The House Woes - Less Joy More Grumpy

I'm kinda in "What the hell?" mode re: my tiny abode. There's *still* stuff in boxes, every square inch of furniture is coated in a fine layer of cat hair which I remove every day only for them to rub their cat selves over the couch and chairs again. I'd say it was a futile effort, but I can only imagine what it would look like if I didn't take the time to do this. My best guess would be this. Totally classy, right?

Seriously, though, there's something to be said for organizational skills (and decorating skills, and some sort of eye for style . . . ), which I'm still waiting to magically get. Truth be told, 99% of the time, I see the mail littering the kitchen table - and an extra soda can on the coffee table that I just didn't have the energy to throw into the recycle bin yet, and I don't blink an eye. Today, though, today I want to burn it all and start fresh.

Is this just me?

Lost: One Footwarmer

I spent most of my New Year's Eve wandering the streets of my small neighborhood, searching in pine straw, and yelling out Shooby's name. Shooby being my big orange lovebug cat. I was distraught, forlorn, lost and a little embarrassed. How could I have not known that I lost my own cat, and why did it take me so damned long to notice the other cats not cowering in fear? Why did I not notice that Milliecat wasn't trembling in front of her orange beach-ball sized lord and master?

I joke only because he came home safely. After a multi-hour jaunt in the cold and rain, my sweet man came home to me. Sure, he smelled like a truck-stop sewer and old man socks. Sure he thinks that because he's now an "outdoorsman" that he is suddenly too good to be my personal footwarmer. So what?

I lost him in 2009 and found him in 2010. He was gone for forever, it seemed, and I am currently snuggling up to someone I feared would be gone forever. Sure, Milliecat is less pleased about this prospect, but my whole family is currently safe and together. I have to be grateful for these small bits of joy and wonder.

He's sleeping on my feet, currently. I'm telling him how much it hurts me so he'll stay there, thinking himself a badass. Truth be told, it's comfortable. And warm.

Happy New Year, from Shooby, Mini, Roxie, Millie and Me.

Confessions of an Addict

I love television. I am not, and will never be, one of *those* people who say that they never watch tv and spend their free time listening to NPR and discussing the stock market. That's not to say I don't listen to Car Talk occasionally, or that I never check to see how my CREF account is doing (abysmally, I must say). However, I've said it before and I'll say it again - I love television.

When I moved to North Carolina, I got a DVR for the first time - and if I ever lose my riches (har) and have to live like this:

I will still hold onto my DVR until the bitter end. Pry it out of my cold, dead hands. Why is it such a big deal to admit this? Does it make me look like total trash? Probably. But when you're talking about what witty thing some guy said on Wait, Wait - I'll be laughing to myself about crazy moms on those pageant kid shows or (oooh, oooh) discussing LOST with my fellow nerds.

Make fun of me all you will - think I'm an idiot if you have to. People, if you're not wasting a few brain cells on bad teevee, you are missing out. Step down off the pedestal and watch some Celebrity Rehab, will you?

At least we'll have something to talk about.

Wild Rumpus

I can't wait to see Where the Wild Things Are - I mean, Maurice Sendak + Spike Jonze = LUV. Serious love. And then add The Arcade Fire to that and I totally freak out and squee like a fangirl.

And then . . . well, then I see some commercials for it and hear the Wild Things' voices and . . .well, they're not the gruff and sweetly crusty voices that I've had in my head for so long. They're gentle. Kind. And yes, I expect that - but they're MONSTERS! Monsters have gruff voices even if they're nice. And the voices that I hear made me grow up a little. If my monsters aren't real, and these monsters are, where did mine go?

Where are my gentle giants? The beasts that scare me with love. I love the Wild Things that I hear when I read the book - and when I go see the movie, hopefully my imagination will bring those voices into my brain.

Showing Scale

I have a lot of toys on the shelf above my desk at work. A little perpetual motion bobblehead guy. Metal robots. Burnt toast doll. Toys from my partner's childhood. A bear inside of one of the aforementioned childhood toy's mouth. They make me happy in their sheer ridiculousness, but they also remind me that I'm a total dorky kid inside.

Did you know they make this ? So much better than an emulator, but if you've got a wii, it's pretty much un-necessary. It's not that I have room for it, but it's nice to know that the games of my youth are still playable. Unless they're totally rusted from everyone blowing air into it to make them work again. We all did this - but there was never a memo that went out. Kids of my era were smart.

