I need to drink more.

Management was nice enough to buy honey from me before the holiday and only casually mention (I assume as my holiday gift) that I haven't posted in a while. There is something about only casually mentioning my short comings that makes the guilt so much worse.  I mean, I might as well be Bea.

I've been trying my hand at this writing thing, and I realize that its driving me to want to drink. The problem is, i haven't actually gone in my cups. That's where my problem comes from. I finally get the stereotype of creative people with substance abuse issues. Its because you stop worrying about sounded retarded when you're plastered.

Let's take for example my "corporate retreat" last week. First of all, corporate retreat? There are, at best, 5 of us working here, and at worst, just me. Let's be real. We all work within 20 feet of each other in a 45 degree freezer box with no windows. I imagine only gangrenous (spelled that right on the FIRST TRY) civil war veterans understand the sort of camaraderie we share (I had to google that spelling). We don't need no stinkin' retreat.

But apparently, having "values" and "goals" are important to a company. This is really in direct opposition to my life philosophy which says that values are what tether you to the anchor of your goals.

The only thing that kept me from quitting on the spot was the promise of alcohol. Free alcohol. So all five of us gathered around the conference table.  After about a case of beer later, we came up with our grand sweeping corporate value: SUCCESS. Thank GOD we cleared that up. I mean, I was skeptical when I heard that we needed this retreat to help us gain focus and perspective. But when I heard that we shooting for success? Man, that just opened up whole new vistas before me. I had been self sabotaging left and right.

Of course, all sarcasm aside, there were only FIVE people. And four of them thought that this was pretty ground breaking. Like, real self congratulatory stuff. So, I drank to see if some how beer could turn the asinine into the sublime.

It didn't. But I managed to fake my way into some participation points.   And isn't that the joy about being slightly buzzed? You can get excited about all sorts of miserable shit. HECK YES, I want to be successful, that is a great idea! Sustainability? Integrity? Other vaguely positive sounding buzz words? Sign me up! Concrete plans about achieving specific time-lined goals? GTFO. Not now.

I am always amused by myself even when I am as sober as a church mouse, but being drunk makes me all sorts of enthusiastic, and I can get behind ANY idea. Management accuses me of being salty. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I think it means I'm cranky.  When I am drunk, I am such a happy drunk. And I am always drunk inside my own head, but the self-consciousness usually keeps the giggles inside. But Drunk Honey (who is usually getting judged by Sober Honey) isn't afraid of sounding dumb. In fact, I am pretty sure she embraces being a complete dullard. And even lacks some of the situational awareness required to know how dumb she's being.

Drunk Honey has great ideas. That being said, I'm going to hunt down some whiskey and see if I can't get some more blog posts humming along.

Coping Skills

Management brings up a good point about winter. What the hell is happening here? Its December 15th, and I am still in my fall coat? This is some grade-A bull plop right here.

I am one of those hearty born and bred midwesterners, who actually likes the winter, and unseasonable warmth upsets me. Even though its warm right now, its cloudy and wet. Its in-between weather. Its cloudy, but not raining. The moisture in the air is insidious, seeping into your socks and your mood. Its warm for December, which means puddles are only partially frozen and its anyone's guess as to which one will be your undoing, and will see you deposited unceremoniously on the pavement.

I like the cold and the snow. Winter gives you a perspective on life that doesn't quite come from any other experience. It gives you a certain degree of stoicism.  Personally, I enjoy the challenge of winter. Around the first of the year I find myself asking "Will this be the year that finally kills me?"

There is a saying here in MN. "If you don't like the weather, wait 10 minutes, and it will change." We live in a state where 50 degree temperature swings in 24 hours, while not exactly common, is not entirely unheard of. I've celebrated my brother's March birthday with a picnics and with sledding. There is a certain degree (ha!) of the unknown in our daily weather, but sure as sugar, it will get cold, and it will get dark. And on the other side of that, it will get warm again.

Extreme weather (both hot and cold, because here we have it all) gives this place a sense of community. For example, in last year's famous Metrodome busting snow storm, I shoveled snow for nearly 12 hours. I had to be to work 24 miles away at 5 am. My dad, the hero that he is, drove to get me,  because my tiny car was stuck, at 2 am. We shoveled my road, we shoveled his road, I shoveled at work, I shoveled my grandparents, my aunt, my neighbor. A man with a cigarette and snowblower walked the city streets, grinning broadly as stranded strangers applauded.

Its what you might call "problem weather". The weather here presents all kinds of problems. "How do we build a road that with stand extreme cold and extreme heat?" "Can I carry all my groceries to my door without falling on the ice?" "Where do we put 96 inches of snow?" "How can I keep my bees alive?" "Will my car start in -40?"

But in addition to these very practical lessons the weather teaches us, it teaches something I think that can serve us far better. It teaches you that you're feelings don't really matter. 

We absolutely love to complain about the weather in MN (and we all do, I'm not above it). Its always giving us something to complain about, this is a state of uncomfortable weather. We can feel angry, and we often feel depressed, but the Earth's axis is going to go right on a'tiltin'. So go ahead, rail against the storm, try to "talk it out" with that cold front moving through. Stew all you want about the weather, but its still going to be cold, and its still going to be dark, and there is still going to be 3 feet of snow in your way.  Its why I love living here. Everyone can have as many feelings as they want, but be practical.  As depressed as you are about the sudden ice storm in late October leaving you stranded without your scraper, you still better figure out a way to scrape that ice off your car without snapping your credit card. 

