Found in the Flower Bed

Remember how I said that I haven’t planted anything in my flower beds? I just take care of whatever comes up. Weed around that plants that produce flowers. I’m darn proud of that flower bed – I like it a lot.

I left work early to go shopping today – I’m ahead on one project and don’t know what to do with another. Plus, I’m still blah. And I do like new stuff. So that was good – story to come later.

I returned home and had just settled in with the laptop when someone knocked at the door. I scampered up to find the UPS guy heading back to his truck. He waved when I called my thanks, then I grabbed my package and headed inside. Frowning. I had heard something outside – over the truck’s engine and other cars going by.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Chienne, and she cocked her head at me. “I think I heard something.” I continued.

So I opened the door again, pushing the dog back inside, and stood on my porch in the sunshine.

“Hello?” I called.

And heard a meow in return.

“Hello?” I said again, squinting as I searched for the cat. It continued to answer my inquiries, and finally peeked out from behind one of my newly pruned bushes. The middle one, actually.

“Well.” I said, smiling down and over at it. “Aren’t you pretty? Are you lost?” It didn’t answer me any more than my dog did.

“Hmmm.” I said, still speaking softly and standing still on the porch. I know – and was recently reminded at Unnamed Friend’s apartment – that cats must come to you. Chasing them down, hands outstretched and ready to pet tends to freak them out. “Are you thirsty? I could go get some water.” I offered. Then headed inside to do so.

I considered my options as I moved through the living room to the kitchen. Would a cat drink Coconut Crème Coffee-mate? It’s quite tasty, but I wasn’t sure it was appropriate to give to an animal. Maybe if I watered it down?

“I have milk!” I told Chienne, who was circling my feet in excitement. I rarely go out the front door without her. When I go to work or on errands, I use the garage. I nearly tripped over her as I hurried to fill a bowl with milk. After seeing a homeless man earlier today and doing nothing, I was not about to let another possible good deed pass me by. The cat was getting some milk.

I didn’t see it when I went outside, and wrinkled my nose in dismay, setting the bowl on the corner of the porch. “Hello? Kitten? Did you leave?”

It meowed in response and I smiled as I saw its head appear from the shade behind the middle bush.

“I brought milk.” I told it. “I don’t always have milk, but there are these boxed noodles that require it. They’re good, actually. There are parmesan, some kind of herb variety, white cheddar. I like them. But you need milk to make them, which is lucky for you. I think cats like milk.”

It moved toward me and I stepped back from the bowl - trying to appear harmless, watching as it consumed the milk with dainty greed. It looked up at me when it finished. Meowed. And rubbed against the hand I held in front of it.

“Hi.” I murmured. I sat down on the porch and petted, cooed over its friendly nature, then frowned over the sore behind its ear. “You should go home.” I advised. “It’s not that I don’t like you – I think you’re very nice. But I don’t want a cat. I have a dog. Plus, you have a collar. Your family must miss you.” But I frowned over how thin the animal was. My animals are, granted, a bit chubby historically. Chienne is about 15 pounds heavier than when I got her. I equate food with love. It’s a problem.

But I really don’t want a cat, so I went inside. Watched TV. Typed out my shopping story. Then frowned at the front door. I sighed at myself, went to the kitchen to fill a bottle with water, then nudged Chienne back and stepped back out on the porch. The cat refused water, but accepted much more petting. I sat for about 30 minutes, watching cars go by, making friends with this furry creature from my flower bed.

But I talked myself into coming in. Found myself going back out to offer tuna. The cat finished half a can and almost choked from hurrying. Maybe it had been lost for quite some time. But, no. I don’t want a cat. I’ve never wanted a cat. I have a dog. She’s plenty.

But I went back out again to offer more milk. I was afraid it was thirsty after the tuna. Again to see if it was there. (I keep using it because I don’t know the gender. Looking at private places to ascertain something I don’t really need to know seems… intrusive. Impolite. I can’t do it.) It continued to retreat behind the bush when I’d come inside, scampering out to greet me now that it knew I was a friendly presence.