In any case, I like the fact that the little kitty toy towers over the moose. The bear and the dog are the same size. A smile comes to my face when I think of the crazy Alice in Wonderland circus of weird that goes on when I'm not in my office and they all come to life.

How would the Lone Ranger handle all this?

Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Birthday

Birthdays rule. Even if you're one of those people who says "Oh, it's just another day" - I bet you wake up and at least acknowledge it.

Wednesday was mine, and my partner's birthday is coming up. This means - TWO SEPARATE PARTIES in the space of 30 days. Two parties means two cakes mean extra presents and sugar and . . .see? I get excited.

The thing is, it's not just my birthday I get excited about. I will sing along with the waiters at a restaurant and will not be a lick embarrassed. I will totally rock the workplace party, and will make sure to announce "Happy Birthday" at every possible moment. Why? Because it's a special holiday.

It's a holiday about me. Or about you. Or about the cats. It's a special little feeling when you wake up and can say "whew! I made it!"

Happy Birthday to you, and to you. I am so glad you were born.

"I am going to make it through this year if it kills me" - The Mountain Goats

The Joys of the House

Sometimes, I look around my tiny condo and sigh. My fiancé and I can both be messy people in our own ways, and it's certainly frustrating.

I see all the things that need to be done, a little drywall patch here, popcorn ceiling there. I see the yellow walls - my least favorite color - and I really wish I had the time and energy to paint them a nice cucumber green. I see all my books piled up on every surface, and our crazy toys and friend art everywhere. Madness, I tell you. Ridiculous, chaotic, messy madness.

But you know what? I own this. I own the drywall! I own the ridiculous popcorn ceilings! Every single book that's shoved into every nook and cranny of every single bookshelf has been devoured by me (and many have been signed by the authors due to my slight author stalking problem).

I get to decide what I want my bathroom looks like if and when I decide to remodel. Why? Because I don't have a lease that tells me to keep everything exactly the same.

Sure, I look around and look at the house and shake my head. Sure, I hate when all the empty cat litter containers are sitting next to the door waiting to be taken to the recycle bin (lots of cats = lots of litter = lots of empty tidy cats bins to be walked outside). But it's my mess. It's our mess.

I own a tiny condo and I couldn't be happier.

Why I Walk

You know how you have those days that, after a certain *moment*, everything just turns white and goes blank? January 26, 2009 was one of those days for me. I went to work, I went home, I fished out a phone number a friend needed, I got home again.

And then everything after the phone call hearing that Susan Tucker died was static. I screamed and cried, I was on total sensory overload and didn't feel anything but numbness and emptiness. I suppose sadness was in there too, but I just couldn't feel it.

So I started walking. First for The Overnight, a 20 mile walk through Chicago from dusk 'til dawn. I met two of Susan's friends, and we planned to go together. It was an amazing experience from beginning to end, and I bonded with my new sisters - wishing the whole time we could have been a foursome going to Chicago for fun. Instead, we wore beads and swore through the rain and trekked through the city - laughing and grumbling, meeting people and getting lost in our own thoughts.

Walking didn't stop at closing ceremony. I kept walking. I wear my fundraising shirts a lot to the gym, I talk to every

one about it. I keep walking.

On November

8th, I'm going to walk again - a simple 5K through

Raleigh (during the daylight this time, a novel idea!) and will be walking with local friends who are there to support me, and to support the cause as a whole.

I walk because if I stop walking, I stop raising awareness. I stop telling people that we are all forever changed by this loss. The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) sponsors these events, and uses the funds raised for education and outreach. For research programs for those who suffer from mental disorders.

If you are interested in joining me on my walk, I'm walking on Team Susan's Stars - I'll be the one trying to stay in focus, shaking off the numbness to bring light to the Darkness.

Learning the Rules

I have to admit, I never really take the time to learn the rules. I never read the instructions. I certainly never cross at the crosswalk. And this is why I'm afraid of the pool.

The pool at the YMCA has *rules*. Which lane can you use and how can you use it. When you can swim and when are little kids taking up all lanes? And showering first - no shoes - flip flops, whatever. Rules. Tonight, however, my happy little swimming self is gonna swim the heck out of the pool.