So, why waste time feeling your feelings? You have a problem to solve.



Also, where's Bea?

DIY Momentum

So I was writing this waaaay too pot-boiler post about how depression is winter and blah blah (NB - it may be worth circling back to at some point), but then December 13-14 '11 happened. You can't really talk about winter when it's 35 and rainy. And snow? WE ARE LOSING OUR MAIN EXPORT PPL SHIT GOT REAL.

So maybe depression is like a winter, and we prepare for it and circle around our loved ones (relation means nothing). But maybe winter gets thrown a curveball, and you have a Minnesotan Spring in mid-December. Maybe an old friend calls you up, and you spend an evening in a valhalla of past relations with skeeball and blingo chalice winnings at Pat's in Uptown.

Sometime life is just right.

Cool story bro,

-The Management.

Also, this:

Introducting a segment.

I am mildly afraid of Management's disappoint in me for not posting anything. Bea apparently has much, much better coping mechanisms than me. The best of which is sending me Danielle Steel-esque post cards every day. I plan on wall papering my entry way with them.

I've been working on the Wedding  First Anniversary Quilt for my cousin. I decided to hand quilt this. I am hoping that it will buy my out of some time in Purgatory. I imagine what my finger tips look like now is akin to something twist fate that befalls hell-bound seamstresses anyway. (I am pretty sure it was covered in The Inferno somewhere.)

There was a lot of socializing that happened, too. Mostly forced. My new strategy to get out of having to be a place is to announce that I need to be home to take my house plants outside, and then quickly run away before anyone thinks about it too hard. Given how successful it is and how quickly they jump on it, I think people are just an anxious to have me leave as I am to do so.

One of the things that Bea and I have noticed about talking to people is that when they are talking they are usually just brainstorming out loud, making you the toothpick they dunk into their pan of chocolaty, not-quite-done-yet thought brownies. Sometimes, it comes out that they're not even brownies in the first place, but some other contradictory baked good analogy.

Often times, things just need a little more thought. So I'd like to introduce the "Wait.... what?" segment to our blog. Every now and then (ok, most of the time) Bea and I have to run something through the processors more than once. This is a chance for us to ruminate on some of the more puzzling things in life.

Take for example, The Krampus. Bea brought this video to my attention A Krampus Carol - YouTube
 This tells the story of the Krampus, one of the darker figures from German folk lore. While the rest of the world was pretty on board with importing the positive reinforcement part of St. Nick, most of the world forgot about the positive punishment portion of this. Essentially, the Krampus, Kris Kringle's side-kick, would come and beat naughty children after Santa came through.

Krampus Clubs and Parades are quite popular in Germany, and actually they look pretty cool. See the video: Krampuslauf Graz 2010 Now, this is actually a Christmas tradition I could get behind, and growing up in a German household, this figure was always a part of my cultural knowledge. Some people might suggest that warped me. Now, I never feared the Krampus, but I also knew that being naughty would have much more significant repercussions than lack of rewards.

Like the old saying goes, there are two sides to every coin. And the opposite side on this particular coin is a bell-wearing half goat that will toss you into an icy river if you've been bad. The higher the risk, the higher the reward. Without the Krampus, being bad only means you don't get rewarded. Which to me translates to, "Well, if you're pretty satisfied with your life, go a head and be bad. You've got nothing to lose." Krampus though.... he'll lick your face for stealing candy.  And that's a lesson I think we could all benefit from learning.

But seriously, what was with the licking?

De Facto Introduction

Yes, I am internet-married to Bea's real-life sister. I let myself be tricked into it, and do not regret it. So I am ok with her having a crush on my mom, as I have a gigantic crush on her entire family, each member individually and as a group.
Now they are reading the blog, and I am wicked nervous. God, I hope they like me!

We're sort of hard to nail down.

Bea and I have been told on more than one occasion that we lack focus. I couldn't agree more. Hey, did you guys hear that thing on MPR with Alan Rickman?

But seriously folks, one of the most difficult things for robots-posing-as-human is trying to make sense. Bea and I make none. By that I don't mean that she and I being together makes no sense. That's probably the most sense-making thing ever to happen. I mean, that really as individuals its really hard for us to make sense to anyone other than ourselves.

For example, my cousin got married 11 months ago. I am making her a quilt as a wedding present. Am making. STILL MAKING. At this point, its an anniversary present. I took a page from Bea's book and decided to punish myself for not getting my work done and watch the Vampire Diaries. And that I have to watch it while I quilt to punish myself for not getting it done earlier.  I mean, I am really starting to hate this quilt. And I always hated the Vampire Diaries, from the very first second. But somehow, I've got more productive on the quilt. Bea gets it. I think she gave me VD. I tried to explain this to Management, and now he's currently re-evaluating his role in this blog. What was I talking about again? Oh, right. How Bea and I lack focus, and why we're perfect for each other.

Usually when you humans have a conversation with someone, you follow the imperative to be relevant. This is really hard for me for multiple reasons. Usually its because I'm not paying attention. Now, it might be because I am bored, or because I'm panicked about possibly needing to contribute to a social interaction, and trying not to let you humans smell my fear. It could also be because something shiny distracted me. Either way, having a conversation with a person makes wriggle like a worm on a hook, in that I am in pain, and not really understanding what is happening to me.

