I am waiting--

Out of 10:
3 for anxiety, for job hunts and midlife crises, everything in its right place.
2 for guilt, and sadness. There's nothing that can be done. 1 of these I trade out now and then for happiness.
2 more for dark anger and dread. I have to shelve it, I can'nae look it in the eye, but it's a close sister to the guilt.
And 3 more for drowning. Treading water and feeling lost. No family and no sense of self.

If I could:
3 for drive. Excitement and motivation, things nudging into place.
4 for love. Titillation and satisfaction, passion and friendship.
2 for family. This seems nigh impossible, but what if it weren't?
1 for humility and learning. Keep the sadness at bay, but don't take it for granted.

And so, what I must:
2 for confidence. Stick up for yourself, Poindexter. Take time for myself, without guilt, for creation and expression.
3 for excitement. New passions, new positions, new adventures.
3 for hard work. Buckle down and grind it out, but sensibly, and not to the exclusion of all else.
2 for satisfaction. Reverse direction on material goals. Give in to happiness, let competence take care of ambition.

Shit fer Brains

Something... interesting has come up. (Her voice trails off, her gaze drifts out the open window).

Actually, --nothing-- has come up. But an interesting nothing, which wafts an intriguing scent (if not altogether appealing) of something. Totally out of left field, totally unexpected. Let's just say I'm talking about an unforeseen opportunity that was lobbed at me very purposefully; I hadn't asked for it, but now am being forced to consider it.

And it's more or less a fantastic opportunity. Of course, I have no official documentation or any kind of formal request; the ball was softly lobbed over and now is unambiguously in my court.

I shouldn't be so flabbergasted, except that I suppose I had unconsciously resigned myself to the idea of Pittsburgh forever. And for good reason - I love Pittsburgh. It has truly become my home. And now that I'm married, now that we have an awesome apartment and have been talking about home buying and kid having... the idea of uprooting and moving across the country smacks much more of headache and distraction than it does of adventure and fulfillment.

And yet the fact remains: would I be missing out on a huge opportunity if I didn't pursue this? Well, yes, certainly, but more to the point, if this opportunity is lurking out there, are others? I admittedly have had my head in the sand, planning the wedding, digging us out of debt, dealing with my awful family. But the thought of now having to catch up in the rat race is pretty overwhelming.

That isn't to say that I haven't been working hard in the interim, though. This has been a challenging year for me; I've been working on the UI for some really technically complex features at work, and have had to defend my design decisions directly to the customer. I took a feature no one wanted, made it awesome, and got the customer's buy-in on it, even though it was markedly different than anything that's currently out there. I count it as a big success, and although there were moments where I was about to pull my hair out, overall it was really rewarding. It's crap like that that I have to remember to keep in mind - just because I've had my head up my own ass doesn't mean I have shit for brains. (ha!)

And as Evan pointed out this morning, I direly need to demystify the folks on the other end of this situation. I've put them on an eerie pedestal, mostly because it's easier to approach with fear and trembling than it is to go boldly forward. But hell, I have the stuffing. I just need to snap out of it and get going.

So... Good pep talk!

Creative Block / Creative Energy

I really need to get back into the habit of making things. Manifesting creative energy, so that I a) don't end up withering away and b) do end up amplifying my own creative drive.

I do expend creative energy at work, on tough technical UI problems. It's challenging, and usually intellectually fulfilling, but it's not enough. Designing the right UI solution or the best 14x14 icon can be rewarding, but isn't what someone eould look at and say, "cool!" No one would look at such work for the sake of getting inspired. Feeling accomplished and feeling sated are very different; only a small amount of emotion goes into the interaction design I do on a daily basis.

I think what I'm getting at is that I need an emotional creative outlet. A project designed and driven by me, with only the constraints that I place on it. A project that I can throw my personality into, as opposed to rigidly restricting the visual language or amount of ornament. Cognitive load is a dirty word in my profession; I'd like a project where people DO have to think to understand it, or take it all in.

