It finally hit me this weekend, when I gave myself the opportunity to not do anything productive, where it all went. It’s still there, just expressing itself in different ways. It was Sunday, actually, when it occurred to me that I was bored. I wanted something to do, and was actively seeking out things to occupy my time. Remember that exhaustion I described? It seems I’m finally beyond it.

Next step, just putting one foot in front of the other and getting going. If only I could remember how to walk.

The Obvious

It would appear that, in my absence, I forgot that I could write for the internet. So to clarify for anyone who may not follow me elsewhere around the internet, I’m still alive and kicking, sort of.

The Burnout

It should come as a surprise to none (though it was something of a surprise to me) that all I want to do when I get home every day is just sit outside on the private patio space I don’t have with a glass of wine or a margarita I do have and just watch the world go by. Mine has been spinning fast enough at this point that several vacations are definitely in order.

The Lost Sheep

The only problem is that, in the flurry of boards and comprehensive exams, it seems I forgot how to relax. I spent more than two months literally planning out my days and weeks to the hours and minutes of wakefulness in order to squeeze in work, homework, hours for my externship, and studying for my comprehensive exams and the national Praxis exam. The days blurred together and I wasn’t sure they would ever end, and yet, next thing I knew, the big day had arrived and boom–seven hours later–it was all over.

The Opposite

On occasions when I used to find myself procrastinating, I now find myself being productive. On occasions when I used to find myself being creative, or giving voice to my thoughts, I now find myself being introspective, wanting to take a moment to think things through. Where once I felt reserved, I now feel confident, and vice versa. In short, this is a turning point in my life I never quite anticipated. I worked hard and always kept my eye on this time, and yet, now that it is here, I realize that there is much I still have to figure out.

The Questions

Am I ready for this change? Absolutely. I have much to look forward to, many questions to ask myself, and so much still to learn. Life, it seems, is only just beginning.

Photo Credit: Me! With my camera phone!

It’s been over a month since I posted anything here. Hello, unplanned hiatus. I can’t promise to post more soon at this point, as I have my comprehensive exams for grad school next month and, for all intents and purposes, I’m freaking out like some twelve-year-old girl who just saw Leonardo Di Caprio. Wait. Robert Pattinson? I told you I’m out of touch with reality.

But. I got a new phone: the Droid Eris. And WordPress just released an Android app so hi! I’m typing. This from my phone. Because I can.

And hey look! A cat! Say hello to Figero, Le Kitty Extraordinaire. He’s the resident house cat and likes to get all cute and then snub you. Which is to say, he’s awesome.

Those seven words were the start of a conversation I never imagined I would have: one that involved a nearly 30 year old woman hitting on me.

“I used to have this life plan, see, and it’s not gone at all like I thought it would, you know? If your brother wasn’t married, I would so be–hey, old are you? You look great!”

It took a good few minutes of conversation before I really figured out the subtext of it all. I would deliver a witty line about the mystery alcohol in the punch I was drinking, and she would parry with a lament about how she wanted a man. A Jewish man. Preferably someone who looked like my eldest brother. I would retort that I thought the Montessori schooling philosophy discouraged things like tying one’s own shoes, and she would reply that when she was behind the wheel of the classroom, her students could graduate high school by the time they had finished eighth grade. And also that it would be great to have a man in her life so she could talk to her students about her Jewish husband.

The ties of the tiny Albuquerque Jewish community truly bind. Jews love to teach their children that, when they’re grown up, we need to marry nice Jewish girls. I used to wonder about that, and tried to picture myself marrying one my fellow classmates of the same age. Of the ten or so girls, none of them seemed like marriage material, never mind that I had no idea what qualified one as such. But really, how can you possibly want to marry someone you’d known since you were three years old and who already irritated you enough as it was?

I never considered the possibility of someone older (or younger) ever wanting to make me their suitable Jewish husband. But my innocent Jewish youth was shattered last Friday, at a graduation party for my girl-in-law, when a woman I’d seen three days a week for ten years starting when I was around three feet tall struck up a conversation that required an instant refill of Fruity Graduation Alchie Punch.

“I really admire how you’ve accomplished so much. I love that in a man.”