Some back story: Bea and I have known each other for a long time, but it look a long time for us to be friends. I directly attribute this to the fact that neither of us is in the market for a friend, or ever want to do any thing. Granted there were some key exceptions, such as seeing Hilary Duff movies that absolutely need to be seen. But like all good friendships that are based on a mutual desire to not be hanging out and instead watching Netflix in bed, it grew into something more: a profound mutual understanding. 

It was around this point that Bea moved to Texas. This was sad. But as I had lit off for Montreal a few years earlier, I understand the need to be Somewhere Else. So now Bea is in Austin. But she and I are built for long distance relationships. When she lived in the Twin Cities, it would be sad if we watched Dexter over the phone, like we both secretly really wanted to do. But now, since she lives in TX, its slightly less sad.

At this point you all (or y'all) might be snapping your collective fingers to try to get me back on track. What does all this have to do with making sense, focusing or conversations. Well, hold your horses! I'm getting there! I was talking about having conversations. But now since Bea is far away, we can't converse in person. So we decided to do what seemed like the only natural thing to do: write each other old timey love letters. (Bea is way better at sending things to me than I am to her.) Otherwise, its more or less texting and Facebook, which is more or less a way for us to indulge in our anti-social tendencies. Ain't the digital age great? The overall effect of this is that Bea and I have about 3 conversations going at once. Usually two threads on facebook, much to the annoyance of everyone around us, and on going texts.

The conversations go something like this:
Me: Someday, I want to complie a list of recipes from famous works of literature and call it "cooking the books"
Bea: You so need to do that! My figgy pudding is never as good as Mr. Darcy's
Me: hehe. Also, what's the deal with office parties?

Somehow in the course of our friendship, we discovered that by tossing "also" in front of any statement makes it immediately applicable to the conversation. I can't imagine what its like to have to try to talk to us. Management recently described it like this: "There's too much sarcasm, exuberance and lies with you two to be able to tell."

Now at this point in the personal essay that I try to tie everything all together, and some how muddle my way to pretending I am capable of linear thought. But if I were talking to Bea I'd just let the conversation lull, slipping her ....er, I mean my phone back into my pocket until another thought popped into my head.

Its nice to not have to make sense. Or focus.

Also, why would a 165 year old vampire want to date a high school girl anyway? What's the end game there?

Sweet Jesus, I Hate Solitaire.

In my mind, the set of actions that make up the human experience can, with few exceptions, be split into two seperate camps: the world of games and the world of stories. For the topic at hand, games will suffice.

The definition of a "game" is malleable, but I will describe it thus:

A negotiated formal set of constraints, whose outcome is arbitrated by a set of finite decisions interacting with other similarly constrained agents.

In this way, one could say that all of life is a game - school, writing, love, Mortal Kombat, climbing the corporate ladder, Chutes & Ladders, harvesting honey RUNNING FROM BEES et al.

Why yes, I am white bread. What tipped you off?

The Management has looked upon Bea & Honey's kerfuffle about cheating in the world's worst game, and thus he spoke:

Bea and Honey aren't playing the same game at all. Sure you've got the same overlay of row upon dreadful row of WHY ARE YOU PLAYING SOLITAIRE but when we look at the structure of a game, we can see that the rules (however strict or loose) are always negotiated - the first rule of any game is that all players agree to play by the communally understood rules. Because solitaire is A HORRIBLE GAME that is only played by a single agent, the rules are essentially whimsy. QED Bea is not cheating, she's just playing Beataire.

Which is still a terrible fucking game.

If I told you that I respect women, would you hold it against me?

While Honey was off sashaying around the north loop arm in arm with her Very Smart Mother, eating candy, and drinking booze, I was busy not doing any of that. In Texas. Also, let’s just go ahead and get the awkward stuff out of the way – yes, I have a crush on Honey’s mam, but what Honey failed to mention when she feigned almost having a feeling about it, is that she is facebook married to my sister. I’ve consulted the rulebook and if your robot lover is internet married to your real life sister, their mom is totally up for grabs, with the dad’s permission, naturally. And really, that is an uncomfortable conversation to have, so in the meantime I’ll just do nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. As you are about to see I have been occupying my time with very important topics, just tryina get to the root of some junk. Now, I have only lived two places: Minnesota and Texas. MN is badass and awesome and gives you bragging rights forever and ever about just how cold you can get before you start dying. And, well, Texas has lots of guys with beards so I win. So Much.

People in Texas are really flipping nice, which is great cause they all have guns. Consequently, I am a lot nicer as well, which really just means I am afraid to ask them to their faces why they are doing the weird things they do. For example, dudes down here like to announce left and right that they respect women. (And I took a poll of The Management and he confirms it’s weird.) Your reaction to this might be “oh, how nice, that the men with beards and guns respect women so much!” Mine, however, is to frantically wonder why I never invested in a panic room. It’s creepy, right? One minute you’re chatting up some bloke, staring longingly into his beard, and the next you are picturing yourself attempting to escape from his basement. The guys who have said this to me are very nice humans and not at all creepy in other respects (that I know of). But this is something that, to me, if you have to say out loud, seems like you are trying too hard. It is, in my mind, akin to inserting a nice little “I’m not racist, but…” into a conversation, (which also happens a lot down here). I tend to hear that as “never take anything I say seriously ever again.” Do men in MN respect women? I don’t know. But they know enough not to say they do, which I am really starting to appreciate.

