I read somewhere that mood rings don’t work anymore because of global warming.
The stones formed when the ph balance of the world was strong enough for a man,
But now that we’re gentle enough for a woman, the whole thing’s pretty much useless.

This makes me sad. I liked mood rings. It was nice to have something telling me
Exactly how I felt. Ah, blue. I’m in a good mood. Yay! Red? I’m angry. ROOAR.
That doesn’t work with animate objects. You can’t say hey, Pet, what mood am I in?
Because your pet will say “feed me love me walk me leave me alone” in whatever your pet’s language is,
And none of that is an answer to how you feel, unless you how you feel is
“feed me love walk me leave me alone.” Which, good job, Pet, of figuring that out.
Human beings will always tell you look nice in that dress. Unless they’re honest.
Which either makes you love them more or hate them more, which alters your mood
And defeats the whole purpose of the inquiry to begin with.

I’m sad our planet cooked moon rings to death. Of course, that might not be true at all.
Mood rings may have never worked. Which is something a heretic nonbeliever would say.

The idea of having a child-doll instead of a child, or even in addition to, does not strike me as odd or strange. This is the Auntie Mame in me¹. I cannot deny that I am the kind of person who occasionally gives in to eccentricity. The kind of person who has birthday parties for her dog. Of course, there’s always the understanding that the birthday party for the dog is really just an excuse for a party, but I still go through and beyond the motions (party dress, doggie cake, other puppy guests and all).

So I’m committed when I want to be. The theme of these posts is to-do listing and, in someways, even my eccentricity needs streamlining. I have notebooks full of ideas. Thousands of bookmarked pages with little pieces of ephemera that warrant comment. Like Digby.

2- Write About Digby

This one is good. I’ve had this one on my running to-do list since March (when the story of Digby first broke). By virtue of placing it here, it’s done. So it’s really more like:

2- Write About Digby

But in many ways, “write about Digby” is also “write more.” So much of what little I’ve written is about how I’m going to increment my writing². But the truth of it, outside of furtive edits on my book³, I’m not putting time aside to write.

A good friend of mine once told me about a cross-country road-trip that she made with another writer. More than anything, she was astounded that her fellow road-warrior did not put anything down on the page. Nothing at all. No laptop, notebook, scribble. How, my friend asked, could a writer not write? For her it is compulsion. For her friend, maybe something else entirely. Or maybe it manifests differently (an epic write-down months from now, perhaps?), and yet there’s a part of me that agrees: how can a writer not be writing all the time? Especially nonfiction writers. We, on a basic level, report.

I’m not consistent at editing my thoughts, but I am a Moleskine person⁴. I have a whole row of thin, black notebooks on a shelf in my office wherein I chronicle conversations, outfits, calories consumed, ideas for stories, slam poetry scores, books to buy, notes from meetings and seminars, conference doodles and phone numbers, as well as email addresses for people whose names I’ll never remember.

But I’m terrible at sitting down and getting it done. Once it’s down, though, I don’t think it’s ever too bad.

I used to be like this with freelance work. But I’ve learned over time to streamline that process. Other people don’t have time like I do. So I get contracts signed, ask for specific deadlines, and work efficiently. I’m just not when the client is me.

Maybe Digby will hire me to fix my own life. Or maybe my dog should get prepared for the matching outfits I’ll force upon her when I get a little older, a little richer, and little more consistent.

In the meantime, I’ve written down the idea. So I can look back and find it later.

1. That may be unfair to Auntie Mame
2. Diagram that sentence!
3. That To-Do List Item is coming soon
4. Isn’t it a little gross/problematic that I keep saying “I’m a [such-and-such] kind of person,” as if definition is all that matters?

He is/was also asking people to submit their own to-do lists and do their best to get them done. In fact, the whole point of getting guests on the podcast is to catch up with them in the future and see how they’re progressing on their to-dos, while Jamie and Keith accomplish their own to-dos.

Blah, blah, blah, I got inspired and decided to share mine in segments with you. Here’s my annotated to-do list for you, item one.

