a beef brisket on pasta, and apparently, I was the only one who really dug it.  The beef was chewy, which reminded me of my childhood, but it was supposed to be fall-off-the-fork tender, according to Kel.  Irish Dancer also made orange and chocolate cupcakes with a vanilla I wanna say frosting for us to take to the concert the next day.  We each had one, and they were yummmmmmmy!

Then, Soccer Boy did something that made me vow to kill him:  He handed me a puzzle in which you had to slide a block of wood with a red dot out of the hole on the bottom of the box.  There are other blocks of wood in the way, of course.  I told him I was really bad at spatial puzzles, but he gave it to me, anyway.  Admittedly, I was holding out my hand, but still.  You don’t give a person with OCD something she says she sucks at because no good can come out of that.  In fact, Irish Dancer specifically said that she never tried it because she knew that she would suck at it.

With a sinking heart, I gave it a go.  I made Soccer Boy not look at me while I did it because he was smirking at me.  He could do it in under two minutes, and I threatened him bodily harm when he offered to show me the solution.  One by one, they all drifted off to bed, leaving me with the dratted puzzle (after Soccer Boy reset it a few times for me).

By the way, I watched Paula Dean earlier in the day for the first time.  She fascinated me in a horrifying way.  She was making ballpark food.  So, she took a hot dog, and wrapped bacon around it ‘of couse’, then added grilled onions, a whole gallon of melted cheese, a jalapeno pepper, and a slathering of slaw.  Then she took a huge bite, masticated, and threw a bunch of peanuts at me.

Anyway, back to the puzzle.  I worked on it and worked on it until I was approximately three steps away from solving it.  Then, all the pieces fell out, so I had to set it aside until Soccer Boy could reset it for me in the morning.  I glanced at the clock and saw that I had been working on it for three hours.

I cursed Soccer Boy for giving it to me before taking a shower and going to bed.  I didn’t even bother going online because I had only had three hours of sleep the night before.

Here is the thing I liked best about being around Kel’s family:  I didn’t have to tailor my behavior much to be with them.  I am so used to blocking all the essence of me when I visit my real family, it was a breath of fresh air to be able to be me with Kel’s family and not get hammered for it.   Not only that, they actually liked the real me.  That still blows my mind.

Gr.  This is running long, of course.  I will write more later.

P.S.  There is a reason I tagged Alan Rickman in this post, but I did not reach it yet.

I am in a down mood; I have been since my birthday, actually.

First of all, I am stoked to meet Kel, her sister, and her brood.  I cannot wait to hear Vienna (though it’ll be in Norfuck Norfolk, VA, and not Oriental), and I am excited to see how Kel is going to shoot me (with a camera, of course).  I don’t take good pics, so I’m curious to see what she can do with Alejandro (her trusty camera).

That said, I still have a shit-load to do before I go.  The house is still a mess, and I have a day and a half to clean it.  I also have my session in the morning.  I also have to wash my hair, and I probably will do one more load of laundry.  I also have that job hunt to do and other shit (including losing weight).  Instead, I sit on my flat ass and do nothing of importance.

My best friend and I had a heated discussion Friday night about regrets.  She’s the type to not regret things in life in part because she looks at the bigger picture.  She says, “Do I regret doing this?”  While the experience may have been painful, overall, she’s glad she did that or this or whatever.  On the other hand, I am all about regrets.  There are more experiences in my life that I would give up wholeheartedly than keep.  The abuse by my father?  Gone.  My entire childhood, in fact, would be erased.  Thailand?  Goodbye.  My relationship with D, I would keep.  My relationship with M, I would not.

In addition, I wanted to cut off some experiences at some point.  She said I couldn’t do that, and I said why not if we were playing pretend, anyway?

By the way, I hate the heat.  I am unbelievably grumpy right now.  I am wearing my South Park boxers, shirtless, my hair braided,  and still sweating like a pig.  I have SAD in the hot seasons, and I’m not Miss Perky at the best of times.

Oh, and FYWP (fuck you, Word Press).  I just lost more than half this post.  Fuckers.  I will try to reconstruct, but it won’t be easy.

The one thing I have always prided myself on is my brain.  I am intelligent, and I have no qualms about saying that.  I am fucking intelligent, and I have no qualms about thinking that.  However, the same brain that allows me to read voraciously, have a magnificent vocabulary, come up with witty repartee, and lets me think nimbly on my feet is the same damn brain that spawned my demons.  They live in my brain, and they are quite fucking smart, too.  Therefore, they can use my intelligence against me because they know me so fucking well.  Did I create them?  Of course I did.  But, like Dr. Frankenstein, the monster has gotten bigger than his creator.