I am fully willing to admit that this issue might be all me and there is a chance I am being a bit nitpicky. The only guy in MN I knew who frequently indulged in this habit was a total creeper, subsequently causing my hackles to always be up. I do recognize, however, that there are past and present cultural factors that might make a man feel there is more of a need for him to assert his respect for women, while I, a woman, never even contemplate the need for gender specificity when I talk of respect. There are worse things, to be sure, and maybe I really am being nitpicky but it still sticks out to me as an oddity. So, stop it, Texans… Or don’t, whatever, since, no, that is not a gun in my pocket. winky face.

- Bea

Show Me in the Text

Alright. ALRIGHT. Time to get serious here, before Management makes us go on a weekend retreat to get us to talk about our feelings, and have us do trust exercises. I really don't want to do trust exercises with Bea because she'd probably be too busy making deals with herself to pay attention to the fact that I was falling down, and then when I broke my wrist she'd be all "Well, if you didn't want that to happen, you should spoken up about it, but since I didn't make an accord with myself to be trusted by you, you mostly deserve it."

Bea states the point of the game is to see you can get from the beginning to the end. (Probe This, Jerk line 30, 2011).  Once I reach the end of a game,  I think to myself, in exactly these words, "Oh, looks like this particular instance of 8.06581752 × 10⁶⁷ possible card combinations just wasn't felicitous! Nutter butters! But I guess its a good thing that my self worth is not contingent on how this algorithm, whose outcome is primarily determined by statistics and probability rather than any sort of skill or observation on my part. Oh, look! This slight alteration to the order gives me yet another instance of this playing field, which will allow me to continue to execute a play."

Bea on the other hand probably thinks something like this: "Oh, looks like this particular instance of 8.06581752 × 10⁶⁷ possible card combinations just wasn't felicitous! Life just isn't worth living if I can't beat the math!" She then probably commences to read depressing or non-sense poetry. Or watch Vampire Diaries, which I assume is just some weird form of self-flagellation. Something I assume she needs to do because she needs to punish herself for all of her lost games of solitaire. 

Now, if you argue about something pointless enough long enough, two things happen: First, someone brings up Nazi Germany. Two, someone looks something up on the internet.

<sup>Well, I went to the internet to see if I couldn't get this thing settled. And I forgot exactly what my point was going to be about solitaire is a futile exercise in busy work you do to keep yourself occupied, and  arbitrary rules, and how to cheat at a cigarette, but I actually found websites that have programs you can download to win digital solitaire every time. Now, I think both of us would agree that THOSE people are definitely lying to themselves, and are all sorts of trampy. 

I have a really hard time imagining what would drive someone to work that hard to do something that is so meaningless. I get why psychologically and anthropologically people cheat. It sort of makes you a dick, but if it helps you gain prestige, and therefore a mate, hey, that's your evolutionary right. But no one will have sex with you if you win at computer solitaire. Its not like they wouldn't not sleep with you either. But if you cheat at computer solitaire? You might as well just hand in your genitals</sup>

probe this, jerk

What actually happened is this: After we finished watching Dexter over the phone Honey casually proffered two questions – 1. Can a person cheat at solitaire (since the stakes don’t really matter in the first place?) And 2. When Bruce Wayne hooks up with Selina Kyle while their alter egos are also concurrently getting it on, is it cheating? I answered yes and no respectively, while Honey answered no and yes. And then four hours and some name calling later, we stopped talking about it.

If you haven’t already guessed what my response might be to Honey’s thought provoking query of “Who the hell derives a sense of a accomplishment from a game of solitaire??” My answer is obvious, “ME. DUH!!!” I also like drinking alone, what of it?

Honestly, at this point if I were the type of person who said “maybe you’re right,” I would maybe concede that cheating at solitaire is referring to the situation in a somewhat harsh manner. Honey thinks that it’s not cheating if it doesn’t affect someone else, and that there has to be some gravity to the situation in a larger sense for it to be considered cheating. I personally think that the solitaire instance speaks to how a person would react in larger circumstances because of how one holds him/herself personally accountable. Now, I realize how ridiculous that is, but my brain has an old-timey gentlemen's agreement with itself to always keep it's word. As a gentleman your word is all you've got, unless you have more than 10,000 pounds a year, in which case, go you. And for the record I should probably mention that when I play solitaire on the computer or gadget of some sort, I don’t cheat, but I do constantly reset the statistics so it doesn’t get too depressing for me. I might have forgotten to mention that in my discussion with Honey. (I am totally allowed to do this though, because as I was too busy reading Jane Eyre and studying conspiracy theories as a child to frolic about with other youngsters and attempt to punt the football past the goalie, this is my little way of giving myself a pat on the back and a participation trophy even though I am a total and complete loser). And even if the amount of mattering falls in the “none more” category, I still play solitaire better than Honey because I get the point of the game – to see if you can get from the beginning to the end! If you can’t, the game is over. I really don’t see how that is too many rules to follow. If you simply rearrange the cards until they get to a more satisfactory placement, you are playing some weird, childish obfuscation of not solitaire.

I can’t get too worked up about the Batman/Catwoman scenario because all four of them are idiots and as I was once about to say “the relationship drama of fools bores the fuck outta me.” Seriously though, it’s not cheating.