I had no idea that my brother tying the knot last summer would suddenly make me such a hot commodity, especially to one so forward. The cheese tray materialized before me. Grateful for a distraction, I grabbed a handful of crackers and pawed a few slices of cheese from it. Any hopes of turning her off by stuffing my face, however, quickly vanished.

“I can’t believe how much you look like your brother.”

Forever betrayed by the strength of my family’s genes. I switched gears and tried turning up the camp. Holding one of the crackers, I delicately placed a slice of sharp cheddar atop it. I brought it slowly to my mouth and took the daintiest of nibbles. “Exquisite!” I meowed. “You know, I think a nice light touch of garnish, maybe sour cream and chives, would really make this divine.”

“Oh hah hah, now that I think about it, I nearly even called you his name when I saw you.”

She wasn’t even looking at me. I braved a look at her face, and it was as I feared: a chuppa, the traditional Jewish wedding canopy, stared back at me. I could see right through her skull, into her brain, and saw that her occipital lobe was clearly blocking the image of my limp wrists and neon watermelon-colored shirt.

So much for subtlety.

“That’s so funny that all the girls at school thought you were gay.”

So much for bluntness. And good listening skills.

She followed me around. The resident pet rat, while it repulsed her, could not keep her from me. Other people, mercifully, called my name.

“I would love to get in touch and chat more.”

Not unexpected. “Of course,” I replied silkily, before taking the rat with me to safer mingling grounds.

She may reflect later that she forgot to ask for my phone number, or an email address.

Breaking hearts. Something Pat Benatar and I have in common.

It’s obvious that Glee is doing its damndest to be all-inclusive, as evidenced by the diversity of its characters. There’s some who are African American, some who are Asian, some who are Latino, and some who are white. The show goes further, however, incorporating even more diverse people: the girl who stutters, the guy who’s paraplegic, and the token gay guy. But, oh, what’s this? We have some problems!

1. Tina, the girl who stutters? She’s faking it.
2. The actress who plays her? She doesn’t stutter.
3. Artie, the guy in the wheelchair? He’s played by someone doesn’t need a wheelchair.

The only thing they got right here was that Kurt, the token gay, is played by a gay actor. (Of course, Hollywood has a double standard here, too. Critics will likely assume that Chris Colfer is merely ‘being himself’ on screen. Just like, you know, all straight actors play themselves when they’re on camera¹.)

Last week, Glee brought on even more variety: a full Deaf choir. It was obvious that they wanted it to be really, incredibly heart-wrenching, and the cast even sapped it up with downcast gazes and uncomfortable shifting in their seats. I was thrilled that they used actual Deaf actors for it, and through the small world that is the Deaf community, I even know a few of them within two Kevin Bacon-style degrees. However, once the scene had played out, I was more disappointed than touched.

There was signing! And real Deaf people! And yet, I am not sold on the whole ‘emotional’ thing. The entire scene turned out to be more oppressive than empowering, honestly. I would never tell someone how they should or should not communicate, but I question the choice of utilizing such a hearing presentation when so many proud Deaf people are acting. Deaf people do not need hearing people to make music; their culture, their language has a music and a power all its own, and it saddens me that what could have been a national showcase of creativity and talent was spent half-heartedly signing a song that will probably make most hearing people watching it think it’s about wishing they could hear.

The whole presentation, from the dapper red suits to the literal, unpracticed interpretation of the song’s lyrics, makes it seem as if the Deaf students should earn props for their Glee club based only on pity. Where was the vibrancy? Why did the McKinley students have to join in and provide the harmonies to the song? Why did the Deaf performers merely stand in place for the duration of their performance?

I ask these questions not to criticize, nor to suggest that Deaf and hard of hearing performers should not sing or speak, if they so choose. I only ask these questions because here was a chance to showcase not only one’s Deafness, but one’s creativity and talents. Deaf theater is amazing, and I’ve been fortunate enough to know many incredibly talented Deaf actors, dancers, and performers. There are Deaf cheerleading troupes, Deaf dance troupes, and Deaf theater productions. I know Deaf people who are even in all-Deaf rock bands. A year and a half ago I got to see Rathskellar, a Deaf dance troupe that has toured the world.