My demons know my weaknesses, and they gleefully pounce on every one.  Right now, I am struggling with my ED issues.  Well, that’s not quite accurate.  I am indulging in my ED issues.  While intellectually I know that they are bad for me, emotionally, the rituals bring me comfort.   And, I am a fucking beached whale, which I do not like.

Fear and self-loathing in Minnesota.  That would be the title of my autobiography if I felt compelled to write it.  Which I don’t.

Fifteen years I wasted dwelling in that deep, dark abyss.  Fifteen years of my life gone, and now, I’m thirty-nine with nothing to show for my life.  No career, no marriage, no kids, no published works, no legacy.  OK, I don’t want number two or three, but that’s besides the point.  All of my friends are successful in their own way (I only hang out with the best), and while it’s inspiring to me, it also underscores how bereft my life is.

Every step forward reminds me of how many more I have to go.  My therapist once said that if I get stuck regretting the lost fifteen years, in another fifteen years I’ll be sitting in therapy talking about the lost thirty years.  She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to break free.  You know the saying, “Ignorance is bliss”?  The opposite would be, “Knowledge is hell”.  I know the shit I need to do and to change about myself.  I have known it for some time.  The fact that I cannot make myself do what I need to do tears me apart.  It adds to my already huge reservoir of guilt.  If I didn’t know what was wrong with me, I wouldn’t be able to beat myself up so easily over it.

I hate that life is so fucking hard for me.  Let me clarify.  It’s not physically hard or monetarily hard (I’m ashamed to say), but the energy I use to do anything of significance is emotionally exhausting.   I can make a mountain out of any molehill, and I do it every time I do anything, without fail.  Even when I’m going to do something I like, such as hang out with my best friend, I have to talk myself into going.  If  I need to do something I really fear (like find a real job, my personal nemesis.  My therapist said that no one likes it, but it’s a phobia with me), then it takes me ten times the amount of time it takes a normal person.

I’ve used this example before, but it’s apt.  When my best friend separated from her husband and agonized about what to do, her mom said, “Kiki, you’ll be fine with him, and you’ll be fine without him.”  I joked that my mom’s answer would be, “Minna, your life will be awful with him, and your life will be awful without him.”  It’s true, though.  That is my family mentality–there is no right decision, only a wrong one and a wronger one.

It’s a no-win situation, and I know that I get myself caught in it all the fucking time.  I see what I want, and I see a barrier between me and my heart’s desire.  It doubly-sucks that I am the one who put the barrier there.  I hate the fact that I am the one creating the obstacles in my way.  It doesn’t make it easier to deal with the barrier because I just heap on the shame and blame along with doing everything I can to avoid going through the barrier.

The amount of time I put into avoiding doing the shit I need to do is just stupid.  I mean, if I could put it out of my mind during the avoidance time, that would be one thing.  However, I brood on the thing I need to be doing the entire time I’m studiously avoiding doing said deed.  It’s so fucked-up.

I’m exhausted.  If I could, I would take my rusty pitchfork and jab at my brains until they turned to goo and ran out of my nostrils.  My dreams suck.  My motivation sucks.  My energy sucks.  I suck–and not in the good way.  Bah.  Humbug.

As I was cleaning the bathroom a few days ago as part of my plan to set a schedule with ScriptFrenzy as the carrot, I realized something:  I don’t want to do ScriptFrenzy.  I stopped cleaning for a second, stunned.  Perhaps I had mistaken my anticipation of the fun I would be having and the hard work I would be doing for–no.  I didn’t want to do it.  I am not a movie person (understatement, big time), and while I enjoyed my previous two ScriptFrenzy endeavors, scriptwriting is really not my thing.  Don’t get me wrong–I got one really good script out of the first year and a workable beginning of a script for my trilogy out of the second year, but it’s just not my bailiwick.  Furthermore, I realized that my therapist was right–I was doing it mostly to be doing something, but also to prove I could do it.

You know what?  I don’t need to prove that because I’ve done it twice.  With ease.  I’ve never had to prove that I can write a certain amount in a certain time–that’s not my problem.   NaNoWriMo is good for me because I can actually get a novel done–which is my bailiwick.