If you're probing, you're going to get probed

Bea and I had our first fight. Now, I might be willing to take the blame for starting the fight, but only if she concedes that she was making no sense at first, and that eventually I won. That victory came at a heavy price. But, here is the result of that fight:

1. One of us is being a douche. (Its me.)

2. Bea has lost all respect for my personal integrity.

3. You can't reasonably break up with someone for hitting you, if you didn't inform them previously that physical violence is a deal breaker. 
And, finally

4. Things only matter if they matter.

Now, I'm a little hazy on how we came to these conclusions, because I am entirely convinced that I am right all of the time, and everything I think about everything is a fundamental truth of the universe that can only be expressed as semantically null tautologies, i.e. "rules don't count, because they don't count!". Because of this, I am very rarely drawn into discussion or arguments, and rapidly become exhausted at so staunchly sticking to my irrational guns that usually I just shrug and say, "Maybe you're right!" This seems to sate most people enough to give them a sense of victory and let me drop the conversation. Bea probably does the same thing, and would know that's what I was doing. You can't use your robot defenses against your robot buddy, turns out.

Regardless of how we got here, the whole thing started because I asked a question. In light of my complete inability to relate to anyone on a meaningful emotional level, I have come up with a set of questions that I think give me a way to understand how people think and feel.

The particular question this time around was: "Is Bruce Wayne cheating on Selena Kyle, when he makes out with Catwoman as Batman?" Its not as though I am looking for an one particular answer, but how you answer is really revealing of your world view. I especially recommend asking it on first dates.

Bea came back with a solid "No." Now, I am not sure what happened next. But the long and the short of it, according to Bea is this: the sort of person you are is determined by whether or not you shuffle the deck completely once you run out of moves in solitaire. The natural extension of this is that because I rearrange cards when I come to the end of a game, rather than completely restarting, I derive a false sense of accomplishment, lie to myself, and am something of a tramp.

Trampiness aside, my counter point is simple: Who the hell derives a sense of a accomplishment from a game of solitaire??

I find it interesting that this whole topic dissolved to the conclusion that how you feel about something matters. And by "how you feel" I mean how we feel is what matters. Turns out, the only opinions we care about are our own. So, yes, I might be cheating at solitaire, and I absolutely refuse to be judged for it. I made a deal with myself long ago with the understanding that whether or not I've dealt myself a solvable hand of solitaire, my value as a person will remain the same. Bea apparently did not make this deal.

Either way, Bea and I came to a mutual understanding our thoughts and feelings (i.e. that they ultimately don't matter all that much), and I think we've come to a better sense of what our relationship means, and how we can move forward in our old timey love affair.  And in a certain sense, doesn't that mean we both win?

But in another, more accurate sense, I won.

Cinderella's Mother Adds Her Two Cents

From time to time, Bea and I would like to defer to the wisdom and observation of those around us. In keeping with that, below is post from my mother, regarding my post, The Key is to have realistic dreams. Enjoy! 

-Honey


As an unapologetic feminist, it caused me a bit of concern when my four-year old daughter was in her Cinderella phase.  And it was more than loving all things Cinderella — it was her passion for skirts that twirled, her wig of long pink hair, and her expressed desire to grow up to be a cheerleader — that had me worried for awhile.

But I accommodated her request for a Cinderella birthday cake when she turned five years old.  I remember schlepping the large cake to her daycare provider’s house the morning of her birthday celebration.  As I walked past the threshhold, Plastic Prince Charming did a face-plant in the frosting.  When I set the cake down on a table at eye-level for a just-five-year-old-girl, I pointed to the cake and said, “See what can happen?  Prince Charming can keel over from a heart attack.”

Pat, the daycare provider, was a much kinder person than I and was horrified I would say such a thing to my sweet daughter, convinced I might scar her for life.

Honey swears she can’t remember the incident, but it might explain the “pretend you have feelings” comments in the previous post.

At any rate, Honey quickly moved out of the Cinderella stage into her grunge stage, and all the other stages that led her to be a self-sufficient woman who functions beautifully without her Prince Charming.

The Key is to Have Realistic Dreams

I don't care what Bea told you, I have been very encouraging and non confrontational about her lack of posts, even functioning as an intermediary between her and Management. Management lives much closer to me than her, so, due to the laws of Catholic guilt, that means its much more powerful when someone yells at you. So, between insulating Bea's skittish posting behavior, fielding prods from the Management, pretending to have feelings all of the time, not to mention, all of my flippin' laundry, I realized something: I am friggin Cinderella.  And I watched that movie every day when I was 4, so I am something of an expert. I've condensed the plot into 4 key points, for ease of the reader.

Plot Point 1: The story takes place Once upon a time in a land far, far away

This is the easy part. Below is a map that accurately expresses the geographic clusterf*ck that is my life.

This is roughly where I spend most of time. Not that this far far away place is all that awful. Its just far, far away, and its quite brutal getting back and forth, especially when it snows. Which brings me to my next point.