So I called my vet. Asked them what to do. The receptionist gave me the number for animal control, and I asked what they’d do. I didn’t want them to come take it, I said. It was a nice cat. And I’m sure its family would be looking for it soon.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” She said. “Just call animal control and see what they say.”

I looked at Chienne and shook my head. When I was younger – just turned 16 – Brother brought home a kitten. A tiny gray one – sweet, small, fuzzy. Mom refused to let him keep it. She’d told him no, he thought he could get around her by just bringing it home, she wouldn’t even look at it, and we had to take it to the shelter. Along with the litter box, food and toys he’d bought for it. He sobbed the whole way there. I joined him the whole way home. It was awful – I’m still bitterly ashamed that I did it. There’s no way in hell I’m taking this cat to the shelter.

So, like a child, I called and lied. I waited patiently to talk to a PAWS representative, trying to come up with a plausible way to ask advice without confirming I had a lost cat.

“Hello. I’m Katie.” I said. “I had a quick question for you. I’m, um, at work.” Then I winced when the dog barked and ran out the back door to bark at the kids coming home from school. “Anyway, I noticed a cat in my flower bed this morning before I left, and I wondered what I should do if it was still there when I got home.

“Not that it will be. I mean, it might be there. But not necessarily. I just wondered what the options were.”

“Of course! I’m not afraid of the cat. It’s a nice cat. It drank milk and let me pet it.” I told her when she asked if I could approach it.

“Well,” She responded, “I can’t turn you down since you live in the county. You can bring it in if you’d like.”

“No.” I said before I could stop myself.

“OK. That’s actually good. We get about 60 cats each day, so the chances of finding it a new home are slim. So it’d be good if you could find the people who lost him.”

“But can I keep it until then? Do I just leave it outside? What if it rains? Or gets too cold?”

“I don’t know the rules about keeping strays.” She said. “I think you should put up fliers. Maybe an ad in the newspaper. And I can take your name here too. Hopefully someone will claim him.”

So I nodded, gave her my information and a description of the cat, then went out to check it again. The spot behind its ear was much worse – the bugs must have been getting in it as the cat hid behind the bushes. I could hear it purring as I petted it, letting it rub against my fingers, then the porch rail, then the plants.

“Shit.” I said softly, told it I’d be back and came inside to soothe Chienne – who was nearly frantic by now as she ran from the office where she could see us to the front door where she could cry pitifully. The cat, by the way, arched its back and hissed impressively upon seeing my pretty dog. It was decidedly not excited about befriending her.

I then called my vet back to make an appointment for my new – hopefully, Please God, temporary – friend. We go tomorrow morning – we’ll get the sore taken care of, and if we should vaccinate, I’ll do that too. Then – because I’m not a cat person – I went to the store to buy a "litter box" - I decided a random plastic container should work, litter and food. I decided I’d keep the cat in the garage until I could ascertain its health status. It was better than outside, right?

So I got it all set up – towels on the carpet square in front of the washer and dryer. Litter box and litter. Food, water, milk. Then I lured the cat in with tuna, closed the garage door while it huddled under the car, and soothed it with milk and attention. I decided to spray behind its ear with medicated antiseptic – it, um, didn’t like that. So back under the car it went and back inside I came. To make fliers.

Chienne and I went around the neighborhood to put them up. I nailed them into the posts with the other announcements, checking hopefully for someone looking for the little cat. No such luck. I came home and went to check on the cat, and promptly decided it was too warm in the garage. Hardly the appropriate place to put a guest. After all, I do have a guest room.

So I moved everything in – towels and a blanket on the bed, litter box, water, milk, food. Then put Chienne in my room with treats, and picked up the kitty to place it in its new – hopefully, Please God, temporary – home. It explored for a moment, then gave me a look upon seeing the litter box.

“Oh.” I said, abashed. “OK. I’ll get something bigger. Hold on.”