1- Work for Dad
I’m currently “working” for my father’s wholesale replacement diesel engine part business. Okay, not really. So far I’ve reorganized my inbox and worked on a logo for someone else while sitting at a desk in his offices. But years ago, I promised my father that at some point in my life, I would come work for him (just for a little bit). Well, I needed to get out of town due to some stress at home in Pittsburgh (I fled so fast, I didn’t even pack socks for a month-long vacation), so I figured why not combine the two and make that happen.

I’m here. At the office. And that counts for something, right? The thing is, Dad wants me to make cold calls to prospective clients. Which, you’d think, I’d be good at. As I’m all chatty-chatty and extroverted. But I’m so nervous at calling strangers on the phone. It’s not what I do. Sure, I talk, but mostly face-to-face. I hate the phone. So much. People can’t see me smile on the phone. And talking to strangers, even if I’m selling them something they want and need, might be too daunting for me. I have no problem calling people that I’m going to buy things from. Or calling people to arrange their services. But calling people so that they’ll give me money? Yikes. I’m working on overcoming that. And I’m here till June 3, so I guess I have to do something. I can only read dlisted and file my email so much before even that gets boring.

It’s good to be back in the Valley. I have such a love-hate relationship with the place. I love the Mexican food, the four-lane roads, the cheap margaritas, Roosevelt’s, Alhambra, my good friends Luis and Angel, the proximity to the beach, and the bright-bright sun. I love the golf, and how men open doors and no one ever expects me to drive. I even like dressing up more than I ever do in Pittsburgh, just to go to a bar.

But this city, in so many ways, is a city of my past. Which is ironic, given how McAllen and Pittsburgh compare in terms of history and a brutal sense of nostalgia for what might have been. McAllen is a city on the rise. Economic development, new shopping centers, more night-life than a city this size deserves to have. But it remains the city of my past, no matter how shiny and new it really is.

Last night, at Alhambra, I smoked a hookah with Luis, and ran into some girls I knew in high school. It was really nice to see them, all grown up and business-minded. This morning, as I walked the puppy (who, by the way, loves it here as she has my parents’ dog to play with constantly), I thought about what disconnected me so much from this place, why I felt out-of-place at the lounge, why I’ll never full fit-in here, why people pause when I tell them I teach creative writing (“I always thought you’d end up doing something artsy,” they usually say) and that pause makes me more uncomfortable than proud, like I’m admitting that I think I’m superior or that I have chlamydia (neither of which are true, obviously). Perhaps it’s that I associate this place with business, with fast-deals and fat women, with old and true friends, with the border, with high school, with my parents, with Mexico, with guns, with violence, with Border Patrol, with citrus. But never with me. Or at least not now-me. Maybe just high-school-me.

I don’t think of myself as being from here anymore. Although, I really couldn’t be from anywhere else. And maybe, just maybe, nothing represents this more than working for my dad. Because here I am, sitting at this white desk, spreadsheets printed out before me, thinking about how I worked so hard and ran so far to never end up just here. And the truth of it, is that I don’t really know why I’ve spent so much energy leaving. Well, no. That’s a lie. I know why I left: I was miserable. I just don’t understand why I was so miserable.

One of my McAllen friends is thinking about buying a Porsche today. And another is going to finally learn to drive stick so he can use the Mustang Rouge (he currently drives a new beemer because it’s automatic) parked in his garage. No one says anything about my falling apart Jeepo (almost sixteen years old), but they don’t have to: I know what I don’t have. I don’t talk about how much I stress about money, it’s rude, and yet I find myself having elaborate conversations about how I have chosen to be poor, how I’m succeeding, how I’m not a failure because I’m not rich. I forget how much money people have here. How much they’ve always had. How much money I could have here. How much money I could make, on commission, at this desk. If only I applied myself. If only to please the old man. If only to get him to stop complaining about how I’m poor and an artist and not a rich business woman at all.

But I’m just staring at this screen, trying to figure out what it is I can do to pass the time. Without working, that is.

I’m stuck in a loop and I’m having a hard time breaking it.

I joke about my misanthropy at times. I joke about how I go through periods where I don’t really want to answer the phone or do anything but read and kill Murlocs¹. There’s nothing wrong with me, per se. I’m not depressed, just in a funk. When I go to work, I love my job. I’ve been doing all right at it too, with the exception of some grading delays and illness a couple of weeks back. Point is: I’m not failing at work. I’m not in the clutches of some life-breaking depression. I just need a big change.