It would have been amazing to see a solidly Deaf take on what a glee club/show choir can be. What it comes down to is that while I liked the inclusion of the Deaf glee club, and I liked the song, and I even liked their performance… I didn’t love it. I saw heaps of potential for their show and a chance to really be wowed, as I have been on many occasions, but I still can’t help but feel like it could have been so much more than it was.

Next time, I want to hear thumping bass beats and see impeccable choreography. I want to see a performance from Deaf artists that makes hearing people unable to move because they’re so enthralled, instead of trying to be “inspirational” by rushing to share the stage. I want to see them stomping onstage, hands flying through the air, faces flushed with adrenaline. I want the only thought in people’s heads to be “OMG DID THEY REALLY JUST DO THAT?! I WISH I COULD DO THAT!” In short, I want them to knock my fucking socks off. I trust that, next time, they will.

¹That was sarcastic. There are, however, notable exceptions that fall outside that sarcasm: Adam Sandler, Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller, and of course, Jennifer Aniston Rachel.

This semester, Wednesdays for me entail fourteen hours of non-stop work. It starts off with an internship that lasts for over six hours, and then I work for eight hours as soon as that is done. So when I found out I’d have the day off, I took the opportunity to not go anywhere because I didn’t fucking have to.

When I got off work last night, I dragged my flat ass, tired from that day’s fourteen hours of joy (same deal as Wednesdays), home to collapse. Normally, I walk in the door, drop everything where I stand, and if I’m lucky I’ll make it to the couch. Last night, however, I nearly collapsed before I even reached the door. And not from exhaustion.

I live in a guest house, which means that I make my home in someone else’s back yard. It’s nice and all, and you’d think that having that back yard space would be a bonus. It is, generally, only there’s the problem of forever having people walk by your window and operating loud machinery at ungodly hours of the morning. But only if your landlord happens to be a contractor. Which, as it happens, mine is.

About twice a year, my landlord decides to go green. Not ‘green’ in the let’s protect the environment sense, but rather ‘green’ in the let’s try to grow some green grass sense. So he orders what I can only assume to be, judging by the smell, two semi-truck loads full of manure. And then he plops all that shit all over the yard.

So to put this in perspective here: whose kitchen window overlooks a grassy part of the yard? Mine. Whose main windows are open all the time and are literally only a few feet from large areas of grass? Mine. So who got home last night and almost passed out from the fumes? That would be me.

The whole loathsome smell thing aside, I simply cannot figure out why the man does this. The logic of it escapes me. When I first got glasses, I was talking to my oldest brother at some point about how much better I was able to see. He decided to try them on, and he lasted for all of five seconds before he yanked them off, handed them back, and said “Dang, Phil, I don’t know how you can see through those things.” Such a comment might have made sense had I removed my actual eyeballs and let him try those on, sure, but these were just glasses.

My landlord, evidently, uses the same such logic regarding his grass. He has a dog, a Border Collie who can run twenty miles per hour in his sleep, and whose antics in the backyard tear up the grass like it was tissue paper. It seems obvious, at least to me, that trying to achieve perfect grass is a waste of time and money. Not to mention a waste of all that waste he dumped all up in the yard.

When he asks me why the electricity bill was so much higher even though it’s been cooler out and “haven’t you been keeping your windows open why are you running the air conditioner?!” I’ll offer two words in response: COW SHIT.

Perhaps it was the effects of the drag show and Halloween, or just from being tired all the time, or something, but last weekend I got all fired up and decided to undertake a small project to fix my bedroom up a bit. Because I live in a house that I think may have been built in the seventies (an odd time during which houses were built with lots and lots of paneled wood), or thereabouts, it’s got a number of odd features.

One such oddity is what I’ve come to call a vanity, despite the presence of a window there. It’s strange, I know. The problem is that, as my schedule becomes increasingly hectic during the semester, this one spot of my room literally mimics the state of my life. To put it lightly, it was a train wreck.

It wasn't me, I swear!

The window sported the same awful, hideous, unforgivably yellow beige drapes that the two main windows to this place used to sport (which I ousted in favor of blinds sometime last year). Notice also that they did not close completely, either.

This picture does no justice to these curtains. Take my word for it, even kittens couldn't make these cute.