After I found a more suitable container, I transferred the Fresh Step litter and watched the cat land gracefully in it from her perch on the nightstand. I was filled with gratitude when it squatted – I don’t know how to litter train a cat, so I’m pleased it came with prior knowledge. It lapped at the milk, finally nearly full, I think. Then jumped on the bed and curled on the blanket I’d arranged for it. I petted it for a moment, then came back to the living room to work.

I’ve checked on it twice now – it seems to be resting comfortably on the blanket on my pretty gray sheets. Is there anything else I should be doing? Cat people out there? Advice? Chienne is alternately demanding attention from me and guarding the guest room door (which remains firmly latched – the cat is trapped, but safe). Me? I think it’s rather amusing. Single people are supposed to have cats to truly be a cliché, yes? So there you go. I accept my single nature, and, like magic, a cat appears.

I don’t want to keep it. I have no idea how to introduce the cat and my dog. I very much hope I can find the family that put on the purple flea collar that’s far too large. Perhaps my Unnamed Friend would like another cat? Or I can find someone at work who could love it? But if not?

I believe I’ll name it Sprout.

Oooh! Another carnival!

The Second Carnival of GRADual Progress is at StyleyGeek's. If you haven't enjoyed it already, I hope you do so soon. There's all kinds of good stuff out there - much of which I hadn't already read. Have fun!

Long story, predictable ending

I went to grad school a new person. I’d lost weight, felt more confident, was absolutely ready to spend two years studying, then face a future full of high income, moving home, starting a family. Stability. Love.

Yeah, that all went to hell.

But that first summer – when I always had messages on my answering machine, when I was full of hope, when I went running (yes, running. For miles.) every morning by the lake – I felt beautiful, strong, smart and completely thrilled with all that life held for me. I went to bars. Drank. Talked to M for hours – our very first meeting, after months of email, we sat at the Union for eight hours and drank soda. Told secrets. Started cementing a friendship that continues to leave me profoundly grateful.

I had a crush – a really good one, actually. I’d shiver when he’d talk into directly into my ear at concerts. Then would get to lean close so he could hear my reply. We shared a stool at my least favorite bar in grad school city, and drank from the same glass (I know – it’s all quite sexy. Trust me when I tell you it was fantastic at the time.) one night. I remember visiting his tiny office and flirting shamelessly. He called one night before I went out with a different guy (Me! I know! It was a long time ago.) and told me I should blow Dave off to come over. Nothing ever happened, but it was so different. To do some mutual flirting. To see a genuine smile of greeting. To sit a bit too close and have him scoot even closer.

That summer before classes started – May to August, 2001 – was doubtless my peak of social activity. I would stop to stare at myself when I walked by mirrored surfaces – I just felt so new and different.

I got a phone call from Mom – one where she was appropriately pleased with all my newly discovered social tendencies – and was told that Mandy would be coming to campus. She was going to do another undergraduate degree since she didn’t want to work in childhood education. So her parents had taken out loans and she wondered if I’d like to share an apartment. I emphatically refused, then waited with dread for her to arrive.

“She doesn’t know anyone.” Mom said. “But don’t spend too much time with her.”

“I can’t.” I said softly. “I don’t want to do that anymore. Be that person.”

Mandy was, of course, the pretty one. Popular. I embarrassed her in high school – clinging to our childhood friendship that she wanted desperately to forget in favor of befriending other girls. I realized it one day, and, miserably embarrassed, cut off most contact with her. By senior year, we barely spoke. I did quite well for myself. National Merit Scholar, Best Student in English, Science and Spanish. American Legion Award. Some honor for editing the school newspaper. President of the National Honor Society. Student Council all four years. Peer counselor. Salutatorian (Trust me when I tell you of the quality of my speech too. Really.)

Right before graduation, I looked at her seated in the bleachers from my chair on the floor. We were gathering our awards for various honors and with absolutely no modesty, it was pretty much my day. In a class of 200, I was able to shine brightly. Mandy smiled at me, seated next to her boyfriend, and I thought it was strangely appropriate. She was happy – had her friends and boyfriend. I was successful – had a pile of awards I placed neatly beneath my seat as my parents watched proudly from the second row. It was a good day, and that was basically how I remembered her since we talked maybe twice through undergrad. She was pretty, sweet and social. I was smart, driven and successful.

