Wasn't Meant to Be

Chatting with my friend H last night, when that came up. "Wasn't meant to be." The ultimate in placation. The fates wove your thread in a different direction. Wasn't meant to be.

But doesn't that make you want to ask "What is meant to be?" To question the weavers. Where is this going? Why?

And there were lots of fish and fishing metaphors, that we have all heard before . . . plenty of fish, throwing out lines, fish out of water . . . how we are atypical . . . about small target markets . . .

But what is meant to be? If there is "wasn't" certainly there is a was somewhere. Somehow.

And I don't want predictable. And I like the tapestry I have so far . . . even the holes and dark spots. So I don't want to change anything. Just want to question for a bit. So how do you know what is meant to be?

What is it that happens when you question the fates?

Despite It Being Like Groundhog Day

Every so often the little nuggets surprise you.

There was big drama today at lunch in the teacher's lounge. A girl voted onto Homecoming Court may be a "joke" instead of Homecoming Court "material".

Never having been Homecoming Court "material" myself, I'm not sure what is required. And quite honestly, never cared when I was a student. But there was hand-wringing. And teeth-gnashing. "Should we tell her? Should we not have her on court? What should we do?"

I, of course, put in my opinion. "I think you should tell her that hey she made Homecoming Court, which is great. And f**k them." And then I got yelled at for saying f**k in the teacher's lounge.

And then there was more hand-wringing and teeth-gnashing. Would the other students "boo" when her name was called? How did it come to this? Should we talk to her friends? How do we prepare her for this?

Because we, the adults, are control freaks. And this is now beyond our control. So we are trying to get it back . . . to make it raise it's hand before it sharpens it's pencil. How could the kids vote in non-Homecoming "material" as a cruel joke? Next thing you know, they'll organize and overthrow us.

But at the end of the day, I saw the girl. She was at her locker with her best friend. The BF is a former student of mine, so I said "hello" but he didn't hear me . . . so a stood and waited for them to finish up their conversation. She did not seem frail. She did not seem disadvantaged. She had sparkly ribbons in her hair.

And a senior walked by . . . "Hey __________, congratulations!" the senior said. And she meant it. There was a pause. The pause of someone being complimented who isn't all that often. "Thanks ____________" she said gracefully, and added "I really like your hair like that." And it was a moment. But everything is going to be all right. Homecoming "material" she is . . .

Sometimes the little nuggets surprise you.

But The Grocery Kid Just . . .

I left the house today. To buy buttons and coffee and a cd I was longing for . . .

I ran into someone from my belly dancing class at Starbucks, meaning there was smiling and chit-chatting. And we all know how much I like that. And then I had to "unknit" the shawl I brought to work on while I drank the coffee . . . because my sticky note is unsticky. And yet, it was okay.

At Habermans, I figured I could find buttons for eyes in the bargain bin . . . but then I got distracted by the buttons behind the counter. That you have to ask to touch. And I picked out a bunch, because I couldn't decide what would look better. And when I got to the register, the total came to $24.95. Who can spend $24.95 on sock monkey eyes? Granted, I have enough for four or five monkeys . . . but the damn socks only cost $2.99. But they are beautiful eyes. So that was okay.

So I went to Record Time and Ingrid Michaelson was not in the "M"s in the indie section. And that was annoying. To whole point was to buy the independent label music at the independent record store. And I was starting to think that perhaps I should give in to itunes, instead of my archaic idea that I have to touch it. But then I found her in the "I"s. And the music is really good. So that was okay.

And then I went to the arty gift shop on Nine Mile, that I never remember the name of, and I almost bought a t-shirt that read "Knitters are Knotty" but decided that I really didn't like brown and that it would have been better if it actually said "Naughty". But I talked the clerk into applying for an internship at "Bitch" (the magazine). Told her that she should go for it . . . that she could certainly just call them and they would give her an internship. Opportunity favors the bold. She seemed convinced. And that was okay.

Then went to T.J.'s to get some food. (Just spilled some wild mushroom quesadilla on my skirt.) Bought three bottles of wine. Couldn't find the no raisin trail mix because they put it on the bottom shelf. They like my hair. Oh, and almost killed one of the grocery clerks because she tripped over my basket. But the boy who rang my groceries very earnestly asked for my i.d. to buy the wine. And I love that . . . very much.

