Blogoversary '08: Love and Recourse


Let's just do this.
[10:21 pm]

I didn't used to be much of a planner when it came to air activity, meaning I have been known to pay in cash at the counter for a flight, or when on a bit of a budget scan the calendar for the day exactly two weeks from the day in question to save fifty bucks or so. I kind of miss that me--that balls to the wall commitmentphobe with a generous sprinkling of Peter Pan Syndrome Me that spent so much time being dissatisfied with where she was and where she was going all at the same time, who bought plane tickets on little more than a whim and never thought about things like her schedule at work or the health of her cat.
Now I think about my schedule at work and the health of my cat, so I'm stuck scanning the calendar weeks or months in advance to plan even this next coming one--a six day jaunt in my hometown. Don't get me wrong, I like me. I like planning and calculated me, but it's all of these weeks in between purchasing a flight and actually boarding a plane that have become trying in the past year or so. It's torture--absolute torture--and everyday in the meantime feels like a standstill.

No. I take that back. It feels like a daydream in which I imagine everything I'm going to do there, and in almost every waking dream I have, I'm doing one sole thing.


I miss driving. Not having a car is the daily felt pang of sacrifice I feel despite everything the sacrifice is worth. I love driving, and it's most fun to me when the stereo is as loud as it can go, the sun is out, my sunglasses are on, and most importantly when I know exactly where I'm going. Enter my humble hometown.

Save the people who live there that I love dearly, this is the one saving grace of my little port-city birthtown. I've found as years pass that I live away, I don't often remember the fastest way somewhere (although I often enough do), but I can always get there. And when I'm back there, I like to spend my long effortless afternoons and evenings cruising up and down the hourglass and beyond--from Crystal's house in Ballard, then Pete's bar in Kenmore, and all the way back to Columbia City to Woody's. Morning may find me over and up to Lindsey's on Phinney Ridge. Down to Amanda's in the G. Up 99 to the 5 to Mountlake terrace to grab Lex from school. Down to Fremont to the record store. Over to the hill for two dollar wells or a pint 'n' shot at The Honey Hole, back to the Duck. Lather, rinse, repeat. Fill up. Back to the Duck, haha.

The first few days are incredible, when I'm so excited to do all the things I've missed: eat a Dick's Deluxe, drink an Oly draft, play Based On What or Beerdance or Stack It Up with someone who already knows how, to go to my favorite fucking record store, grab a six pack and go to The Lake or Hidden Beach. Yes, that's when it's still fun.
The first time I drive down Madison and seemingly blow a series of red lights only for them to turn green as the nose of my rental hits the crosswalk, it's exhilerating. The third time, not as fun, as is any time after 20 of approaching a yellow, kissing my two right forefingers, and reaching them to the roof as I glide under the traffic signal. It's a habit I aquired in highschool, kissing a yellow. Now it's about 75% compulsion, and irritating even to myself after a while.

I wont even really comment about driving by my highschool, which happens quite often as it's right off downtown and in a neighborhood that I drink and shop in often while in town. Let's just say that much like many things there, the first time is a novelty, and every time after that is like nails on my lost childhood.

Don't get me wrong, I love Seattle--but I love it because I know it. A few days is a perfect serving for me--just enough time to see everyone I love and not enough time to remember why I left. That way, it still leaves a perfect and fulfilling memory in my head.

Everyone always asks me when I visit when I'll move home, and I constantly have to remind them that home is Miami--that Seattle is my hometown, and that barring Peter Smith aquiring small pox or Crystal falling into a coma, I'm not coming back. Not to stay. Pick up all the drug habits you like, 'cause I'm out of that trade. I'm not coming back to support you in rehab or be your roomate 'cause you can't afford your house or even because you love me--and I'm serious.

That's the thing people never seem to get. That place is not okay for me! I mean, come on, it wasn't three years ago that you saw me pack all my things from an eleven month stint there and aimlessly drive to California not entirely knowing where I was going--why are we so soon to forget?
Okay, I say we, but clearly I exclude myself, as I remember quite readily, and I can still physically remember finally coming over the high arch of the Bay Bridge listening to Los Halos and extending both my hands through the sunroof of my vintage Volvo sports car and into the sunlight while thanking myself for making it out of there.