But what? I feel like I'm at a creative crossroads of sorts. I've investigated a lot of different creative avenues throughout my life. Collage art, poetry, ceramics, songwriting, knitting, graphic design... I've at least dabbled in all of the above, and more. When I was making out wedding invitations, I was working outside of my comfort zone and outside of my skill level as well - and I loved it. I think there's something to be said for both learning a new medium and then learning to become expressive through it.

And truth be told, I think I already know the answer; I'm just intimidated by the thought of getting started. My sister bought me a banjo for Christmas, after I added it to my Amazon wishlist on a whim, and although I truly am excited to get started learning it, I've avoided picking it up or taking any steps to get familiar with it. Oh I have daydreams of how amazing it's going to be when I play an open mic night and everyone I know comes to see me and I blow them all away, but at the moment it's strictly a daydream and nothing else.

There are a lot of superfluous reasons "why," but it all boils down to this - I'm afraid to get started! But, of course, nothing's going to happen if nothing happens. I need to step up to the plate and make this happen for myself, regardless of whether it turns out I'm good at it or not. Time to have an adventure!

Day 15: The Hookup, part 2

"Ok, so, you hold your thumb over the hole here while you light it," Greg demonstrated. "And then when everything is lit, you take your thumb off the hole and suck the rest of it in." He handed it over.

I managed with moderate success, although I burned a bit of my thumbnail in the process. The smoke burned. I held it in for as long as I could, but erupted in a fierce bout of coughing after a few seconds.

"I... I..." I tried to speak between coughs.

"Hahaha, you'll be okay," Greg laughed. "It's better if you cough, actually -- it bursts the little capillaries in your lungs or whatever, and gets into your system faster."

Disgusting. But I didn't care. The coughing started to subside. My heart felt as if it were beating twice as fast, and a buzzing feeling spread out across my head. I felt it in my tongue first; it was different, maybe bigger, maybe more sensitive...?

Greg was taking another hit, and the movie was glowing and flickering on the wall in front of us. I hadn't really been following it before, but was utterly mystified by it now. By the end of each bizarre sentence the characters spoke, I had forgotten how it had started.

"You ok?" Greg asked. He had been handing the pipe to me for.... maybe forever. Ohhh.

"I..." suddenly was funny. "Hahahaa. Wow." I think my voice was really quiet.

"Hey, are you a lefty?" Greg asked, and placed the pipe in my left hand.

"Y-yes..." I said. "Haha." I was reeling. "How can you, um, tell?"

"You lit it with your... left hand?" Greg was grinning. "I don't, you did it like me. I'm a lefty."

I was already out of my mind, but I lit it again like a lefty. It felt like someone was sitting in my lap, or like someone had left open a door right behind me. So slow.

Greg finished off the pipe and set it down. "What do you think?"

Had I asked a question? "Hmmm, I don't... understand it. Is it supposed to make sense?"

"Hahahahahaha!" Greg started really laughing. "No, no, no -- the pot! That's what I was asking."

"What?" My stomach was starting to hurt. Or maybe I was hungry. "Oh. Uh, I... feel... crazy. There's, like, a door behind me...." I started to turn around.

"Hey, hey. Mandy." Greg reached over and squeezed my arm. I turned my head to look at him, and my eyes followed at a serious delay. "You're ok. You'll be ok." My arm felt like it detached from my body where he was holding it.

"I'm ok," I said, and shot out an irrepressable grin.

"You're ok," he said, and crept forward up to my mouth. He kissed me for what felt like one hundred minutes. I don't think I breathed.

"Hello," I exhaled. I flexed my fingers, which had found their way into Greg's hair. This was... delicious. Exhilarating. I couldn't remember why I had been afraid to---

Day 15: Eva Retrospective on Mandy

I was terrified of her when she was finally born. She was sickly and thin, like an alien. In fact, very much like E.T. I don't know what I'd expected -- I had seen Ronnie when Mama took him home from the hospital, and he was really little and thin. But he wasn't mine; I hadn't seen him come out.

And she was mine. This bleating, gross, alive thing. And I loved her. That's why I was terrified. I counted all her fingers and toes the minute they left me alone with her; I memorized every small inch of her. I beamed my love into her with my eyes.