And as I ripped the new found CD to itunes . . . a new category appeared in the "genre" section. "Easy Listening". I just bought something that reads easy listening. And that is sooooo not okay.

Spew

For about two years, I have been very good at work. I try to be even keeled about my opinions. I try to see the other person's point of view. I try to walk around in the other person skin. And if I can't do that, I ignore them . . . in the case of my next door neighbor, specifically.

Today, I spewed. A lot. I told a large-ish group of people exactly what I thought. With detailed examples. If I had charts and graphs, I would have shown those too. And I had a evil glint in my eyes, because it felt soooo good. So enormously, fabulously wonderful to say what I actually had in my head.

I now realize that I participated in exactly what drove me over the edge . . . the no filter edge . . . in the first place. And I feel just a bit of guilt now. A smidge. A "I might not have done that" smidge. And I will try to be better tomorrow. Because you never know who is listening. And you never know truly where people's allegiances lie. In a group, anyhow.

And people should be glad that I have the filter on most of the time.

What I Learned Last Night

I learned that in the age of cell phones, one cannot give a false phone number. Because it's then really uncomfortable when the man of non-interest calls it immediately. And your phone doesn't ring.

So the best course of action is to just say "No".

Thank you, Nancy Reagan.

Not So Fabulous Anymore

Whenever my father gets bad service, or is unsatisfied with something, he will proclaim that the establishment is "off the list".

(I don't know where the list is . . . in his head? written on some piece of paper on his desk? which looks exactly like mine, by the way. I come by my organizational patterns honestly and directly through genetics)

Well, the city of Ferndale . . . it is off the list.

It seems when I was in attendance at bad blind date no. 423 (the "oh no, you're skinny enough to date" guy) I received a parking ticket for having an expired meter. I did not have enough quarters on the night in question and figured I would "chance" the last half hour before 9 p.m. When I arrived at my car at the end of the awkwardness, I found a parking ticket which informed me that I had a week to pay $6.00. Seems reasonable to me. I did play parking roulette.

As an aside, or perhaps more accurately, another aside, I have never, ever paid a parking ticket on time in my life. Maybe it's my desk organization style . . . or my life organization style. But I always pay those suckers late, and happily pay the extra money . . . because I was late.

But this time, for the first time in my life, maybe because I'm getting things more under control, maybe because I'm more grown up, maybe because I didn't want to pay the outrageous late fee; I paid this ticket ON TIME. Quite the turning point. I dropped my six dollar check in the drop box. I even made sure that the check cashed. A new high point. And all was forgotten.

Yesterday, I received a letter from the "City of Ferndale Bureau of Parking Enforcement". Hmm . . . did I forget about a ticket? No. The nasty letter and bill contained in the envelope says that I now owe $42.00 for a ticket received in November and then proceeds to tell me all the awful things they are going to do if I do not pay $42.00 right now, right now, RIGHT NOW. But I paid the ticket. So I call the number on the nasty letter, which leads me through a maze of automated voices, none of which will help me or direct me to a human. Then I call the City of Ferndale police department . . . because they are the people who wrote the ticket, right? Nope, I have to call the court but the court is not open. Says I should call during "normal business hours" . . . and I don't know about them, but I work during "normal business hours" and I work far away from the City of Ferndale and their money-hungry parking violation department. So now, I have to go to the court building, in the currently non-fabulous city of Ferndale, during "normal" business hours to contest an obvious clerical error, because I have a printout of the cancelled check. And frankly, paying $42.00 would be easier, and cheaper in the long run, than doing the badgering that I'm going to have to do to get this fixed.

But I won't. I paid the damn ticket. On time, no less. So I will go. I will get a sub. I will drive to Ferndale during "normal" business hours. And I will be polite as possible. And I will stare lovingly into their eyes, as I slide the copy of the cancelled check through the slot in the safety glass. And I will smile at my reflection, as I muse about how this may be why municipalities need safety glass . . . to keep me from throttling someone. I will nod with mock concern and sympathy as they tell me there is nothing they can do and I must fill out form 5623A in triplicate and turn it in with copies of my license plate, driver license and a pint of blood gathered during the new moon on a Tuesday.

Because it's the principal of the thing, damn it.

And Ferndale. The whole city of Ferndale. They are sooooo off the list. At least before 9 p.m..