This happened a few years ago when I was working at a nonprofit near Austin. I loved my job. Found that I was all right at it, and that there were places to move up. But I wasn’t happy. Not in any particular way. It’s funny, after I left the job for Pittsburgh, my favorite boss called me about some phone calls I had made from my work cell to the US when we were running a program in Mexico, and roaming. She’d called the number I’d called most and found out it was Pete. You can’t do that, she said, not on the work dime. I gladly paid her back the roaming charges (via some freelance graphic design work) and didn’t point out that the only reason I’d called Pete so many times was because I was throwing up blood due to the job. My first ulcer. The doctor said my body cannot process stress. Find something that doesn’t stress you out, he said, find what makes you happy.

Pete’s been something of a rock these years. Off-and-on, through ins and outs, he’s at the very least the most consistent part of my life. He’s who I call when I start coughing up coagulated blood (sorry, I know it’s so gross). Who do you call?

These days, I don’t call anyone. Work, although awesome on a day-to-day basis, has its detractions. Right now, the reality that 250 people will be applying for my job, along with me, is slowly sinking in. How do I measure? Do I apply for the permanent position (which will allow me to really develop some projects I have in mind) or the temporary position (which means I go through this again next year, with worse odds, and no fallbacks)? Or both? And then what happens if I don’t get the job?

I’m scared. Because I’ve been treading water for two years, waiting for Pete to graduate to really start my life. And he hasn’t. But he’s moving here when it’s over and if he gets a job, it’ll be a 2-3 year position. And if I don’t have a job? And if Pete doesn’t either? And if, as is our pattern, we fall apart when I do, what will happen? And then what?

So many stupid, yet totally important questions.

The premise of this blog, started as an offshoot of my livejournal and now just a place where every blue moon I decide to post about football, was that I could answer questions. I’m still, believe it or not, apt to give advise². But what I need right now is some calm. Some books. Some Murlocs.

I don’t mean to be a neurotic mess.

Find what makes you so happy, you cannot stress out about it so easily, the doctor told me in Austin. Well, I thought the answer there was writing. I loved to write. Those of you that used to read me on livejournal know this, I wrote all the time, too much, and too personally. And when I left for Pittsburgh, my writing became focused, book-and-project oriented. My writing started to matter. And I was told not to give it away for free. Which meant I did less of it in the forums that focused me most. Which means I barely blog and when I do, it’s usually about football or futbol.

I’ve lost that love. That impulse to just put all my feelings down on public paper. Mostly because the stakes are high. Even writing this, I’m worried about who will read. How will they interpret this? Is this going to make me look weak if a student finds it³? Isn’t that the lesson of facebook-firings and twitter-contracts? That everything you write should be controlled, and that this blog, like every other place, is as subject to scrutiny as my C.V. And what happens if I admit to the dull weight that sits on my chest as I tread water?

I would not have been a good Borgia. Or a good Medici. There’s a schemer in me, don’t doubt that, but that schemer is the kind that gets caught and hanged⁴. Probably for her insolence. Probably for telling too much too quick. Who am I kidding? I doubt I’d make it an hour in the dungeon.

So to whom is my duty? My parents, of course, want me home. My boyfriend wants me stable. My boss wants me productive. My friends want me to answer the phone. And I want…

That’s the problem.

I’m working on a solution. I went to mass today, in honor of the dust from which I came. As the priest rubbed ashes on my forehead, he reminded me of this. And that I’ll be going back to that dust. During the homily, he pointed out that Lent is a time to reinvent your better self. To craft the better you through sacrifice. To not be a Hypocrite. Lent is forty days of sacrifice and fasting, while still being true to yourself. There’s some Jesus stuff in there too, but Lent to me is about ruling my impulses. About self-denial and self-reflection.

I’m a lower-case hypocrite, of course. Even my going to church today reflects this, as I’m mostly Cathgnostic⁵. My inability to ever get in shape or give up my bad habits reflects this as well. I am forever smart enough to know what I should do and too lazy and unfocused to get it all done. I point to my guitar gathering dust in the corner. My bicycle in someone else’s basement.

I need to work on follow-through. To break out of this loop of lazy self-absorption.

So the challenge? To be my best self for forty days. To exercise, eat healthy, avoid distractions, be a good friend and daughter, concentrate on what used to make me happy: writing, performing, teaching, making, doing.