But what is it about the rules that makes me grumpy? I can say that my lack of crosswalkitude has to do with Providence. In my hometown, you cross when you have the opportunity to most likely not die. I mean, you do the same with driving and merging - you just GO and feel *pretty* sure you're not going to get into a wreck. Sigh, you think I'd learn the driving part after getting hit by a RIPTA trolley, but since only the car died, I still had to drive like a true Rhode Islander. We don't play by no rules.

I build things without instructions, and I have never chopped my thumb off. I've never gotten an allen wrench in my hand, and usually things don't wobble. But wouldn't it be easier if I read the instructions? Hell no, I'm stubborn.

And so, I'm not gonna be stubborn tonight. I'm going to swim my laps, and I'm gonna play by the rules. I sure hope I can handle it, because I'm going to want to color outside of the lines.

On Cats, Litterboxes and Project Runway

I am watching last night's Project Runway. In and of itself that is not a remarkable event. What blows my mind is that I am doing so with a cat on my feet, a cat on my lap (whose tail keeps hitting the space bar) and one on my head.

Quick digression - have I ever mentioned that I have always wanted to open a bar for nerds, bibliophiles, and astronomers call the Space Bar. I went dancing at the Milk Bar once, so I think it'd be a hit.

Anyway, I missed Tim Gunn. He's a dapper gentleman, the kind of guy I would have loved to be my uncle growing up. Nurturing, intelligent, and always pushing for people to live up to their potential. I never did that. I never quite lived up to my potential. See? People who live up to their potential do not digress as much as I do.

There are four cats. This means four litterboxes, which need to be scooped at least once a day. But I make excuses because Project Runway is playing. I could pause. I could just get up and do two and do the other two later. But do I? Not yet. Instead I snuggle. I curl up in my favorite blanket and enjoy the moment with the three cats that are craving love and attention.

Millie, the fourth cat, is a scaredy girl, and likes to stay in the bedroom. I love her too, because she climbs me and we goof around.

Miniwhiskers,

Milliecat,

Roxiecat,

Shoobycat

You are all excellent distractions. You are all quirky and special. And if Tim Gunn was a cat, he'd be all of you.

Except it seems Mr. Gunn is a puppy.

Hey Guess What?

Have I mentioned that I'm getting married in over a year? I am. I can't believe it. I have a ring on my finger and a date set in . . stone?

And now comes the hard part. Planning this stuff. I'm an excellent planner. I really am, but I've never had to plan anything like this - especially with my quirkiness and his rock-n-rolliness. At least we won't be lacking in music and dancing and whatnot.

I guess the fact that we've got the location and the date is one of the hardest parts, but why am I already agonizing over the dress? I am not a girly girl. I don't care about heels or bustlines or updos. I'm not even sure what an updo IS (okay, I do, but that's besides the point). You can't dance in heels. You dance in sneakers. Chuck Taylors, to be frank. Black Chuck Taylors to be exact.

I'll be a wacky bride but an awesome wife. I may or may not wear white. I may or may not have a pinata. Okay, I WILL have a pinata. I may or may not have a foursquare court. I may or may not dance a first dance with my best friends (and it may or may not be a Bruce Springsteen song).

Peter and I are totally stoked to get married. I'm totally stoked to write about it.

http://alteredaltars.blogspot.com/

I can't promise beauty. But I can promise photos of me in floofy dresses and stories of cake tastings.

Bad Jokes and Long Legs

"What the hell did you just say?"
"The quack of dawn! It's a punchline." I like punchlines, especially the ones to terrible jokes. I'm a frayed knot and all that.

I like clean jokes more than blue ones. I like stupid little kid humor that makes no sense. I like laughing. No wait, I LOVE laughing. It feels good to joke around with my partner until tears are rolling down our faces and we can't catch our breath. It feels really good.

So why don't we all laugh more? Do our lifestyles turn us into work drones? Can we only respond with a mild eye-rolling chuckle to "workin' hard or hardly workin'? HardeeHarHar. Indeed.

In other news, I am wearing a skirt today and I'm quite enjoying it. I forget sometimes about the freedom that is allowed on hot days where pants shouldn't really be an option, but shorts are just too ugly to allow into the wardrobe. Shorts are a turnoff. Socks and sandals are a dealbreaker. Do you have any dealbreakers?

In other news, have you seen my sandals? QUACK!