You'd think it was slippery or something

Two accidents in less than 12 hours. Six car spin out on the way home at 9:30 p.m. that I also COULDN'T stop for . . . which is why people were spinning I suppose. Mr. Crabbypants gave me snowtires for the skunk car, the only reason I didn't spin as well. But a nice big patch of black ice last night under the overpass at Telegraph. Skating cars. Whee. And no, I didn't stop.

Less than twelve hours later, after a particularly wonderful morning of sickness and computer glitches, I'm driving late to my meeting (I had called to say I would be late and therefore not speeding) and a Jeep Cherokee spins and breaks into pieces. I see the air bags go off and stop. No one else does. 911 asks me questions that I cannot answer . . . the lady looks fine, no blood, but the air bags are spilling their smoky powder and I tell her not to move. "What should we send?" the dispatcher inquires. I am standing on a now obviously icy freeway, next to a car in the path of other irritated motorists. Antifreeze is dripping. Plastic is crunching. "I don't know. Probably an ambulance? At least a cop car." And I don't know. The Cherokee is facing oncoming traffic. The lady doesn't look hurt, but she's shaking.

The dispatcher says I don't have to stay but I do . . . talking to the woman, telling her that it's going to be okay. She doesn't know what happened. How her car landed here. It occurs to me that I should somehow get the SUV off the freeway. I peer underneath the car at the puddle of antifreeze. Doesn't look like the whole radiator. I've done much worse. And I realize the car is on, still running. Could have blown us both up by now, especially if we were to get hit by another person not paying attention and then trying to stop. "Turn on your hazards. And after this truck passes, can you pull slightly forward and then back up to get the car off the road." I am standing on the freeway, over the white line, feeling the whoosh of air was cars speed pass, swerving to avoid the Cherokee.

"Is it still running?" she asks. Before she fully understands what I'm telling her to do, the sheriff's deputy arrives. Dismisses me quickly. I walk to my car, fifty yards up. Turn off my hazard lights. Drive off as three full-size fire trucks pull up. I guess that's what the dispatcher meant when she said "I'll just send everything." And I feel a twinge of guilt. As if I could have made the call about what to bring. I certainly knew that they didn't need three firetrucks. Well, at least the car won't get hit again, which was my most immediate fear. And H. seemed kind of out of it . . . but we had just met, so I can't really make an assessment. People react differently to totalling their cars. She did say that she wanted to be checked out. Which was nice, to be in agreement. Hope she is alright.

And now I'm hesitant to drive home. And I was driving to my meeting thinking about being cursed . . . but my car wasn't smashed and I didn't have three fire trucks, which I'm sure someone has to pay for . . . so I'm going home, doing a little work for school and then working out. Might be a treadmill and weight day. I'm kind of tense.

While Sitting in the "Cone of Silence"

I talk to a lot of divorced men. Something about being single and 35. And I always take their stories with a grain of salt . . . figuring that there are two sides to every story I hear (and sometimes three or four). I never get to hear the ex-wife, but know I would present my story in a way that is favorable to me. We all do it to some extent. It's psyche preservation.

And I don't really want to hear from the ex-wives anyhow. Not even curious. Well, maybe with that one . . . and the moving away to live in the single wide with the "platonic" friend and the goat . . . but just because it's such an interesting story.

And unfortunately, the stories are very similar . . . married in our twenties . . . thought I knew the girl . . . people change . . . she doesn't want to be married anymore . . . she left.

With a smattering of infidelity mixed in.

And as someone who really wants to be married, I never understand the motivation. As someone who really wants children, I can't understand why anyone would leave them. And so I listen to the stories and hope that there is another side. A rationable, reasonable side . . . though not too reasonable (like he beat me) because I'm probably about to go out with the storyteller.

And then I went to Starbucks today and my fears were realized. (No, I didn't run into anyone's ex . . . but that would have been fun, wouldn't it?) People talk on their cell phones like they are in a magical "cone of silence" somehow and the woman next to me . . . she is leaving her husband. She knows that it is at least 50% her fault, but she can't be married anymore . . . just can't. And single people, they can do anything, you know . . . they can be authors and . . .

The whole time, her toddler is sleeping in his mega-mobile stroller.