I still thank myself for getting out of there. Often while listening to Los Halos. Much like I am right now.

What I mean is that loving and losing is okay with me--I've come to terms with the fact that even with the purest and the best and the strongest loves, there are still deal breakers. Seattle handed me one too many winters that I decided I had to live without, so I left. You think that's not a conscious decision? Why can't I be able to love and lose without some snappy comeback from the peanut gallery?

So please, if you want to give me a blogoversary present this year, do me a solid:

Please leave me to the decisions I've made, because I have carefully planned them to pan out as such. Just like this. Don't expect me to love you on your terms, because I prefer both ours and mine to yours. Don't ever assume that just because I know you I love you, that if I've loved you I know you, or that because I love you I want to know you.
Not everyday sees a highway with sunglasses and sunshine, but all of these days are mine to spend be it with you or no. I have loved in all manners of ways and I am okay with what they are or were or might be in time and I am regretful of very little, and I will never regret neither the litteral nor the proverbial crossing the bay bridge with my palms in the sky.

My palms deserve sunshine now.

[11:59 pm]

[p.s.--There is one person who can absolutely and without question always take me for granted, and to her, yes, I owe my sincerest of apologies. Please accept this as yet another token of my undying loyalty:

Thank you, your order is complete!
Purchase Summary
2 Louis XIV Saturday, Mar 29, 2008 8:00 PM PDT GENERAL ADMISSION ALL AGES Will Call $26.00
Service Fee: $7.28
Total: $33.28
Please print this page for your records
Purchaser: Miranda Myricks

Event Location(s):
Chop Suey
1325 E Madison St.
Seattle, WA 98122

Lex, I hope it is a super sweet 16 indeed. Let's go big. xoxo--M]


Cryptic Birthday Aftermath

Dude...Did he hug you and say happy birthday outside? What? Did he make that up?
Man, his reply sounded a little harsh which means...
1. You are in deep trouble.
2. Said trouble is by no means your fult, but rather a manifestation of his own head-case clingy crap.
3. Maureena? What the hell, I was named after the freakin' TEMPEST for chrissakes, not Holly fucking Hobby.

Okay, that was the first thing to make me fucking laugh all day...Christ, I love you.

Some notes:

1. I just finished watching a documentary about my favorite album of all time that I had somehow never seen. I cried the entire way through it while pondering my ability to love which brings me to...

2. My blogoversary is tomorrow. Expect a vagina-laden piece about said ability to love and...

3. If I ever create my magnum-opus-record-label-fucking-me-in-the-ass-greatest-album-of-all-time-album with my fake band [insert one of many clever fake band names I have come up with over the years here], I am totally naming said album the title of this post. I play a sweet skin flute.

That's funny because I actually can play the flute. True story.



Next Scheduled Flight:

Oakland to Seattle/Tacoma
Date Day Stops Routing Flight Routing Details
Mar 28 Fri Nonstop OAK-SEA 3570 Depart Oakland(OAK) at 8:40AM
Arrive in Seattle/Tacoma(SEA) at 10:40AM

Seattle/Tacoma to Oakland
Date Day Stops Routing Flight Routing Details
Apr 2 Wed Nonstop SEA-OAK 525 Depart Seattle/Tacoma(SEA) at 6:35PM
Arrive in Oakland(OAK) at 8:40PM

Rental Car Details
Date Time Details
28 Mar Fri 11:30 AM Renting Economy car in SEA
02 Apr Wed 05:30 PM Returning Economy car in SEA

Tentative plans include: Kickin' it old school, Carnies rollin' deep, cheap beer and whiskey, Pete's triumphant return from India (you'll be home, right?), Talkin' about Ed's baby, Cruisin' in my Echo or Fiesta or Rio or whatever the fuck they give me with Angry Samoans BLARING, Oly's at the Duck, Woody's boxing match, Mary driving up from Portland, taking Lexi to a show (I gotta get her a fake ID), stacking it up, breaking it down, and all other methods of crackin' it in general.