So, I scrapped the idea of doing ScriptFrenzy, which means my whole plan got tossed out as well.  However, I realized I could keep the schedule part of it and just substitute regular writing or submitting for the ScriptFrenzy part.  The problem is, would it be enough to make me actually do what I need to do?  I did it the first day when I had planned on doing ScriptFrenzy–except the exercise.  I had already decided not to tie in exercise with my ScriptFrenzy as carrot plan because I am having enough problems with my ED issues flaring up, and I’ve been slacking on the exercise thing, much to my shame and dismay.

Next.  I’m in a somber mood right now.  I don’t know why.  Maybe the temps in the high seventies and the incipient return of my spring bronchitis are to blame.  I think they are just the tip of the iceberg, though.  I am just in a melancholy mood.  Oh wait, my birthday is coming up.  That’s probably part of it.  And, I’ve been PMS’ing for about a month (three months since my last period), so that doesn’t help.

For some reason, I’m just not very high on life right now.  I don’t the point of life, and honestly, I just want to curl up in a ball, fall asleep, and never wake up (as long as the sleep is dreamless).  Oh well.

Anyway.  On to the forgiveness part.  Over at BJ, there have been threads on the Catholic Church sex abuse cover up.  Debate has gotten heated (about religion, not about the abuse).  Last night, one of the longtime commenters posted a comment about his own sexual abuse (not sure if it was in the Church or not, but I don’t think so), and one of the front-pagers got permission to make it into a front-page post.  It’s a beautiful, thoughtful post.  However, one thing makes me uncomfortable from the responses:  Many people talked about the commenter forgiving his abuser and lauded it.

Now, don’t misunderstand.  I think it’s wonderful that TZ (the commenter) could forgive his abuser.  However, some of the commenters in that thread as well as the earlier one seemed to be extolling forgiveness as the ultimate goal for the abused.

I was raised Christian, so my idea of forgiveness is very skewed.

People said they didn’t mean let the abuser off the hook or say that it was ok or cover it up, but but but…forgive!  It’s for the forgiver.

I will confess:  I don’t get it.  As I have stated in past entries, once I realized my father could no longer physically hurt me, I let go of the fear I had of him.  For the most part, I have let go of the anger I’ve nurtured towards him over the years.  (Indeed, as y’all know, I have more anger at my mom at this point).  But forgive him?  No.  I don’t forgive him.  What’s more, I don’t see a need to forgive him, especially when he has no capacity for feeling anything for anyone other than himself.

Hm.  OK.  I just looked up ‘forgive’, and one definition is to stop being angry at/resenting the person for what he’s done.  By that definition, I guess I’ve forgiving my father.

To be honest, I don’t care.  Thinking about whether or not I’ve forgiving my father focuses too much attention on him.  Here’s my issue with the exaltation of forgiveness:  It puts a lot of burden on the abused person.  It says, “Hey, what’s wrong with you that you can’t forgive this person?”  I know that’s not the intent, and I know the idea is that the forgiveness is for the forgiver, but there seems to be an implicit judgment of the abused person.  ”Why are you so angry?  You’re really not doing yourself any good with that anger.”

The thing is, a person who has been abused has every right to be angry.  In fact,  I would even hazard to say it’s necessary for an abused person to get angry about the abuse in order to deal with it.

I guess that’s my problem with the whole forgiveness thing.  Many people commented on how moving TZ’s post was (and it was) and then added the bit about how great it was that he could forgive his abuser.  Does that mean if I were to write a post about how I didn’t care if I had forgiven my abuser or not, it wouldn’t be as moving?  Again, I am sure I’m putting my own spin on things, but it’s how it read to me.

Someone commented at BJ in an early thread that the heavy emphasis on forgiveness can make it easy for an abused person to turn the shame and blame on him/herself.  I would have to agree with that.  As you all know, I can blame myself for anything at a drop of the hat.  If I truly believed I needed to forgive my father to heal or to be a better person, well, let’s say I would probably be abusing myself far more than I already do.    In addition, I have enough shit to do.  If I had to worry about/concentrate on forgiving my father, that would be an added burden.  In further addition, I think it’s only because I’ve been working on other things that I’ve been able to let go of most of the anger I have towards my father.  In other words, it’s a byproduct of other work and not the main work itself.

In addition, the less time spent thinking about my father, the better.  In my goal to heal from the abuse, quite simply, he isn’t important.  His feelings or lack thereof aren’t important.  Whether I forgive him or not isn’t important.  What is important is the realization that he cannot hurt me any more.  And, if I’m going to be really honest, what is important is that I forgive myself for whatever I perceived I did wrong at the time.