And he wants to sell the house . . . and she could get a pretty good job . . . and yeah, I've thought about marriage counseling but really, what's the point?

I wanted to snatch her parenting license away . . . until I realized that there is no parenting license. A woman on her cell phone telling her friend that she was leaving her husband. Not because he was mean, or beating her, or for any other good reason that I can't think of right now, oh, like cheating on her . . . just because she didn't want to be married anymore. And those single people . . . yeah, well, they have it so good.

I really wanted to turn and tell her about being single, but I talk to strangers too much about things they don't want to hear. So I held my tongue. I didn't tell her that she could be whatever it was that she so wanted to be . . . and she could still be married doing it. I didn't talk to her about the stress and needless crap that her two-year old was going to go through because she just didn't feel like staying married anymore. Didn't talk to her about the dating pool for 35 year old women, like ourselves, who would all be men like her husband . . . except a little more angry because they had found someone that they wanted to commit to . . . and that other woman didn't feel like being married anymore either.

I really didn't want to think that the stories were true. And yet, here, in the seat next to me, was the confirmation . . . gabbing into her cell phone . . . surrounded by her imaginary cone of silence. And I felt horrible. And sad. For all the stories that I have heard.

And I think I should get props for slipping a "Get Smart" reference in . . . and not hitting anyone at the Starbucks.

Death Spiral

"In some ways you're random, but in some ways you're so predictable . . ." was the comment made to me yesterday.

I agreed with the comment, but wanted to know how I was predictable (basically, to see if I agreed with the ways in which I am predictable).

"Well, let's start on how you're not going to let this go . . ."

I then brought up that I knew about my "death spiral", where I just get so winged out about something. I will not let it go . . . at least for a couple of hours (some things days) and then it's over. Just over. I don't keep it. However there is a storm . . . or a process that I have to go through. "But I haven't done that in a long time" I said.

And then there was this afternoon . . . and I'm all worked up in predictable fashion. The blog may have to go. People don't think about how their actions effect other people . . . other people who were just trying to mind their own business. I'm just being reactionary and I know it and it sucks and I will just go through this process . . . and everything will be fine.

As an aside, I feel that I should explain the origination of the term "death spiral". My brother was a "unique" child, unique being a kind term for . . . say . . . demon spawn from hell. When he was two, he didn't sleep or more accurately wouldn't sleep for days. We could tell when he was about to crash when he would do what my mother called "the death spiral". He would just start running in circles (I think in an attempt to stay awake) until he crashed and fell asleep on the floor. I distinctly remember stepping over him in the kitchen, while the textured tile imprinted his face. We never moved him . . . didn't want to chance waking him.

He still does a version of this . . . now that he is almost 29. But I think his girlfriend won't let him run in the apartment, or sleep on the floor. Riles up the dogs.

Perhaps if I offer up a chicken or something . . .

Last Saturday at the Front, M2 reminded us that she was "cursed" and though I disputed this at the time, I think she may have spread it around . . . or it was contagious . . . or something. I had made jokes about white candles and sage sticks but maybe we should do some rituals . . . it couldn't hurt.

It's only Tuesday and I've already had the week that I should have just stayed in bed for . . . full of rotten luck and bad karma. Lost my checkbook (found it again, thankfully), forgot my keys, had a freakshow day at work, I'm P.M.S.ing and there those 48 yearbook pages that I shouldn't care about . . . because it's not MY yearbook. Arrived home today to find my neighbor's ratty car in my driveway, parked so that I could not get into MY driveway. When I talked to him (immediately, of course) after parking down the street (where he could have parked) he was apologetic but just offered to move the car into my driveway MORE. Obviously, I had fallen into my French skills and simply was not speaking English, the language of his homeland . . . wait, I don't know any French . . .

So I left. Just left. Left my driveway and my home . . . and went out to eat. Funny thing is . . . if there is a funny thing about your driveway being held hostage by a beat-up Mercury . . . my neighbor said, "I thought we'd be finished before you got home." As if he intimately knew my schedule. As if I come home at a specific time (never). He thought he had enough time to flatbed the junker van and move the beat-up Mercury back before I got home . . . how sweet. So yeah, he's dead to me . . . no matter how many times he brings up my trash can . . . or snowblows the walks . . . or until at least next week when I'm over it.