Plot Point 2: Cinderella works a lot, largely for people who are not her biological family.
Trying to pretend you have feelings is exhausting, and makes most social interactions feel like work, consequently I am always "on". Also, I work a lot. I have two jobs, and most of the work I do is far, far away (see the map). In the story, Cinderella ends up toiling away for her step mother and sisters, people who are not only not related to her, but are related to each other. Poor Cindy. People might underestimate the obnoxiousness of this situation. Not me. I work in a family owned business, for people who are mostly related to each other. This might not seem like a whole big deal to most people, next to the whole she-didn't-get-paid thing. Let me tell you when everyone is either married to and sprung from the loins of someone else in the office, things get complicated, and a little harrowing.  Anyway, that's beside the point. If we're not splitting hairs, we have exactly the same job description: Doing chores for people who are not related to you.

Plot Point 3: She gets to go to a Party, thanks to her fairy godmother

I got to go to a party, due my own (and arguably better) version of this matriarchal archetype: my matriarch. I struggle daily with the fact that at 24 years old, my mother is way, way cooler than I am. (Bea also keeps trying to "get" with my mom, which might give me a feeling, if it weren't for my conclusion that what she thinks that particular piece of vernacular entails isn't very accurate and that she is always a tad weak on the follow through.)  But because my mom is so much cooler than I am, she gets invited to cool parties, with live tigers, and is put on "Lists". This happens so frequently in fact that she casually casts the invitations aside, with the attitude of "oh, poo, its another one of those things. oh hum." (Please note, I don't think my mother has ever said "oh poo!" in real life. Her vocabulary is much too transcendent for that.)

Now, I don't love to go places with people. In fact, if I am in a place with a person, its usually because I froze under the pressure and couldn't come up with a good lie as to why I didn't want to go. But I do love the Twin Cities, for reasons that are very complicated, and perhaps somewhat dysfunctional. And this particular baccinalia was a "Best of the Twin Cities" party, hosted by Minnesota Monthly. The magazine puts out an annual issue that lets you know what is fun and interesting in the cities, from the Best View of the City (Forshay Tower) to best chocolate chip cookie (Franklin St Bakery) to best on-stage entertainment (HUGEImprov). This party is a chance for vendors and restaurants to showcase their wares, and the very hip with tight pants and humungous glasses, who rent apartments with exposed brick get to go and be beautiful and fabulous and trendy together. Also, there were free donuts. (I was mostly there for the free donuts) And free donuts will always lure me out to do a Thing with a Person.

So, I, like Cinderella, put on a pretty dress and went to a party with people I wouldn't see socially and by all accounts were rather indifferent to my presence.

The party was the Aria in Jeune Lune, in Minneapolis' North Loop area.  Now at this point, someone might point out that I didn't arrive by magical means in a pumpkin, but being able to get anywhere in North Loop without getting lost is magic. Plus, I had to pay for parking, so that ought to get me some pumpkin points.

Aria is a large event space that used to be a theater, until a fire destroyed a lot of the inside. When you arrived at the door, held open for you, by cold looking young men in suits, and once they make sure you're on "the List", you get a wine glass and chocolate bar. From there, you get to wander around a colorfully lit room, with tables and waitresses where everyone is either offering you a baked good, some sort of entree, or alcohol. Projectors would cast the illuminated names of the honorees on the walls, as if the delicious martini you were just handed wasn't a reminder enough to drink their vodka.  Twisted Chihuly-inspired colored balloons and giant lollipops hung from the ceiling.

My mom and I made our rounds to all the tables (I went to get a second donut), and enjoyed the finest the city had to offer, and on our way out, we got a bag of candy given to us, courtesy of Alix in Wonderland Candy Store, all of this before 8 PM.

Plot Point 4. All her Dreams come True

For Cindy, her dreams coming true meant getting a prince and and then having to plan a wedding. But, think about it.  I got booze and candy instead of a prince. And instead of a wedding, I got to go to bed early. So really, who got the better ending?

quit givin' me the business

Okay, so Honey and the Management have been giving me the business for ages and ages about not posting so I suppose it’s time. And as Honey has pretty much established herself as “the smart one” and is beating me mercilessly in both word count and IQ points, I have slightly less performance anxiety than usual. Let’s just say that in this relationship I am the lucky one. In her previous post Honey mentioned that she gave me some time off a while back on account of me having a bit of a feeling. I really didn’t know how to handle it since turning it off and then on again didn’t work. But I don’t even remember what sort of a feeling it was so I must have dealt with it effectively – probably equal parts repression and driving it out and dropping it off on a nice farm where it can live out its days far away from me and my cold, dead insides.

Both Honey and The Management (seriously, start a band, ‘k guys?) are obviously way better at blogging than I and dontcha just love how they get all fired up about the right sorts of things? I mean, what’s the deal with dickmonkey language correctors and not enough art work?! And don’t even get me started about the holidays. Those really stick in my craw as well. But this isn’t about that, this is about me and my feeling (or Honey, should it be “my feeling and I?” just kiddin,’ I totally know the answer to that).