I know I’m not saying this well.  I apologize for that.  It just struck a nerve because I’ve always had a problem with the forgiveness thing.  While intellectually, I know it is supposed to be a good thing to forgive someone else (huh.  I initially typed god thing.  Freudian slip?), I have never clicked with that line of thought.  It strikes me as hollow for many of the aforementioned reasons.

P.S.  Shout out to NedR. for turning me onto Mike Gira, Jarboe, and the Swans.

1. Lose 100 pounds
2. Become self-supporting and self-sufficient
3. Buy my own house
4. Get back into theater
5. Become a published author
6. Get my online literary mag up and running
7. Get laid
8. Start playing the cello again
9. Finish the long form in taiji and start pushing hands
10. Start dating

#9 is doable.

#4, #7, #8, and #10 are theoretically easy, but psychologically difficult.  #2, #3, #5 will, sigh, take longer than a year.

#1 is doable with some strict discipline, as is #6.  Got that?

Good.  Now, I’m going tho throw all that out and start over again.

Awhile ago, I wrote down my goals in order of priority.  I am too lazy to look up the entry, mainly because I suspect that my priorities are different now.  And, because since I’m in charge here, I can pretty much write whatever I want.

So.  Realistically, this year, I will:

1. Get involved in local politics.  I have been frustrated with national politics because there seems to be such a limited amount of influence I personally can have on the national discourse.   On the other hand, I live in a state where every vote really does count (see, Senator Al Franken, bitchez, as an example), mainly because we loooove our third party candidates.  They can expect to get eight to ten percent of the vote pretty reliably, which, obviously, makes it difficult for either of the main candidates to get a majority vote.   We have an interesting governor’s race coming up because Ratface Pawlenty mistakenly believes he has a shot at becoming president in 2012 and is not running for reelection (thank god), and I am going to study the candidates and decide for whom I am going to campaign.
2. Go to more art/theatre/literary events.  One year, I made a vow to go to a performance a month.  I did, and it kicked ass.  In addition to getting to see Margaret Cho and Eddie Izzard in person, I got to get back into the art scene, which is something I sorely missed.  One part of my self-abuse is denying myself the experiences that nourish me as punishment.  I feel that if I am not making headway on my more serious goals (such as getting a job and buying a house), then I shouldn’t indulge in things which I enjoy, either.   This is obvious bullshit, of course, but it’s hard for me to give myself permission to explore my artistic side if I’m not making considerable progress on the pragmatic shit in my life.  Plus, going to artistic/theatrical/literary events increase my likelihood of getting laid/dating.
3. Lay the foundation to becoming more self-sufficient.  I have to acknowledge that the chances of me having a nine-to-five job is not very high.  It’s not particularly what I want, either.  I don’t have any dependents (besides two very spoiled kittehs), so realistically, I just need to decide what I need to make in order to be self-sufficient.   Buying my own house is on the list of things I plan to do, so that will have to figure into my wage-earnings.  I would like to have health insurance through a job, but this is not a deal-breaker for me.  I also have to figure out what the goal of me working is.  I mean, ultimately, I want to spend most of my working time writing/performing.  Since that is my end goal, then finding a job/jobs which make me enough money to subsist until that point is my current aim.  Back in my late twenties, I contemplated doing the waitressing thing in order to be a writer, but my parents shot down that idea (class issues there).  I don’t think I could be a waitress, but perhaps a barista would be possible.  Plus my freelance editing and my work for my bro.   Ideally, I just want to be able to cobble together enough to save a little and go out once a month.
4. Take the necessary steps to be published.  There isn’t much I can do about being published unless I self-publish, so I will do what I can–submit.  My pieces!  Get your minds out of the gutter.  The first step is to find journals which might accept pieces from me.  This is harder than you may think.  Many literary journals shy away from overtly sexual/ violent writing, which, as you may be able to guess, is right in my wheelhouse.   In addition, I need to start *sigh* submitting my novels to agents–after picking one or two novels that I want to shop around right now.
5. Finish up all my NaNoWriMo novels.  I have done NaNoWriMo for the past three years, and I have eight or nine novels as a result.  Two are completely finished.  Several are mostly finished.  A few are somewhat finished.  One or two are barely started.  At any rate, they are all very good and need to be circulated.  The way I write is pretty different from the standard novel formats of the day, and I think I could find a strong niche of people interested in what I have to write.  As long as they have several hours to devote to each novel.
6. Lose 100 pounds.  I know I will get a lot of flack for this one, but it is doable and safe by health experts’ estimations.  A person can safely lose two pounds a week (anything more is muscle and/or water loss), which averages to eight to ten pounds a month.  By all the health standards, if I drop a hundred pounds (and yes, I know roughly what I weigh), I will be in my healthy range.  Don’t like it?  Then talk to the health experts about it!  OK, I am being a tad unreasonable.  I know that my disordered thinking about eating and food is coming to the forefront again.  Therefore, I will amend my statement to 75 pounds in a month.  This is eminently doable, and it puts me close to the overweight range for my height, according to all the health experts.  I will be going to my therapist tomorrow and then the co-op, so I can revamp my menu.  And, yes, I will research eating disorder groups and such to make sure I don’t completely go crazy in this weight loss journey.
7. Get laid/date.  These two, as I have said before, are not necessarily the same thing, but they are also not necessarily mutually exclusive.  I hesitate putting date on the list because I don’t view myself as particularly date-able.  Fuckable?  Yeah, ok, sure.  Mebbe.  Especially after I lose some weight.  I’m pretty damn good in bed.  Date-able?  Um, not so much.  I am moody as hell, fucked up in the head, have enough issues to choke a horse, sarcastic and snarky, aloof and clingy by turns, and, quite frankly, a PITA much of the time.   I wouldn’t date me if I weren’t me, so why would anyone else?
8. Start my online literary journal.  This one really is about scaling back my expectations.  One of the reasons it took me so long to start my blog is because I had this idea in my head of how it should be.  I wanted it to be that way from the start (i.e., perfect), which meant I put off starting my blog for years.  Not the only reason, of course, but much of it.  When I finally did start my blog, I had to re-start it three times, I believe, and I called my brother many times, frantic because I had done something stupid (such as deleted my whole database.  Don’t ask.  It’s still painful).  Now, I am pretty damn happy with the way my blog is.  Sure there are a few things I would change, and I’ve had to tweak it heavily along the way (with my bro’s help, of course), but over all, I think it’s a pretty damn good little blog.  I had to learn WordPress to run it, and now I’m pretty comfortable with WP (though I hate hate hate the more glaring bugs).  Now, my brother says I really need to learn Drupal to do my online literary journal properly, and I’m dragging my feet on learning yet another open source platform (I learned Joomla first, which is really complicated).  However, I just have to take a deep breath and plunge in.  I will make mistakes along the way, and I just have to deal with that.
9. Start playing the cello again.  I will have to rent one, which I don’t want to do, but I am not going to invest the money into a nice cello if I decide in the end that I don’t want to continue with it.
10. Audition and/or perform.  Eek!  Will write more about this one later.