And they trusted me with her. Everyone trusted me to know what was best for her. To act on instincts, like a cat herding her litter, nipples sagging to the ground. That faith was just as terrifying, because it left me no other recourse. I was the sole owner of this tiny beast.

Well, Bram and I. In the three years leading up to my pregnancy I had all but rotted from the inside out, looking to him for instruction and decision and inspiration for every single movement I made. From what to cook to what to think. And so, I had stupidly expected the same level of puppeteering when we decided to have a baby -- it had even been his idea, mostly as a gesture of competition towards his colleagues who were already starting families.

But, as it turns out, there were a few more relevant reasons Bram decided he wanted to have kids, none of which were known to me at the time. Two things became clear, though, within a couple of weeks after we realized we'd conceived--Bram expected me to know exactly what to do, and was perfectly happy abstaining altogether from any active role in the process. It wasn't that he was unsupportive; I think that, to him, this was the mystery of the weaker sex. We may be helpless or even spineless, but when it came to babies the light turned on.

For the most part I grew to believe this story for myself -- that only I knew what was best, that any answer I came up with would be the right answer because it would be based in a primordial network of instincts that I had full access to but limited awareness of. Because -- she was mine. Ownership begat expertise, or at the very least right of operation.

Still, in the beginning it was terror and disbelief. The first few nights we brought her home I would have nightmares about having left her at the hospital, or in the car, or too near the fireplace. I would sit with her, and be holding her, and suddenly snap-to with a rush of adrenaline if I caught myself drifting off in thought for even a minute.

I hadn't expected any of those feelings to be so intense, or so crippling. My fear throughout the pregnancy had been in the opposite direction -- that I would be disappointed, and that I would not love her. Of course I told myself hundreds of times that, should she come out and be disfigured or substandard in some way, that I would love her more intensely in spite of that. That her mine-ness would ignite the maternal flame, no matter how insipid she turned out to be. However, I wasn't convinced, down in my core, that I was capable of that much unselfishness. I was worried I'd have to fake it, but was terrified I would just be unable to.

Maybe it's true that God only gives us problems to deal with that he's sure we can handle. Because, despite her initial ugliness, Mandolin was perfect. Better than. She excelled at everything -- spoke early, walked early, learned quickly. She was eager for everything. She was a direct answer to everything I had been afraid of.

And it was so overwhelming that I started to hate her. I couldn't help it. I loved her so fiercely, I knew her, I was what was best for her. Every step she learned to take was an indication that someday she would walk away from me. As she filled up with words and ideas and information, the mine-ness in her was crowded out. Her independence sickened me.

But somehow I let these feelings exist. She would be sitting on the floor and pick up a block, and I would take it from her and then give it back to her, to instill in her the idea that I was the one who made these decisions for her. In the nine months it took her to be born, I was also reborn, as a sick puppet master. I am reminded, now, of the times in my adolescence when my Mama would laugh at me folding the laundry. I would venture to guess that she was fighting the same feelings of hatred, of despite -- she just manifested them differently. I was so far gone, in her case, that all she could do was laugh cruelly at me, and know that I was no longer hers. And I suppose she knew, too, that that laughter, and everything that led up to it, made me hate her in return. How bitter that must have been.

And how lucky I was, then, that Mandy never hated me. She went her own way, of course, and it broke my jealous heart, but I don't think she ever hated me. Or maybe that's the curse of the weaker sex, as it were -- the love and the ownership are so intensely overwhelming, and yet it's not guaranteed to be a two-way street. Maybe love and hatred are the same thing.

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Word count: 965

Day 12: The Hookup, part 1

...

Well, there it was. I felt a keen mixture of excitement and dread. The tipsiness was starting to fade, too -- not good, since I wouldn't realistically be able to blame my reaction on that later. Greg was looking at me expectantly; I had no idea what to say.

"Is that so?" I asked, flirtatiously, feigning surprise. Looks like I'd landed on playing hard to get as the best way out. "Hmmm. Then perhaps we should... avoid a scandal and make our way back inside." Followed, of course, by a come-hither smile that probably looked hilariously gummy.