So I think I need to do some dancin' with a chicken or somethin' . . . something to break that M2 curse that she's spreading around, willy-nilly. (Now where to find some family chicken for dancing)

Dropkick Murphys Angst

I don't know why I feel like this . . . well, maybe I do know why I feel like this, but there's nothing I can do about it, more than I currently am doing anyhow. I never expected the fairy tale . . . never wanted the fairy tale . . . but certainly didn't expect this either.

Let's see woke up late because I was having a good dream, unlike the previous dream that woke me up at six a.m. Managed to shower, read Saturday's paper. Then walked to town, ate the forbidden stroganoff at Noodle Bowl, looked at Arvo Part CD's, wondered if I should call A since I can't figure out which CD he has. Mused for a while if I should really go to NYC in February . . . maybe Europe instead, because knowing my luck I would run into him. Buy a book -- High Fidelity, so I have armor at the Starbucks. I'm done with it, hopefully the movie is better.

Have to sit at the big table at Starbucks, as it is the only thing open. Royal Oak Starbucks on a Sunday is all kids but someone my age sits across from me at the table. I look up; smile. I am even making the effort by not wearing headphones this time. And then his boyfriend walks in and they hug and talk about the gym. And the headphones go on. And for some reason I want to cry.

I took a good four years off, not looking for anything romantic. In truth, it was longer than that because I knew the restaurant boys were just dalliances. And I was fine. Now that I AM looking . . . well, I just get the feeling that it may not be there. That "he" doesn't exist. That there is no plan. That I may not have a "lobster". And that is very empty.

I know, I know, there is that whole "God made the earth round so you can't see too far ahead" thing I just stole from a movie and the idea that you can't be looking for something because you will miss what you weren't looking for . . . but really, what it comes down to is I don't have anyone to go to Dropkick Murphys with. I'll be damned if I'm going to miss it, great band, super small venue, but the thought of going alone terrifies me for some reason.

And I'll go . . . and I'll share that experience with 300 or so strangers and I hopefully will not get mugged in the parking lot. And life will go on . . .

And I have a great life, a wonderful family, fabulous friends (though not one in town is a Dropkick fan) and, dare I say it, a somewhat rewarding career. So I don't know what I have to bitch about . . . sorry.

S.A.D.

Though I think most things are crap, in general . . . could I have any better weather to be depressed to? Honestly, the snow was a bother but cold, sleety rain for days? At one point, I just pulled the covers over my head and wondered, "if I lie really still would time just stop?"

So the weather is not helping. I did manage to get out of bed. I will get out of the house and smile a smiley smile at the Starbucks lady as she gives me my dose of crack for the day.

M2 loaned me A Million Little Pieces by James Frey and I don't know what people are complaining about . . . I'm certainly not a strong enough personality to tell you that all of AA and the twelve steps are crap at least not while I'm IN the treatment center. I might think such things . . . but . . . (then again, I've never been in a treatment center . . . maybe I would get some chutzpah then)

So I read it all in one sitting, as I do with everything and therefore was up until 3 a.m. Started it at the National Coney Island around 10 p.m. Went to the coney island because I was craving baby greek salad and gyro and have now determined that I am SICK of going to places alone. This is why I had the book, as "alone armor".

I know . . . blah, blah, blah, have to be comfortable with yourself . . . I'm comfortable with myself already. I can go to movies by myself. I went to a freaking concert by myself because no one I knew was interested. I'm going to Starbucks by myself today as soon as I find some clean socks. And it's alright . . . I wouldn't want to miss out on life because I don't have interests that others have but just for once I would like to go to the DIA and talk to someone about the art. I would like to say "shit these are good fries" out loud instead of in my head at the coney island. I would like to go places that someone else thought up and wanted to try. Gosh darn it . . . I want a boyfriend. There I said it.

And M2 is right . . . I don't want to just anyone and I'm not suddenly going to settle or anything. But it was nice that I had to clean my house because I was worried what someone thought. It was nice to be aware that I should put the dirty clothes in the hamper instead of my usual storage system of "last use". It was nice not to talk about work . . . or to talk about someone else's work and realize that it probably sucked as much as anyone's.

So I guess I'm going to have to try and be less of a matchdotcom disaster. And I was so good being one of those.