Honey and I spend a lot of our time wondering “what would a normal person do/feel?” in the various situations we find ourselves in. Not necessarily because we care (believe me, we don’t), but because it is just easier to pass as a normal person most of the time. It is simpler to pretend to have feelings than to out oneself as a non-feelings-haver. I have tried to come out as a robot on various occasions to friends, loved ones, acquaintances, pretty much everyone, but no one believes me. What do I mean when I say I am a robot? Well, frankly, I mean that I probably average about one substantial feeling a year. I can go months (and by months I obviously mean 26 years) without ever feeling either agony or ecstasy. For realz. And I mean that in a good way, before y’all go pitying me and starting prayer circles. My ebb and flow has neither ebb nor flow. Sure, things make me happy and sad, but not enough to you know, like, call someone up and want to talk about it (except maybe Honey, and all of our conversations go something like this, “omg you felt nothing, too?? WE’RE THE SAME!!!”). Naturally, people who have too many feelings tend to baffle me, but as I have recently discovered, people who have less feelings than me really freak me the frack out. I am so used to being the one that doesn’t care the most that when I end up being more invested than someone else, it makes me really mad, which kind of tickles me, so really it all evens out. Mad + bemused = nothing much. (also, I am perfectly aware that I am doing that one thing that that one prof used to get so mad at me for – where I am really vague and refuse to give examples from my personal life). Maybe if I care enough there will be a part 2 to this where I really delve into my psyche and then live blog my regression therapy.

It's 10:30 and I'm zoning in and out and I'm generally worked up and frustrated. The angles on this writing are too sharp, they're coming in all wrong. FUCK

Start over. I wish I had a flat to myself to just get away from the noise of my roommate and his girlfriend: always squawking, always here. AGAIN BITCHING

Start over. Learning to screen print was really fun. The group I did it with might be starting up a collective; if so I might join them. I already plan on using any scratch I get for the holidays to get a little screen printing studio setup in my apartment. Being away from my degree and her for long enough have made me realize how much I miss making art. In my practice, art is about pixie lies and happy accidents. It's a crisp stroll among the falling leaves of my days; it rejuvenates my mind like sleep does my body.

I find it worrisome that there is no art to my job. There is skill, and there are flourishes to make the users' day a bit brighter, but my job is by definition the antithesis of art.

Art is my saccharine coquette, and vice versa. We tease and toy with each other, but it's playful and easy lucky free. We pantomime meaning to each other, but it's only the shell of communication. Art and I obfuscate ourselves from one another. If we could be each grok the other - if I could truly grok my perception of self as The Other, then I think it would all fall apart like a house of cards. Art is my only means to confront the sacred and sublime.

Work, on the other hand, is a strictly left brained activity. It frightens me how easily, how willing I was to sell out and become a corporate cubicle-slut. Trying to give one hundred percent every day is... it feels like it is hollowing me out and coating me with a thick lacquer.

I'll schedule that meeting, I'll cc you on that report, I'll fire off a back end change on \\filelinux before I head off to lunch.

But at the same time, it feels like quicksilver coursing through me (sans the madness, knock on wood). I'm less over-sensitive, more honest, more vigilant, and sharper. I've also grown colder and less compassionate. For a living you'll take the good with the bad, I guess.

How can I reconcile the two lives I'm living? Do I compartmentalize or do I synthesize? Can I have the soup plus the salad?

I feel a little better now. When we write, we are simply exhaling our lives' inhalant.

-The Management.

Re-prioritizing

So, I was going to be ambitious and write a blog post tonight. But I just went to see John Pollack at the St Paul JCC, speaking about his simply brilliant book, The Pun Also Rises (See here: http://www.amazon.com/Pun-Also-Rises-Revolutionized-Language/dp/1592406238/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320284146&sr=8-1)

And as I am wicked ahead of Bea in word count, I'm taking a break to email him my punning paper, which he asked me for after a long conversation. So, you all can go amuse yourself, while I ride this fan-girl high.

I am not a Jehovah's Witness.

Bea had a feeling over the weekend, so she had to go into the backwoods to recover, which means I am supposed to update our ill-conceived love child that is this blog. The Management was even kind enough to give us the holiday weekend off.


Often times, when relating to other people over a holiday weekend, it often means relating holiday stories, usually from your childhood.  Now, I truly think one of the real markers of adulthood is fully grasping how odd your upbringing was. Nothing throws this into light for me as when I talk to other people about holidays.

Let's be topical and start with Halloween. My dad did not let me go trick-or-treating. As near as I can tell he had two reasons for this. The first one being that he did not want his kids to think begging was acceptable. The other reason was that, in his belief, as a child I had no concept of specific days, and that I could easily confuse Halloween with any other time of the year, and go ask a stranger for candy, who was laying in wait for some poor temporally challenged child to ask just that, providing him the means to finally realize his evil plans. "We tell you not to accept candy from strangers. Why is it ok just because you're in a costume?" he often explains. My dad just has no whimsy.

Inevitably when I explain this, it goes to other holidays, namely Christmas. Then I am forced to explain that after many, many years of tense battles between my mom and my dad, I finally brokered the deal that we will get a Christmas tree every other year, unless it falls on my parents to host the larger family Christmas. I also secretly made a deal with my mother that half of my present to her over the holidays would be to pretend I actually enjoy the festivities, and be helpful and cheery.  Also, apparently the only acceptable time for my father to buy himself anything is between December 10 and December 23. So we're all much happier (and are returning far fewer things) if we just let him buy his own Christmas present.

What about Thanksgiving?, you might ask The way I understand it is, generally my dad is cool with the whole concept of eating turkey, he'd rather not do it with the family, and would rather not have all that cooking involved.

What about the other holidays?

New Year's Eve? Bed by nine.

Easter? Not religious

Valentine's? Valen-what's?

People often wonder about my indifferent shrugs towards holidays. Don't I care about special occasions? What about my birthday? I share my birthday, with an older cousin, which while made it special between us, takes a little bit of special out of that special occasion.