"But of course," Greg responded smoothly, with an assenting nod. He wasn't a bad guy, really.

We wandered back through the cellar stairs and into the basement, which was just as sparsely populated as the back porch had been. Apparently the lot of the guests had slipped out right around the time Greg and I stepped outside. Shit, what time was it anyway? Standing up reminded me acutely of all the alcohol I had been drinking. I had been distracted by Greg's flirtations.

"Looks like the scandal has gotten away from us," Greg said, echoing exactly how I felt. Jesus, I didn't want the people at work to get the wrong impression of me. Or one that I hadn't intricately tailored, to be more precise.

Greg was wiping down the couch, not at all the type of gesture that was going to make it easy to bow out. Even so, I started to try. "I better, uh, get going..."

"You could get going," Greg grinned up at me from the couch, "But have you ever seen Fear and Loathing? It's crazy by itself, but at... let's see, 4:30am, with a few drinks in you and whatever else, it's insane."

I couldn't tell if he was speaking from experience or supposing. It did sound interesting, though. Greg put me off and put me at ease in turns, but maybe the problem was me not checking my awkwardness. I summed up about two dozen more pro's and con's in my mind before allowing myself to land on the decision I had secretly been hoping for: stay.

I scooted over next to him on the couch, which smelled pleasantly of cleaning solution. "What's the movie about?"

"Well, well, glad you could stay." I expected him to move to put his arm around me or something, but he didnt. Fine with me. "This is really one of my favorites. We're actually kinda in the middle, or maybe near the end now, but really it's all an art piece about this one guy's crazy drug bender during a road trip to Las Vegas." Greg was reaching under the couch and fiddling with something. "Have you ever seen Trainspotting?"

I nodded my head yes, not sure what he was doing.

He produced what looked like a jewelry box and put it up on the coffee table. He glanced at me curiously for a second before continuing. "The message is similar, but taken to the extreme. Just a depiction of addiction and the insane places it leads you, especially when you jump on its back like it's some crazy motorcycle."

My mind was reeling. Greg was taking out a pipe and a bag of weed -- I had never even seen marijuana before, let alone did I know how to smoke it. Nor did I know if I even wanted to. Scratch that, I did want to, very much, but I didn't know if I should. And this film -- Greg had mentioned addiction. I wondered if I should tell him about my dad?

All the while that he was packing the bowl, Greg continued passionately describing the cinematography, gesturing with his hands and the lighter. I dared not interrupt; it was as if he was casting some strange sleepwalking spell on me. The movie, the party, the lights and the music, and now this. Where was I? What was I doing? I hadn't even smoked yet---

"Here you go," Greg said casually, exhaling smoke and holding the lit pipe in front of me. I must have looked either terrified or comical because he followed up with, "You smoke, right?"

"Haha, I uh..." I started, letting an embarrassed giggle slip out, "well, I've never smoked before." I bit my lip in an attempt at an apologetic gesture, hoping to incur some sympathy.

"Oooh, ok. I guess I should have asked." Greg's face was hard to read. "But if you want to try it, you're welcome to -- I'm sure you'll like it."

"Um..." Shit. Shit, shit. So many neurons were firing their confusion and exhilaration at once that my brain felt numb. Greg was looking at me, again expectant, awaiting an answer. And a pivotal answer -- if I said no, then what? And yes?

"Sure, ok," I said lamely. "Could you... show me what to do?"

Greg's eyes flashed for a second with what looked like excitement. He reached towards me...

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Word count: 833

Day 10: Even More Greg

We weren't the only ones who were trashed, though. And the drunker everyone got, the louder they got, so much so that by the time we had given up on dancing, the party had gotten even louder than it had been when I arrived.

Greg had excused himself a few minutes ago, and I was left clinging more or less to the lip of the bar as I tried to steady myself. The party was still raging around me, but the brief interlude of relative quiet was enough for me to reorient my surroundings a bit. It was time to chug some water and start to head home. If I slipped out now, I'd be able to avoid saying bye to Greg, and---

"Haha, hey you, when's your birthday?!" Greg was halfway down the stairs and somehow shouting and giggling at the same time.