But who wants to play that character in the novel? So, thrilled with my new role in my grad school city, I didn’t want to slip back into those characters upon her arrival. We did, of course. Habits are hard to break, and I think I am that person – smart, driven, successful – much more than I was pretty and social. And that’s fine. I had fun trying it on, and lost it in a miserable fit of failure once classes started.

We didn’t live together – I refused with no regrets and she found an adorable place in an old mansion. We saw each other quite a bit at first – she developed a crush on my crush (nothing happened with either of us – smart guy.), found a few other friends, and called me when things were bad. That’s a role I play well – sympathetic, comforting, nurturing. So I held her hand when she was in the ER for migraines. I sat in her apartment and listened to how she missed HighSchoolBoy1. Then wept over HighSchoolBoy2. Then started seeing 1. Dumped him for 2. Wanted to quit school to be with 1. No, 2. Dated other guys, but couldn’t stop thinking about 1. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

After some initial contact, I got busy with classes and I guess she did the same. Other than a couple evenings when she needed help, we didn’t speak until the end of my second year. We met for dinner after M had graduated. Mandy had started online dating and had delightful stories. I opened up and shared some of my own. We talked – neither of us feeling very smart or capable at school or dating – and laughed and had a fabulous time. We did OK, meeting a few times, having dinners on the west side of town where I had my apartment. She met my dog and laughed when noting that she had every coloring possible somewhere on her.

“Look!” Mandy laughed while fending off kisses and jumps. “She’s spotted on her tummy, white nose and paws, black, and brindle. This dog is a mutt, Katie.” And I nodded proudly and tried to make Chienne sit.

The last time I remember seeing her – years ago – we met at Mandy’s favorite place for dinner. Downtown – I always ended up driving past it before finding parking because I’d get lost on the one way streets I rarely drove. We had dinner and talked and everything was fine.

Until she insisted we had across the streets for drinks. She frowned over my wrinkled nose.

“It’s not loud or too dark or overwhelming. It’s very subtle. Classy. You’ll like it. I promise.”

After continued prodding, I agreed to one drink, and we headed across the street. I remember sitting next to her at the bar drinking something with cranberry juice. It was bitter. As was the feeling of yet again being the not-so-pretty one. I had gained weight. Was firmly in my casually dressed phase of grad school. I felt plain next to Mandy in her skimpy little outfit and bouncing blonde curls. It was awkward and I let her know I was leaving after one drink.

She walked with me to our cars in the parking structure, and I tensed when she started to lecture. About how I presented myself. Clothes, hair, makeup, attitude.

“You need to get out there!” She said passionately. “Meet men. Date. I know you don’t want to end up alone. So you need to try. Just try.”

I turned to face her after reaching my car, unlocked the door, and narrowed my eyes. Then, trying mightily to stifle the venom I so desperately wanted to spew, I said something like, “I see it this way. I could try – make myself into something I’m not. Be uncomfortable and wonder if the man saw me or this person I was trying to create for him. Force myself into situations where I’d be watching the clock like I was in the bar. Do what you did – date, fall in love, hope that a man would eventually love me enough to keep me. And more power to you.” Then I shrugged, showing I didn’t believe it.

“But, Mandy? We’re both going home alone. I don’t envy you the dates – I don’t want them. I want to work, do research, figure out my professional future. I know you’re going a different direction, but for now? We’re in the same spot. All those broken hearts haven’t landed you ahead. So I’m out. I’ll do it my way.”

Years and maybe three emails later, she lives on the west coast and I’m here in the south. Neither of us married, both of us trying to figure out what to do to earn money. I suspect she’ll find someone. She does, after all, try. And my efforts have been marked by fear. This terrible certainty that once he knows enough, he'll certainly opt out.