I found some nice white drapes to replace these. They were about thirteen inches too long, so I used some safety pins and did a little homestyle hemming, and the result is this. Note quite perfect, but certainly close enough for me. Not bad for my first time, eh?

Beauties! Too bad it wasn't sunny when I took this one.

Finally, I put together two sets of wire shelving units to add additional storage space. I was afraid that they might not work with the room, but it turns out they fit right in, and they nearly triple the amount of flat storage place I have right there. It’s easy to keep everything organized, and I don’t have to cringe and pretend I can’t see every time I go near that part of the room.

I did it myself! And it's awesome, too.

I’m very pleased with the outcome, and thrilled that I achieved exactly what I wanted with less than $75. I priced custom shelving, which while nice, I could not get below $120 even with the most generous of offers. Larger shelving was available that would have fit, though a single unit of such shelving runs at least $70, even on sale. My route, while it did take a bit more searching to find exactly what I wanted and what would fit, was much more budget friendly and it has surpassed my expectations. Next up: tackling and simplifying the rest of the room. Little by little, I’m getting there.

October 30, 2009. The day I unleashed my inner drag queen. Replete with a dress designed just for me, a fully stuffed chest, a bouncy hairdo, fabulous make-up, and four-inch heels. In other words, it was me at my fiercest. And oh, what a time it was, as clearly evidenced here by this glamorous shot before the show in the green room. Fierce!

I can only assume that that’s the sound of an unplanned almost one-month hiatus on this website. The amount of shit flowing through my brain¹ has been staggering, really, and I’ve had every reason to want to write every day. Only I’ve been devoid of any energy to really do so, and I have a thing about always wanting to be at the top of my game when I write.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.

Much of my writing energy at this time is being consumed by grad school. This bothers me less than I imagined it would, actually, except for the fact that the topics about which I’ve had to write don’t exactly have top billing for me. Still, at least I am writing, and kicking ass at it, yo.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.

My little brother and his girlfriend are visiting for the weekend, and so far we’ve managed to tear it up quite a bit out here.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.

A little over a year ago, I bought a watch because I was told I needed one for my clinical therapy time. I went to Target and bought a $40 watch that was on clearance for $17 or so. I had no intention of wearing it save for the four hours a week of therapy time, so I begged the poor Target employee to set it for me. She was sweet enough to do so, or else I was belligerent enough that she was begrudgingly humoring me. Since then, the only function I’ve figured out how to use is the stopwatch, and its usefulness is overshadowed by how much effort it requires for me to get it to work.

Needless to say, the watch spends half the year at the correct time and the rest of the year at the correct time for my neighboring time zone. I tried to read the manual once, but its tiny print, not to mention it’s sixteen tiny pages, made me give up after all of five seconds.

About two months ago, I heard the beep-beeping of a tiny alarm, and for the life of me could not figure out what it was. It was 7 o’clock in the morning, and what I was doing awake at that hour escapes me. The beeping stopped after thirty seconds and I forgot about it until the next morning at precisely the same time. I keep the watch in my bag, and perhaps my stoic gait one day caused it to bump a little button here and there, and consequently set the alarm function.

The alarm goes off daily at 7am, and short of throwing the watch into a pool or giving it to someone who wasn’t asking for a watch, per se, I have no idea how to turn the damn thing off. So it serves, forevermore at this time, as a daily reminder that yet another day has passed and there is so much that I still have yet to do.

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.

¹That’s right, I’ve been listening to Ben Folds again.

After a while we wandered over to the outdoor area, where there were dogs galore! And suddenly, all those dogs had two gay men walking from kennel to kennel, fawning over them and petting their paws and telling them how cute they were and how much we wished we could just take them all home right now. Amidst the barrage of gay affection, there was suddenly a sound that stopped us cold¹. It sounded like someone crying, perhaps for help? We decided to investigate, and that’s when we met this guy:

Yes, the culprit of the crying was this goat. A veritable bounty of cuteness, sideways pupils and all. He calmed down as soon as we arrived on the scene, which leads me to believe that that was his intention from the start: to steal our attention away from all the dogs and reel us in with that tractor beam-like bray of his.

Which further settles the score for my case: even the goat was more social than the bunnies. It’s decided: I win.

¹You know it had to be loud to overcome all the high-pitched gay voices we were emitting. I mean, really.