Now is the time to write the thank you note, the priest said, to visit that friend, to call those people back. Like he could read my mind. Now is the time to follow through.

It’s time to stop joking about my misanthropy and actually work toward changing it.

You know, before I bite the…

terrible pun.

1. Yes, Murlocs.
2. Especially when no one has asked for it.
3. Hi, student.
4. I wrote “hung,” but then I realized I was not a painting.
5. Culturally Catholic, but tending more toward doubt and questioning.

Well, there’s Ben, of course.

What do you do with him?

And everyone’s talking about it—can we forgive a man for [allegedly²] raping a twenty-year old girl in a bathroom in Georgia?—and I think there’s no real answer. At least not one I find satisfying.

Which brings me to the question circling over the Steel City: can we cheer on Ben Roesthlisberger, despite his criminal history, without feeling a bit dirty? How does sports idolatry contend with a sexual assailant? Does one thing have anything to do with the other?

I’m having a hard time reconciling the two.

As a means of answering the questions above, I’d like to take a second and think about Chick-Fil-A. Yesterday, I read in the New York Times that a Chick-Fil-A in Pennsylvania donated food to a rally put on by an organization notorious for being anti-gay. Okay, so a well-known conservative food chain³ sponsors an event to promote marriage which is in turn being put on by a group whose agenda includes anti-gay marriage propaganda. Chick-Fil-A’s associate with the Pennsylvania Family Institute has sparked protests across the country and cries for boycotting the company. From the NYT article:

“Does loving Chick-fil-A make you a bad gay?” said Rachel Anderson of Berkeley, Calif. “Oh, golly, human beings have an amazing capacity to justify a lot of things.”

Loving a chicken sandwich may mean you are anti-gay. With the myriad of endorsement chains, the socially conscious shopper has a lot of research to do these days. If I’m hungry and in the Cathedral of Learning’s basement, there’s a chance I might get some Chick-Fil-A. But the money I give to them may go to fund anti-gay-marriage groups, which I’m clearly against. In this case, though, the cruz of the argument is that a) Chick-Fil-A’s associations matter to me the consumer, because b) I give them money.

For any public figure, endorsements matter. And endorsements hinge on the sell-ability of the figure. So what happens when a public figure is associated with a bad thing?

Tiger Woods cheated and endorsement deals collapsed like Southern women on duvets. Tiger Woods issued apologies. Nike put him on a commercial with his dead father essentially admonishing him. Whoa.

Is Ben Roesthlisberger publicly associated with rape? Yes. Did he lose endorsements because of his image as a rapist? Yes. Was he shamed in the media in a fashion similar to other fall icons Michael Vick or Tiger Woods? I’m not sure. He’s certainly the villain in this story. Comparing Roethlisberger to Woods or Vick is difficult.

Tiger Woods did not sexually assault anyone. He cheated on his wife. Which, while bad, isn’t illegal or causing any physical harm that needs to be punished by law. Roesthlisberger’s alleged crime is exactly that, a crime.

Vick, while also a criminal, is guilty of a completely different set of crims—both puppy-murder and puppy-fight-ringmastering, which are hard to compare to rape in terms of severity for the obvious reasons⁴. So we’ll assume for argument’s sake that the charges are equal. But that’s the rub—Ben Roesthlisberger never got charged. So Vick plead guilty, served his time in jail, went bankrupt and came back to lead his team to the playoffs. And

1. Friday night, downtown, my friends and I passed a boisterous couple dressed in full Steelers regalia, holding a week-old newspaper, headlines confirming us Dallas-bound. They yelled and whistled, asked us to join them in a chorus of “Here We Go, Steelers.” After the celebrants passed by, my friends and I debated the merits of “Stairway to Seven” or “Knocking on Seven’s Door.” Either way, we’re in heaven. And the city really is alive with cheer in an otherwise dismal season.
2. While some argue that her not pressing charges signifies the event did not happen, the D.A. in Georgia has stated that the victim chose to drop charges to avoid infringement on her personal life and not because events did not transpire as she initially described.
3. They’re closed on Sundays, people.
4. How do you compare the murder and exploitation of a non-human to psychological, physical, and sexual assault on another human being?