Reactions to this attitude vary, from humor and occasionally envy. But the reaction I get the most from people is pity, as though I am missing out on something meaningful. I've taken my fair share of anthropology courses, I understand the significance of a shared ritual, the reinforcement of social ties. It seems to challenge the idea of community, the idea of family, if we were to let these holidays pass unmarked. My mother puts a great deal of value in these traditions, and feels a sense of loss at their absence. But, I see it differently.

My family shares a meal together roughly once a week. Not everyone is there every week, but we come and go as we can. Everyone is always welcome, and there is always enough food. When someone's life takes them away for a brief moment, it is done without stress or hesitation, because, even if they miss Sunday dinner to explore the world and themselves, they can always come back, and Sunday dinner is never more than 6 days away.

My dad doesn't need the holidays, special occasions, or old rituals to reinforce and renew his ties to his family. He does that every week. And yes, while growing up, I felt like I was missing something by not having a Christmas tree or a Halloween costume. Now, that I'm older, I wonder why all the fuss? I think it must be truly special to not need those special occasions.

I'm Not Impressive and That's Ok

Sometimes you put a lot of pressure on your robot buddy to get a blog post up because its a convenient distraction from doing your own. .... And then you realize The Management is going to have consequences for you if you don't at least TRY to get something up. From there its a downward spiral of self doubt, angry scribbles and remembering why you try to do anything in the first place.  But some time in the midst of the procrastination, and cursing, and actually doing my job, I have to confront the fact that trying to be clever usually results in insane ranting and miserable word-play, and that I really have no good ideas for a blog, and why, why, why did I start this? I have other things to do, for the love of christ!

Its at this point that I become exhausted by my own self-defeating efforts and the fact that I experience two feelings simultaneously (namely my base feeling of crankiness and anxiety that I might not be as witty as I think I am), and shut down completely. Once my brain resets itself, I ask myself, just who am I so concerned with impressing, anyway? Being impressive is a turn off, man.

Take for example, the worst offenders in the "trying to be impressive" courtroom. Bea mentioned the in her post, and we've all encountered them, even been them at one point in our lives (Don't deny it!). They're the Correctors. They are the people who habitually correct someone else's grammar or spelling, usually in a public forum.

 I have a hard time imaging what compels someone to do this. Now, granted, I have a hard time imaging what compels people to do all sorts of things, like buy Hello, Kitty sunglasses, or date men without beards, or have children. But Correctors bring out a whole different kind of wonderment. I can't imagine the sense of self-satisfaction that comes from being able to notice things so well is worth being thought of as such a dick.

The most common explanation I get for this behavior is that English, like some sort of scarifical virgin waiting to be led up the volcano needs a stodgy old British professor type to make sure it maintains its purity. I am, of course, speaking of language preservationist.

I don't think I have the faculties to know why they feel this way, but it puts people like me in an interesting position. And by people like me, I mean people who understand grammar. Coma splices aside,  I have a degree in Linguistics, and I can tell you what latinate structure got imposed on which germanic roots, and why, and what that did. And like Bea once pointed out, I know Latin, so everything I say is had more weight.

The funny thing that happens to me is that since I live in fear of being confronted by a Corrector, and I always editing things to keep them off my case. Take this for a neat little example: As I was typing an email, I wrote "The goal for Jesse and me...", paused, thought for a moment, then went to retype the sentence as "The goal for Jesse and I...." I did this because I knew "Jesse and me" would taken an informal, and even "incorrect". (Point in fact, "Jesse and me" is correct, needing the pronoun to be in an object case within the prepositional phrase. See? Latin.)

 The Correctors, in their attempts to preserve their fabricated notion of a correct English are now responsible for making ungrammatical English the formal English. (This is actually a fairly well documented issue within the Linguistic community. Its studied by Ph.D.'s even. A group a of people also very concerned with being impressive.)

At first, when I had the energy of youth, this sort of this made me irate. But now, I wrap this knowledge around myself, like a blanket of so many sour grapes, delighting in the cruel, cruel fact that a Corrector is very much the tool of his own destruction.

Emphasis on tool.

Fall.

and that's just the thing:

instinctively

in her little trundle heart

It was done gone wrong.

She was older now, but still young in her ways.

On cold fall days she could look at cold fall window displays

and she thought to herself:

"We are all passing."

and

"We have all passed."

It was cold, the day she fell.

Salem Gate

I drink tap water when I drink red wine

since the time I loved a man with hair so fine;

a malignant tumor withered him away

seems our last tomorrow was just yesterday.

a dead man lover was born my fate

he's my dirty tin man memory

Under Salem Gate.

MY ROBOT LOVER ‘N’ ME

Sometimes the world gives birth to robots. Sometimes people make themselves feel better by correcting other people’s grammar. Sometimes the people who think they are correcting other people’s grammar are wrong and I get to laugh at them. And sometimes you find another person who is actually a robot, too, who can be your robot lover and together you hop aboard the Tardis, scamper back and forth in time, and write each other old timey love letters along the way. And if your new time traveling robot companion likes bees as much as you do, all the more better. This blog documents the love affair between two such robots, who really just think the rest of the world has too many feelings. And, I mean, there was Catholic school, so we are cranky and have issues.

This post is sticking around until T gets her post up.