This is the general list.  I will write yet another list with more specifics at a later date.

P.S.  I am keeping Alan Rickman with chocolate, pizza, handcuffs, and a blindfold on my wishlist just because I can.

As I was driving back from the airport to my house, I felt some relief to be getting away from my family and the pernicious insidiousness of Taiwanese beliefs about women, family, etc.  One thing my therapist commented on before I went on my trip was that the culture clash of family first v. independence was something I would have to deal with now.  She said it much more eloquently, but it’s what she meant.

Now, I am not saying that putting family first is an inherently-dysfunctional thing, any more than I am touting the superiority of rugged individuality.  I think both have their pluses and their minuses.   What I am saying is that when you skew crazily to either side, then there’s a problem.  In my case, in my family, the boundaries between each person are nonexistent.  What I want isn’t a factor at all.  It’s not that my parents don’t care what I want or think–they simply don’t realize that I could possibly think or want something other than what they think I want.

I have written in the past that my father is a narcissist, so the fact that he can’t fathom a me outside of him doesn’t surprise me.  However, the realization that my mother is just as much a narcissist in some ways is really bothersome to me.  I have spent much of my life grappling with issues with my mother (I gave up my father as a lost cause many years ago), and this new revelation throws things in a different light.  In addition, her ability at revisionist history is comparable to that of a current GOP congressperson, which is really disturbing.

Because of her latter capability (she firmly believes that she and I were really close when I was a teenager), everything she says about my past is now suspect as well.  I feel as if the sands are shifting under my feet.  What really happened in my childhood?

There is one person who knows and who has a good memory:  My brother.  Yet, I hesitate asking him what he remembers from our childhood.  It’s another unspoken taboo as he didn’t have a very cheery childhood, either.  My father used to beat him (as per old customs) until my mom made him stop–or so my mother says.  Then (again, according to my mother), my dad washed his hands of all disciplining thereafter.