But I remember driving home that night – hurt, angry and somehow hopeless. So, as I’m fond of doing, I talked to myself. Said firmly that I wouldn’t settle – I’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t think I’m wonderful. Then quietly found my way through a city I now find myself missing dearly to my first floor apartment and puppy. I cuddled next to her on the couch that night and somehow knew that I wasn’t going to find anyone there. That apartment would belong to us alone. And while there were visitors, there was nobody I wanted to stay.

I had higher hopes for this house. A bed that’s certainly big enough to share. Plenty of space to co-exist with someone peacefully, I thought hopefully as I moved in and put things away. Had this really good fantasy set in my guest room. Could picture someone here in my living room while we watched TV. That mental image has been gently pushed away. It’s not happening here. I don’t go in my guest room anymore – the door is kept closed and I didn’t realize exactly why until I refused to sleep there last time my parents visited. I just know. And age and hope and optimism have nothing to do with it somehow.

Then – poor, younger Katie in grad school – and now. It feels remarkably similar. And each time I feel this way, I see how my future will be. Wondering why I feel sad and realizing that it’s because I’m alone. The hope hurts and the mental image slipped away. I’d like very much to be wrong. I just don’t think I am.

Um, so...

I could write more about how - in all likelihood - I'll end up alone. But that will require me getting all dramatic and depressed, and I don't feel like it right now.

The lawn is mowed, and groceries were purchased - I just had a delightful salad. I redid my template out of boredom. It's severe, I think. I wanted something elegant and simple and I do enjoy black and white. I think I like the graphics - the leaves are complex but work with the jellyfish nicely. But, well, the contrast - especially to the cheerful green with the flowers - is stark. I had the titles in red, but I recoiled when I viewed the page.

"Why are you angry, blog?" I asked softly, and changed the colors to something a bit softer. Unfortunately, I'm not having strong opinions about much of anything this evening. So I'll see how I feel about the new graphics tomorrow. The green might make a quick return.

Other than that? Nothing much is happening today, which is fine. But I've fallen into the 'blah' mood that refuses to budge for any sort of decent blog entry. There's always tomorrow.

Football, Greek food and my lovely day

I’m of two minds when it comes to getting over something sad. And whether we’re talking about loss or loneliness – neither a very cheerful topic – distractions seem like a good idea. Be busy and occupied with other thoughts so I can't dwell upon sadness that at times seems overwhelming. The problem I have with this is that the sadness still comes – sharply surprising me at odd moments, and the pain catches me off guard. But at least there’s other stuff to talk about. Distractions are helpful and help with the whole time thing.

So! Today there was football with my Unnamed Friend, which was … good, I guess. First, my team is, um, not so talented. I found myself laughing more than once. "And there's another flag!" turned to "For crying out loud." I did comment to my Unnamed Friend that I liked sporting events in the south. Rabid loyalty for the team mixed with a certain politeness when trying to scoot in front of people on the bleachers. Uncivilized seating – bleachers. I don’t enjoy it. Then again, I’m not sure how polite the little blonde woman was when she screamed at the referee that he should go back to the farm animals (he either was like the pigs or liked to do things with the pigs – I’m not sure. Neither is very nice though.) There is, however, something delightful to me about hearing vile threats and lengthy insults shouted in the drawl that can otherwise be so sweet.

After I was sure I was getting burned on my right side (my face isn’t as bad as I feared, but my arm is much worse), I nodded when my Unnamed Friend asked again if my complaints of excessive heat, discomfort or hunger meant I wanted to leave. Carefully carrying my souvenir cup in one hand while my little blue purse (it matched my flip flops!) was tucked under the other arm, we headed back across campus then to a Farmers Market.

“It’s an actual structure!” I exclaimed upon seeing it, my initial ‘eh’ attitude fading when I saw the pretty building instead of scattered stands placed outside. I coveted the huge mum plants, but decided against them. I bragged about my flowers – how they’re filling in the entire bed and growing so tall though I didn't plant them – until my Unnamed Friend asked if they were weeds.