The All New, with More Chipperness, Me

To answer all the questions for my all of three readers . . . no, it didn't happen. I drove home (didn't get pulled over and drove exactly the speed limit), wrote a text message, knit eight rows of a hat, put my pajamas on and went to bed.

Got up, did 150 sit-ups and some tricep pulls and currently thinking about taking a shower so I can go for a walk. Might go to my parents for dinner. But New Year's always makes me sad. Maybe it's the another year older thing? Maybe it's the I haven't accomplished what I want to accomplish? Don't know. Maybe it's just supposed to make you sad. It didn't help that I watched "You've got Mail". A Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie will do that to you. To prolong the agony, I may rent "High Fidelity". Oooh, or "Must Love Dogs".

Last week, I was compared to Stockard Channing . . . I did not find this to be flattering (sorry random thought). I haven't made any resolutions yet, no wait, maybe one . . . to talk to strangers more. I can talk the ears off people I know, so much so that they get bored. If I talk to strangers, they don't already know my stories AND it takes the pressure off the people I do know. A genius plan. And I figure if you talk to enough strangers, you might find some that you like and that like you.

As for the chipperness, I don't know if I can swing it. At least not today. I'll give it a shot tomorrow. After all, I did do sit ups.

Trying Too Hard

First of all, let me state that this is my LEAST favorite night and holiday of the year. I hate New Year's Eve. There is always all this expectation behind it and it turns out like a Smiths' song every time. Plus there was this one time where I was pulled over . . . the cop was pissed off that I wasn't drunk and so wrote a ticket for exactly what I was over, no "under advisement", no five over even though you were going 11 over . . . so basically a 500 dollar ticket with lawyer's fees for being speedy and sober. I know, I know, let it go Emily . . .

Went to the bar with my brother and his wife last night. As I wake up at one in the afternoon I realize I am trying too hard. If things are supposed to happen, they will happen . . . I don't really want to talk to randoms at The Front. Likewise, no more juggling. If someone calls at 10:30 p.m. and I'm already out, then I'm out and busy. I felt guilty last night for not dropping everything or inviting people to join us (except for those people I did invite who totally dissed me and screened my calls . . . some girl friends I have) and I can't rationalize feeling guilty when the phone call was at 10:30. I tried really hard but I can't.

There's a line in my new Nada Surf CD (yes, planning to go back to the Magic Stick and need some bands) "to find someone you love, you've gotta be someone you love" so simple . . . Yet, I'm attracted to such assholes usually . . . yeah, no more trying so hard . . .

So we are supposed to go to Jack's tonight. I wonder if that's still on. Otherwise, I'm staying home and hiding.

A cooler spot in hell

I stayed at work today and edited the paper . . . I am not the journalism teacher but I'm sick of the typos and the inappropriate material. I then stayed so the kid could do all the revisions. There should be a spot in heaven for me or at least a cooler spot in hell. (or a better table in hell . . . remember Stu?) Ugh, I hate it when people don't do their jobs (yes this is directed at you journalism teacher). I also hate it when I bail people out . . . since there were really inappropriate things in this senior issue that I suggested they cut. I should have just let the journalism teacher hang for it.

I'm all nervous and anxious about the yearbook coming in . . . I really hate this time of year and am a crab for most of it. When you hand the book out, for some reason, everyone (parents, other teachers, random adults) feels the need to scream at the yearbook advisor for "not doing a good enough job". I'm supposed to have the students make the book and yet catch every little mistake they make. All and all, most people are very happy about the yearbook but those people don't say anything . . . because they are happy with the product. So I get to hear two weeks of . . . "did you know you messed up this" or, more often, irate screaming. And yet, I still have to do the big send-off for the graduating yearbook staff with the party, the presents and the pomp and circumstance. In addition, those are the two weeks I have to go to every after school event because my seniors are graduating so I have to take the pictures. This then exposes me to even more of the public . . . who are sure they PAID for a yearbook even though they are not on my three lists (receipt book, spreadsheet and account register) and they don't have a receipt. Why is it that they always lose those darn receipts . . . maybe because they didn't have one in the first place? Why don't I just trust them, they have the check carbon copy, you know. . .

On the bonus side, I did get mentioned in the senior issue of the newspaper . . . by several different students, who spoke highly of me and were thanking me for things. So it might be worth all the hassle for that. . . maybe.