I have heard this story since I was a kid, and it makes me so angry now.  If it’s true, then that means that my mother stood up for my brother, but not for me.  In fact, she’s never stood up for me in relation with my father.  She takes his side and downplays any beefs I have with him.  As I have written about before, when I confronted the family about my father’s abuse so many years ago, the first thing my mom said was, “It can’t be true.  If it’s true, then I’ll have to leave him.”

Oh, in addition, she has a habit of forgetting that she says these kind of things.  And, a few years after I told her I was bi (to which she said, “If that’s acceptable, what next, bestiality?”), I mentioned something about a woman, and she said, “Oh, you still like women?”  She tries to bend reality to her liking and ignores all the parts she doesn’t like.

Anyway, this is a new year.  Funny, it feels a lot like the old one, but a new one, it is.  I made it back from Taiwan barely in one piece (though my mind is still fragmented, and my sleep schedule is more fucked than usual), and now it’s time to look to the future and what I hope to accomplish this year.

Which depresses the hell out of me.  So, first up, my fantasy list of all the things I want to accomplish this year.

1. Lose 100 pounds
2. Become self-supporting and self-sufficient
3. Buy my own house
4. Get back into theater
5. Become a published author
6. Get my online literary mag up and running
7. Get laid
8. Start playing the cello again
9. Finish the long form in taiji and start pushing hands
10. Start dating

Since I am CDO, I’m limiting myself to 10 for 2010.  Yes, I know the list is unreasonable.  That’s kind of the point.  I wanted to lay it down and see exactly how far I have to go.

The result:  Depressingly far.  When I look at the big picture, I am overwhelmed.  Objectively, finishing the long form in taiji this year is doable.   Taking up the cello again is doable.  God, I miss playing.  I don’t miss practicing or the pressure of performing, but I do miss playing the cello.  What a beautiful instrument.

The rest will take lots of psychological fortitude as well as sheer determination.  I am lazy by nature when facing things I don’t have to do and that are hard for me to do.  I tend to get overwhelmed by the big picture.  I know the answer is to break down each goal into smaller, reasonable steps, but that’s hard for me to do as well.

I am sad, cranky, depressed, and in self-hatred mode upon my return to the States.  My mom emailed me that I made a couple errors in her manuscript, which means I’m not done with it yet.  Plus, she still wants to make changes, which is up to the editor, but if he says yes, then that means more work for me.

The trip to Taiwan was intense.  During the last two weeks (and about a month before), I was so focused on surviving the trip, I pretty much put the rest of my life on hold.  Now that I’m back, all the shit I shoved to the background is pushing forward once again. On top of all that,  I am still struggling with the utter worthlessness I felt while being with my family.  It’s hard for me to think I matter after two weeks in which I did not.

The worst thing about being with my family is that I lose ground every time I spend an appreciable amount of time with them.  They have me doubting myself and everything I am.  It’s not intentional, but it’s the end result.  By the end of the trip, I was more suicidal than I have been in years.

Anyway, I am done with today’s entry.  At some point, I will write a more reasonable list of goals for this year.  Maybe.

P.S.  To justify the Alan Rickman category tag, which I haven’t used in a while, this is the year that I make my fantasy of Alan Rickman, chocolate, pizza, handcuffs, and a blindfold come true.

Anyway, she turned me on to a group named The Storys.  They are a Welsh band, and I am totally addicted to them.  My favorite song is Journey’s End (Show Me Love).  I have listened to it well over fifty times in the past week, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the actual number is double that.  I bought their self-titled debut album, and the whole thing is excellent.   Here is a live version of my favorite song:

Well, Rubo has been on a kick of posting links on FB to their videos.  Her most recent one was I Believe in Love.  This is the rapidly becoming my second favorite song by The Storys.  Since I am a compulsive commenter, I quickly posted something about loving that song, even though I didn’t believe in love.

Well, that ticked her off.  She said, “You have cats.  Don’t tell me you don’t believe in love.”   Then, I realized that I had to explain myself further, and this is what I said.

I believe in love.   I fiercely love my friends, and I know that they love me in return.  I love my cats beyond reason.  My family–love them.  So, yes, I believe in love.  What I don’t believe in is everlasting romantic love.  Now, before you get all indignant on me, hear me out.