I paused, considered then shrugged. I guess they might be weeds, but we’ve already covered my thoughts on that. If the weeds are pretty, they may grow in my flower beds. I just want flowers, and my pretty orange/purple/pink/white mix is as pretty as the purple plant I liked before. Then I smiled, thinking of how I spent time earlier today pruning my three bushes, and pulling weeds from around my pretty flowers.

“I wonder if the neighbors think I’m weird. Out there every weekend, weeding around my weeds.”

I was leery of the Greek stand – incredibly hungry, but unsure of the quality of our proposed lunch. But it was busy, so I comforted myself with the thought that it should at least be OK.

It was the most fantastic food I’ve had in a long time. I ate quickly so that I could consume as much as possible before getting full, then continued to eat until I was slightly ill. Then I had my piece of baklava and felt miserable. But the food was wonderful – I just got too excited and ate too much of it.

The excessive fullness prohibited me from wanting any of the produce we revisited before leaving, and made the oriental market experience slightly surreal. Foreign languages printed and spoken, so much tea, gross pictures, an overwhelming corner of incense. It did serve as a contrast to my experience in Japan. When I was there, I was hungry but grossed out by the offerings. This time I was stuffed, but could imagine some mild interest in the international food had the thought of any food not been somewhat revolting.

I did buy 3 blush pears before leaving – it seemed wrong to leave without any produce at all when I was so pleased by the market in general.

After about an hour on her couch, I traded a wonderful blood orange soda/tequila drink (that she made weak for me! Such a good Unnamed Friend.) and a gorgeous, small cat in an apartment closer to town for my 52 pound dog and a glass of Chardonnay (oh, yes, I’m tipsy now.) in my house outside town. They appeared to have reopened the only large road out here – the parade must have been completed while I was off at the game or market or Unnamed Friend’s apartment. I hope it was a good parade for the folks who lined the sides of the street as I drove off this morning. I enjoyed seeing the man and his grandson on the bright green tractor as they waited to start, so perhaps everyone else did too.

I have more thoughts on the post from last night. I appreciate the comments and will consider them further. Later. For now, I’m tired from a very nice day. I’m quite pleased I’ve found a friend who lives in my current location. Greek food is amazing, though it’s in an inconvenient location. My football seats aren’t bad, and perhaps eventually I’ll figure out if the officials are pigs, or if they just really like them. I’m a little tipsy too, and some subjects call for sober reflection. But there are days of silly fun among the ones filled with work and worry. It’s important to remember those, I think. So the time I took to write this all down (hoping all the while it’s coherent) might have been well spent.

Eh.

I'm feeling a bit blah tonight. Sad, though I know it's silly. I look around and see devastating pain. People - even in my own life - have died. There are those suffering though illnesses that require strength I can't even imagine. Some lack the resources to provide for their families. And yet I, comfortably cuddled on my loveseat in the house I bought, suffer only from loss of hope. I think that's what bothers me at the moment. I don't think I believe I'm going to find anyone to love. It just doesn't make sense that it would happen. And while it's very much not OK, I'm tired of battling disappointment. At some point, isn't it better to just accept what is rather than throwing energy after a futile pursuit? I am, of course, aware that it's a phase. I'm tired and sad and I don't want to think about doing this again. I'll bounce back.

I'm refusing to wallow for too long though - I've spent so much of the past few months being depressed. Wasting time. I've enjoyed the cheer of the past few days - implementing The Plan has been quite helpful. I'm meeting my Unnamed Friend tomorrow for football (not sure if she was guilted into it by my enthusiasm or the irresistible need to support The Plan) and am looking forward to the day. I mowed my lawn tonight - that always makes me happy. The weather is cooler. I received congratulatory emails from my boss and another mentor after receiving some funding earlier this week. That was nice. It's going well.