Faking it and Making it

I like to pretend I'm a writer. I write on everything, the backs of notebooks, in the margins of things while I'm also taking notes for meetings. I write in my planner on the bus, I write on my computer, on a typewriter. Okay, I haven't used a typewriter in years, but I'm trying to make a point here.


Because I haven't been published, I feel like everyone else who says they're a writer. People with half-finished manuscripts and weak character design. People with great ideas and terrible follow through. I'm not sure where I stand on this scale, but it can't be good.

Right now I'm in the research stage. I find this stage of fiction / creative non-fiction writing to be the easiest. I get to ask people questions, sometimes personal questions, and they get to help me flesh out ideas. I have more invasive questions to ask people, and I am so hesitant to find just the right way to ask those questions without hurting anyone or offending them in any way shape or form.

So how to be a real writer? Does writing in a blog make me a writer? No more than scribbling song lyrics on my hand would, I figure. It's all about the publishing, the glory. The signing your first book for your first fan.

It's all about showing other people "look, I am CLEVER! Look at how clever I am!" It's all about acceptance and navelgazing and letting others gaze at your navel too (is that possible?).

I'm gonna fake it 'til I make it - but I have to ask a lot of horrible questions before this book even starts to exist.

Video Games and Nerdiness

My first video game system was an Atari 2600. I played a lot of Frogger and Tank, though I envied my friend Lori's Colecovision. The controllers looked cooler than the joystick and orange button that I was stuck with, and therefore I HAD to have it. I never did.

My next foray into video gaming was the Tandy TRS-80. Oh, the Trash-80, we loved each other. I loved switching from TV to computer to play Super Pitfall or program some silly little game.

10 PRINT "CARRIE RULES"
20 GOTO 10
RUN

I never thought that there was anything weird about a skinned-knee pigtailed girl playing NES until neighborhood kids came over to play, too. And then the SNES. And the N64. Gamecube. Wii. Playstation. XBox 360. I've had them all, pretty much. Except for Mario, Wario, Bandicoot, and other cartoony adventure games, it was sometimes hard to find "girly" games that didn't involve ponies, princesses, or Barbie. So I played a lot of Grand Theft Auto (I still like it, whatever.) and Half Life 2. I played Gauntlet. Donkey Kong. F-Zero. Excitebike.

Then one day in 2004, I picked up a game from Her Interactive. Nancy Drew: The Curse of Blackmoor Manor. I played it on Junior Detective and MAN ALIVE it was hard. I still consider it the most difficult game, but that's beside the point. The point is, even though I had to go onto message boards and ask 12 year-olds to help, I was hooked. HOOKED. I went and got every previous game, and I've played every game since. A video game company for girls and women that makes stuff we have to use our brains for? That BOYS even enjoy (I have seen it with my own two eyes, it is truth)? That my 52 year old MOM plays?

Every time I mention to people "Yeah, my favorite games these days are the Nancy Drew series" and they snicker. Isn't that for KIDS? For little girls? Not for you, a *serious* gamer who can up up down down left right left right b a start with the best of them.

The answer is - you play. You play Blackmoor on Junior detective and see how far you get. Learn some Italian in the Phantom of Venice. Learn about Mayan culture in the Secret of the Scarlet Hand.

Play. Seriously. It's for real gamers. It's for nerds and bibliophiles and tough girls and smart women and everyone in between. And everyone outside of those boundaries.

I play Nancy Drew games from Her Interactive. Step off.

The Joys of the Wiki

It starts off innocently. You want to find out who shares a birthday with you, so a quick check on Wikipedia is in order. Next thing you know you're looking up V.C Andrews and you're learning all about magic tricks and rubber trees. You don't mean it to happen, but you get sucked into a user-driven forest of facts, figures, and diagrams of the human ear.

It's totally an accident, but I can tell you basically how Russia came to be. I might be able to spout off some little known facts about Thomas Edison. It's not 'cause I'm smart, but it's that Wikipedia is smarter. It's smarter than you and you don't even realize it yet.

Don't even get me started on -pedia knockoffs. Lostpedia and I have grown very fond of each other. I can read recaps of LOST episodes the next day and become entranced by viewer conspiracy theories.

It's just so sad that it's not more accurate. Because it's user-driven and therefore users have the ability to edit wikis, I'm often bombarded with false truths. For example, did you know that George Washington was gay? Were you aware that vitamin B is found in kitten meat? Well, now you do.

Live it, love it, wiki it. You know you're obsessed too.