I love deeply, passionately, and truly (maybe, even madly, like a certain Alan Rickman movie).  However, that love is based on a friendship love.  I have only loved two men in my life, and both of them were close friends before we started dating.  By that time, I already loved them, so a natural evolution of that love seemed inevitable.

However, I don’t know where the line was drawn between friendship love and romantic love.  I jokingly told someone that the line was drawn–in bed!  The thing is, I was half-serious.  To me, the best recipe for a lasting relationship was to be good friends first.  As I have said before, the problem with this is that someone who makes a really good friend may not be such a great partner.

But, as usual, I digress.

I will admit that my views are colored by viewing my parents’ relationship as I grew up.  They made each other miserable on a daily basis (and, by extent, my brother and me), it was tiring for all involved.   My dad had several special female friends from the church (I always knew which woman had that dubious honor at any given time), and my mother was deeply depressed.  They fought quite a bit, and their fights were always the same.

I used to beg my mother to divorce my father.  She wouldn’t, though, in a large part because divorce was verboten in the Taiwanese circle.  Marriage was forever, damn it, no matter what.  Needless to say, my opinion of romance soured from witnessing the vicious cycle my mother and father were locked in.

So, I come by my skepticism honestl.  Still, despite all evidence to the contrary, I believed in an everlasting love when I truly fell in love for the first time.  Sure, we had very different goals in life, but if we truly loved each other, we would find a decent compromise.  Right?  Wrong.  Everlasting fell well short of eternity.

I was hurt by him, and I carefully wrapped up my heart and put it in storage for years.  The second time I fell in love, I was a bit more cautious in revealing myself to him.  I still believed in happily ever after, even though I valiantly tried to deny it.  I was with him for four years, and I went from being the most important thing in his life to being very important to him to being tiring.  My own love for him faded as I realized how weak he was.  By the time everything was completely over, I had lost a lot of respect for him.

So.  He was the last person I truly loved, and that was in a different lifetime.  Back then, I still believed in being with one person for the rest of my life.  Well, at least in theory.  In reality?  Eh.  I started to think about how unrealistic it is to expect to be with one person for thirty, forty, or fifty years.  I don’t believe humans are monogamous by nature, even though we can, of course choose to be monogamous.

Here’s the thing.  I don’t see it.  Not for me.  Mostly, because I don’t think I have it in me to dedicate myself completely to one person until the end of time.   I have a pretty unfettered personality when I actually reveal it.  I would chafe at reining that in.

On the flip side, I don’t see someone wanting to be with just me for the rest of his/her life, either.  I am not willing to compromise on so many things.  I do not play nicely with others, and I don’t share my toys.  I can be moody and irrational and very effective in shutting people out.

The thing is, I am making my peace with it.  It’s another belief that I have held for most of my life that just doesn’t work for me in my present incantation.  I know it sounds defeatist or like I’m afraid of love or something like that.  I don’t know what to say to that other than it really isn’t about fear.  It’s more…I have let my illusions shatter.  Yes, there’s a thread of bitterness in it.  I mean, it’s common at my age to have one or two marriages under one’s belt.   Who doesn’t have a past littered with broken hearts (given or received)?  So, yes, it’s tempting to believe that it’s just the bitter talking.

It isn’t.  It’s clarity.  For the first time, I have let go of the belief that I will have a lifetime romantic relationship with one person.  Yes, there’s a little bit of sadness as I release this belief, but there is also relief.  Finally, I can put that particular burden down.  I don’t have to feel like a freak because I can’t imagine being with one person for the rest of my life.  I can entertain the possibility of having relationships solely situated in the present with little thought of a future.

In some ways, I am striving for the Zen of relationships.  Savor what is.  Don’t worry about what might be because we will never know.  Even if I were to find “the one” (in which I also don’t believe, but that’s another entry completely), there is no guarantee that we will be together for a month, let alone a lifetime.   I am not saying I am not going to love or be in relationships.  I am just saying that my expectations have shifted from living happily ever after to enjoying each day in the here and now.

I have been learning so much about myself in the last few months.  Let’s just add this to the list of surprise discoveries by me about me.

Here is the song that started this introspection:  The Storys, I Believe in Love:

My middle nephew is considered the difficult child of the family.  He has a knack for knowing what buttons to push to make you flat-out angry in two seconds flat.  One day, he was focused on hitting me as much as possible.  I felt helpless and angry and guilty because I just wanted him to go away.  I left that day feeling very bad about myself.