"I'm gonna take off!" I tried to answer, but my voice had been cracking for the past half hour.

"What?! Hahahaha!"

I tried again, and tried hard to move my lips deliberately so that maybe he could figure it out before he made it all the way into the room and snagged me again. "I'm ta-king off!" I cried.

"Go outside?!" Greg asked, pointing to the cellar stairs that led up to the back porch. He started for the door before I really had a chance to respond. It seriously looked as if his shoulders were shaking with laughter.

Fuck. I was getting really tired. But maybe sitting and chatting for a bit would admittedly be more safe than just fleeing the scene. "Um, okay!" I shouted to his back.

Once outside the basement, Greg's back porch was actually quite lovely. The atmosphere was entirely different from the brash underground party just a few feet away. He had some very nice looking wicker furniture, and had lined the railing with little candle sconces. A few tired partygoers were chatting or dozing in the seats closest to the basement door, so we made our way over to the loveseat up against the far wall.

"Wow, it is so much nicer out here!" Greg said loudly, startling a guy I'd never seen before who was sort of slumped over next to the grill. "Sorry," he whispered exaggeratedly.

"Much quieter, yes," I said, all of a sudden nervous about having to keep up a conversation now that we could actually hear each other.

"So, I was trying to ask you, when is your birthday?" Greg settled into the loveseat, but fortunately kept his distance.

"Uh, January," I responded, unsure as to why he needed to know. He didn't think I was underage or anything, did he?

"Ah. That makes you a Capricorn, right? Or Aquarius?"

"Aquarius, actually," I said, a little surprised, "although I don't really know much about it. "How about you?"

"Aries. April," he said. "The ram. I'm supposed to be fiery, passionate, driven. I don't put too much stock in the whole Zodiac thing, but everything I've ever read about Aries seems to describe me pretty well."

"What about Aquarius? I've never read anything about it."

"I think you're supposed to be a hard worker, very smart, but high strung," he said, after hesitating a moment.

"Hmm," I responded, almost inaudibly. I suppose it could have been true. I was curious about the context -- when was I supposed to high strung? How did different circumstances affect how I turned out? It'd be so nice to read a perfect description of me on paper, so that I wouldn't have to keep wondering.

"I don't remember exactly," Greg said, his eyes looking a bit glased over.

"Your party turned out nicely," I said, unable to really think of much else to say.

"Oh yeah, thanks. Yeah, it did. Well, hell, these are all a great bunch of people. I love throwing parties. Great space for it." His gaze traveled the length of the porch. "Now what did you think of everyone?" he asked, suddenly and emphatically, looking a bit mischievous.

"The party guests?" I asked. "I guess I don't really remember all the people I met, I mean..."

"No, no," Greg waved his hand as if to brush away my last statement. "I meant everyone from the studio. What did you think of them all getting crazy at a bender?!" His voice rose in volume and pitch at that last statement, as if it was hilarious to him and he couldn't hold it in.

"Well, uh..." I started, not really sure what kind of answer he was expecting. "I think I got just as crazy as they all did, so I don't think it was out of the ordinary or anything...."

At this point Greg was laughing out loud and clutching his stomach. "Oh boy, Mark, at that last round of beer pong, do you remember that? Getting so mad at us? HAHAHAHA!"

I did, at least hazily, and laughed a little as well. Greg and I had won the round and Greg had really jeered Mark and his partner, whoever it was. He didn't let it go until he really pissed Mark off. "I hope he won't still be mad on Monday though," I said somewhat seriously. The thought of heading home was really nagging at me now; it had to have been about three or four in the morning.

"Oh no, he won't," Greg said, rolling his eyes and again lettig his gaze drift over the length of the porch. "Mark is extremely competitive, but he's a good guy. I should know," he said, snapping his attention back to me, "because he really encouraged me when I told him I was thinking of asking you out."

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Word count: 951