[p.s.--I would just like to note that my blog is now "worth" $564, and if you google "spork used as knife", which has happened to me 19 times since Tough Room aired, you better hope you're feeling lucky, 'cause I'm the first response. Yay. Go internet. It is now the #1 most popularly googled key phrase that brings you right fucking here. Somebody should actually write that article, and I'm feeling a contest a'brewin'. Hunts, Douglas, Math--you in? --M]

Oh, I'm afraid I've left something out.

You see, I get it now. I totally see what's going on here, and I have to say I only have myself to blame.

Upon re-reading some recent entries on this here ol' blog, I've realized that I illuded to some things that were completely misunderstood and blown way out of proportion.

First, here's a story that I promised last Sunday.

A couple weeks ago now, I met a boy at a bar, and yadda yadda yadda, then we're laying around naked in my apartment in the middle of the night. He then informs me that he has to work in the morning, and then there was that part where we try and figure out if this is just goodbye, or a see you later. He had a brilliant idea.

"You give m e your number, and we'll pick a day that I'm going to call. I wont call before then, and I wont call after that day."
"'Kay. How about in a week?"

This is my new favorite plan concerning this particular situation. Seriously, it's so awesome. Spread the gospel.

Why is this story important?

1. This is the story I was referring to when I said I had a story planned. It was originally longer, in case you were wondering.

2. When I said "I am optimistic that I might keep my resolutions this year, that I might make a new girlfriend or reconnect with one I miss, that I might have great great sex or sort through those that are deserving of my love and those that are not", I was refering to:
a. "make a new girlfriend or reconnect with one I miss": Specifically, I was refering to Mindy, whom I never see since she moved to the Sunset, and Jordanna, one of the Carnies who now lives in SF. I am terrible with those two, I never call as much as I should. They were part of my New Years Resolutions.
b. "have great great sex": Yes, it's winter, and yes, I'm in a bit of a slump. Every year, I have to have some elaborate plan to jar me from my winter doldrums of celibacy and soberness. This year, I'm thinking airplane sex should cure me. By airplane sex, I mean none other than re-running with someone who lives in another state than I. Think it will work?
c. "sort through those that are deserving of my love and those that are not": Actually, I mostly meant the double-S-dissapear-o-twins: Shaun and Shane. Yes, I was, at tme of writing that post, still holding on to the idea that Shaun and I could somehow rebuild our world. We've done it before, I thought just maybe, it could happen again. As it turns out, the Shaun I knew is gone. Yes, I hate that.

3. When I mentioned that I had a site tracker, and spoke to someone point-blank through the blogosphere, I was talking to the boy who spurned the story. There was no one else I was speaking to. He googled me the morning after, read my blog for about eight and a half minutes, and so logged his IP address amoung those others that visit my blog. On a side note, he has yet to revisit it, and has apparently not seen the hello I left for him. Concerning everything that happened, that might fall under the technical definition of irony.

I hope that clears some things up.

OH!! Oh my god--guess what guys? My three year blogoversary is coming up. Stay tuned.


"Mom, I just got your message. It's too late in Miami to call, so I'll write a post for you and send you a link. XOXO --M"

"Dear Mom,

"Even though you stressed I shouldn't call back (even though I'll try tomorrow), I thought I should at least get you up to speed on all the superfluous bullshit going on in San Francisco and otherwise so we can talk on the phone about all the hot, hot sex I'm not having near as often as I should be.

"Hey, remember Samantha? Yeah, funny story--she actually completely dipped out of my life right after my 26th birthday, and I've barely heard from her since. Now I'm far enough into 27 that I don't forget how old I am anymore, and she finally decides to drop me a line. Go ahead, check out her comments on the post before this: are you hearing the ever-so-slight-twinge of sanctimonious bullshit too? I don't know, maybe it's just me--but it sucks to remember moving from Miami for her all those years ago on your birthday and this is all that's left--her still dropping me for some boy or another and expecting me to tearily pick up her fucking pieces time after time. It sucks, Mom. It sucks because she's probably still the person in this world that loves me the most and this is how she so offhandedly treats me.