The next time I saw my nephew, he wanted me to read him an I Spy book (the Halloween one).  I said sure, so he sat next to me, and off we went.  Now, when I used to read the I Spy books with his older sister, we would meticulously pore over each page until we found every hidden item we were supposed to find.  With my nephew, however, I wanted to make things as easy and fun as possible.  See, like me, he has a low frustration threshold.   He is a sensitive as well as a perfectionist.  I didn’t want to experience another full-bodied meltdown, so I made a snap decision.  Instead of poring over each page, painstakingly searching out each item, getting more and more frustrated as time ticked on, we would do our best for a few minutes.  Then, if we couldn’t find the item, say the fourth frog, I would turn to my nephew and say, “I’m done with this.  You?”  He would nod, and we would turn the page.  Or, after a minute or two, he would say, “Pass,” and we would turn the page.  Once in a while, I would say, “I’m bored.”  He would say, “Me, too,” and we would turn the page.

It was an odd sensation to be deliberately non-perfectionistic.  I play HOG, and I always have to find every object.  However, I didn’t want to enforce my nephew’s rigidity, so I had to relax my own.  Instead of him getting frustrated because he couldn’t find the fourth frog and then throwing the book across the room, he sat quietly for a half hour as we found all the objects we could and passed on the rest.

When I told my therapist this story, she commented that one of the reasons I’ve broken the depression fever is because I’ve given up on trying to be perfect.  I was struck by this because it was so true.  I have lived all my life trying to be the bestest goodest nicest girl I could ever be.  I tried desperately to be the daughter I thought I should be.  I tried to fit in, but I never quite made it.  I was never happy with what I’d accomplished nor who I was.  If I got an A- on a test, it should have been an A.  If I got an A, but I didn’t score a hundred, it wasn’t good enough.  Hell, even the time I got an A+ in a deviant psych class (in college.  Or was it developmental psych?  I always get the two mixed up, but I think it’s the latter), I downplayed it because the prof really liked me.  It was the same the time I got 100 on a neuropsych test.  My prof told the class it’s the only time she’s ever given a 100.  I thought I had messed up one question, so I concluded that she was just being generous because she, too, liked me.

It’s a neat little trap.  I aspired to be perfect, but even when I attained perfection, it wasn’t enough because I kept rationalizing the perfection away.

One thing that helped nudged me past this need for perfection was the fact that I started blogging.  As my dear readers know, I try to blog every night.  Now, a standard entry from me is roughly 1,000 words.  It usually takes me an hour to write an entry.  If I got hung up on every word and every phrase, I could easily double or triple that amount of time.  I decided early on that my blog entries were going to be more stream-of-conscious writing than anything else.  I have all these ideas and thoughts marinating in my brain.  Blogging is best for me when I just unleash the hounds and let them run wild.

In addition, I have learned from painful experience that if I try to be perfect, I don’t get anything done.  It’s a great way to delay actually finishing a project, and it’s a good way to feel perpetually inadequate.  If nothing is ever good enough, then why bother even trying?  There is a built-in excuse not to do anything for fear of failing.

So.  I’m going against my instincts and trying to let go of my ideal of being perfect.  Like Stuart Smalley, I’m good enough, damn it, and people like me.

Next up:  OCD.  I don’t have the actual disorder (and yes, it should be CDO to be consistent with the actual disorder), but I have many of the symptoms.  I have to check that the door is locked at least twice.  I have to keep things balanced between the right side of my body and the left side.  I don’t like to feel lopsided.  I tend to do the same things every day at the exact same times.  I obsessively chew over worries in my mind.  My brain never stops–not even when I’m sleeping.  This is probably why I can’t sleep very well.

The weirdest tick I have is that when I catch a clock on the hour, the quarter hour, the half hour, or the quarter of hour, I have to count to 25 as quickly as I can.  If the number changes before I can finish, I don’t feel right.  I have no idea how this particular compulsion started, but I would surely like it to leave me the fuck alone.

If I like a certain song (The Storys, Journey’s End, for example), I will listen to it over and over again.  My friend, Rubo, turned me onto the Storys last week, and I have listened to the two versions of this song on YouTube at least a hundred times since.  I bought the self-titled CD, which is fabulous, and I just bought one of their newer CD pack.

When I bought the Rent soundtrack with the original Broadway cast, it was the only disc I played for a solid month.  When I fixate on something, I get obsessive (and compulsive) about it.

Ok.  I’m tired and this is running long, as usual, so I’ll tackle addictions at a later date.