"I just had surgery a couple weeks ago. Before you freak out, I'm fine, but it was weird getting into a cab by myself afterwards. It was the first time I've been to the doctor (save my optometrist) since my divorce, and my first real health scare ever. Don't get me wrong, I feel fortunate that I am for the most part, perfectly fine.

"Recuperating has been harder than I thought though, and I just keep telling my co-workers that I'm all better and nothing's wrong with me anymore so they wont freak out on me and try and send me home and stuff. The truth is that I've been getting these absolutely deabilitating headaches every other day and this sharp pain every hour or so that I'm standing up that feels like an icepick piercing any one of the various parts down there that are specific to my gender. My doctor says it should go away soon. Then he refuses again to prescribe me Vicodin.

"Most of the time lately, I'm sitting in front of my laptop, looking for a little solace in writing all of this terribly crappy prose that I keep writing and re-writing with very few instances of real fucking brilliance. My latest piece? A parody piece written as if it were the minutes of a made-up meeting of The Midnight Society--famed tween gang a la the early nineties kids show Are You Afraid of the Dark. Yup Mom, what you're thinking is 100% correct: Your kid is producing some seriously important work right now.

"Speaking of important work, I gotta give some props for your article in the Herald around my last birthday. After I read it, I sent a link to my friend Crystal whom I thought would get a kick out of it. A couple weeks later she sent me a birthday message that was something along the lines of: 'Even though you're old as hell, it's never to late to get frick-nasty! Happy Birthday!'

"Happy birthday, indeeed. If you like, you can check my archives for the ramifications of that one. It was a funny story involving a 30 y/o comedian who wasn't very funny at all.

"After my first year and a half here of couch-surfing and room subletting, I'm proud to say that I've lived in my current apartment long enough now for them to raise my rent. Can you believe it? I've lived here, by myself, for almost year and a half now, no endpoint yet in sight. It's true--your little girl is really settling down into her little Grace Cathedral Hill flat 1/3 the size of my place in Diane's building and a full $200 more a month. Damn, I miss Miami.

"And I have a 401K.

"And a mohawk.

"Both of those are true, by the way.

"I'm coming home soon for a visit. I'll give you the details over the phone, but in the meantime be sure to pencil me in for a trip to Publix or a Sunday coffee on Alton. Don't worry, you can't miss me. I'll be the heavily tattooed one on the back of Rob's scooter. With a mohawk.


p.s. to all--The Are You Afraid of the Dark thing is, much like my mohawk, completely true. If there is any interest in reading this, I'll post it. Just ask very nicely. Also, ask me again in a week about the Samantha thing. I'm furious right now, and in no position to comment rationally.

p.p.s. to Mark--I got your message too, and I just finished reading Ashton Kutcher Fan Fiction: The Middle School Dance by Mellissa Bell while simultaneously listening to Tough Room and I have a few notes.
1. This Just In: Spork Used as Knife.
2. And then they Frenched (did you notice 'Frenched' was capitalized?).
3. That article from almost a year ago that Ira references about TAL in the Onion is still hung on my wall. My favorite line? "...contributors to This American Life took time from their best selling essay-writing careers to comment on...the unique challenges of growing up in a home supportive of thier homosexuality." I'm giving you gold, here.
4. Oh, and just in case you needed further convincing, you are not being punk'd. Submitted for the Approval of The Midnight Society: Minutes From 11.14.95 is totally real. My favorite line?
12:34am--Dan rushes toward the fire attempting to wrench the water pail from Tasha screaming at her to "...put that [expletive] bucket down, [expletive]. That story wasn't even scary." He then declared a new rule which would require storytellers to tell a good story if thier first story sucked, which was met with much dissention. Dan then reiterated that he was clearly the smart one because he had glasses, and that we had "...all better listen to [Dan], because [he's] not [expletive]ing around. This [expletive] is [expletive]ing serious."
5. Dude, it's like the one utensil that it's not. Also, you will get your period soon.


February Breaks: Part 2

Oh, yes. Hello. Remember me?

Let's do this old school.

1. January broke with a bang, a huge one, and I was for weeks stuck in this headspace where history would lend me the advice of simply writing Shaun off, but I decided to ponder it for a while. Unfortunately for all of you fair readers, of all of the secret-spilling and often callous acts I have commited on this blog, posting his reply to me is simply out of the question. Upon further consideration, I decided this act [non act?] would be my last favor in this lifetime to someone I once called my best friend. Cheers.

2. It's funny how much is merely infered by what people say and what is known true by what they so clearly withhold. Take that however you will.

3. I got my period on New Years Eve. Then I got it again on the third. Then again on the tenth. A frightened call to the clinic, a pelvic exam and vaginal ultrasound later I found out I was the proud new owner of not one, but two endometrial polyps. I had them promptly removed a week later, which sounds much easier than it was or even than I expected it to be. Imagine me unmoving from my couch for four days straight barely making it to my bathroom to pee or to my bed to sleep. Before you freak out, I'm fine now.

4. The thing I never expected from the whole ordeal was this kind of clinical lonliness that I had never experienced before. In all of my appointments, I was one of the only women there alone. I'm not really sure what that even means, but that I even noticed is unnerving. I guess it speaks to some notion that if a doctor is inside your vagina for whatever reason, it speaks in some ways to coupledom--i.e. the nurse practitioner who assured me I would in all likelyhood still be capable of having children. I didn't have the heart to tell her I didn't even want them.

5. That's a lie. It's not that I didn't have the heart to tell her, I didn't have the guts. I feared seeing that strained look of pity on her face that older women get when younger women say things like "I never want to get married" or "I don't want kids". It's this look that says "Oh yes dear, I know" and means "You have no fucking clue little one". I often fear that they are right.

6. I returned to work a day later than planned, on Saturday rather than Friday. Recuperating was much harder than I had anticipated.

7. Oh, I forgot that part where *someone* who knows my social security number transfered a sum of money from my checking account a week or so before I found out I'd have to have surgery. That was fun. I got some of it back, the rest I hope to be replaced as soon as my ID is, which should arrive soon. When I first realized, I was absolutely furious. Then there were those fateful two days between my first pelvic exam and my ultrasound when all I could think about was that thick pause between 'masses' and 'just'* as in: "First things first, we should set up an appointment to see if you have any internal masses...just so we can rule some things out." It's funny the ways that we can deem good from a bad situation--the prospect of dying snapped me out of losing a few hundred dollars pretty quickly.

8. January is typically a quiet and contemplative month for me, but his one was one of record. Apologies to those still patiently waiting for NYCD, it's been a trying month. More trying than most I can remember.

9. I am still, somehow, tragically optimistic. About many things. About Trailer Park Boys the Movie coming to big screens right here in the USA, about going back home and to my hometown all in one big jet-setting swoop next month, about getting a tan. I am optimistic that I might keep my resolutions this year, that I might make a new girlfriend or reconnect with one I miss, that I might have great great sex or sort through those that are deserving of my love and those that are not.

10. There is one more story that I will tell you in a week for reasons that are also TBA. Actually, it's more like six days now. On that note, I would like to take this opportunity to remind all of you that I have a Site Tracker. Isn't this site tracker thing becoming like a broken record? Yes, a bit--but I feel like it's a nice gesture to let someone know I saw thier footsteps when they've tried to take a muddy stroll through my parlor on the sly.

On that note, hey.
Yes, hello. I am saying hi to you.


*I'm sorry, I totally feel like Hunts right now in the respect that I just made an obscenely obscure pop-culture reference in no. 7 that yes, I decided must be asterisked and explained. That my friends, was an homage to Black Sabbath's War Pigs, and may or may not have been used in good taste. In the future, I will try and abstain from joking about the time I thought I was dying, but as I'm sure most of you know, I'm not very well versed in abstaining from things. Just like witches in black masses.