Here's the thing. Remember Violet? I adore the woman - think she's fantastic. She's also adopting a little boy - he should be arriving soon. I was telling Carrie about it and she noted that she'd very much like to consider adopting at some point. I agreed - I'm crazy about toddlers (they can talk and are less fragile), but am awkward and weird around babies (What if I hurt them? And they do smell funny. I feel terribly guilty for moving away rather than toward the tiny creatures, but honestly. I get very nervous.) - so adoption would be a consideration for me.

"It's great that she's doing it on her own." Carrie commented. And tired from a day at Disney World, I just stared out the window for a moment before responding.

"It was time." I said simply, thinking sadly to a day I might say the same for myself. Carrie must have been sleepy herself because she didn't reply.

So I continued.

"It's not guaranteed that you find someone. Life isn't always fair. With jobs or love or children. You can work all you want - deserve something more than anyone you know - and still not get to your goal. There are amazing women who end up alone. I've met some. It's chilling, honestly, because if they can't figure this out, there's no way in hell I'm going to.

"So," I concluded, "it seems the smart thing to do is exactly what Violet did. You wait for as long as you can justify - try to date, give over to someone who ends up not wanting you, try to settle for someone who just isn't right - then you decide it's time. You're getting older. Love - in the romantic, wonderful, keep-him-forever sense - isn't going to happen for you. And you want a child - I understand that desire very well (even with my "I'd rather not hold that baby. Thanks." attitude) - so you call those romantic hopes off and move on."

"She's not moving on!" Carrie protested. "She can still find someone to love! She's just not waiting for him to start her family."

"No." I said, laughing a little and shaking my head at her because I don't see it that way. "She's done. It's not going to happen. She found the baby alone. She'll name him and take care of him and raise him. Alone. She's not looking anymore. Game over. It would have been nice, but it's not realistic anymore for her. She's moving on."

"She could still find someone!" Carrie insisted, and I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"How the hell do you figure?" I demanded, starting to get irritated. "She's not willing to settle - she wants someone amazing, and if he doesn't come along, she's fine on her own. So why - after she's gotten older, settled into a single lifestyle, adopted a baby - do you think a man is going to come along when she's not even open to meeting him and sweep her off her feet? It doesn't make sense. She's done with that phase and is going to the next one. I think that's logical and smart. It's exactly what I plan to do."

"Just give up?" She asked, irritated herself. This is the point where we start to act like spoiled terriers and snap at each other.

"Yes. There's only so much of life that I can mourn for something that isn't going to happen. Only so many years I can justify spending searching for a man I can love who will love me back. Then I'll make a decision - close that part of my heart off, let it heal, then turn my attention to the other parts of my heart that are ready to love. Figure out how I want to have a child. And I won't look anymore because I'll have moved on."

"I think that's sad." She said.

"Of course it is." I sighed. Then I nodded and blinked back tears because it is sad. To look at what I wanted - what I still hope for - and acknowledge that if it doesn't happen for some women, I could easily be one of them. It's quite painful. And unless you're willing to date and marry me, there's limited comfort you can offer. Because you don't know that I won't be like Violet. Pretty, smart, successful. Warm, funny, sweet. And alone.

The comfort in this situation does not lie in platitudes - nobody can be sure I'll find someone, though it's certainly sweet if you're thinking I likely will. That someone should love me because I have good qualities. Because I want to find him so very much. It's not always fair, and there are certainly no guarantees. And there are worse things than staying single - I absolutely understand that.

The comfort is that you can still be successful - find people who love you as friends and family. Be content with being able to roll around freely as you sleep when you'd rather be bumping into someone and tugging to get enough blanket. Deal with the stress and joy of adopting all by yourself - basking in that excitement and happiness. Buying a house and feeling pleased every time I mow the lawn because this is mine. But I remember moving in - hoping I'd repeat the process with a partner sometime in the future. Have someone to make faces at when Dad needed to make one more trip to Lowes. Share the work and exhaustion rather than facing what sometimes seems like overwhelming responsibility on my own.

At some point though, it seems to me that I can decide to enjoy what I have - and I have a considerable amount for which to be supremely grateful - or I can continue to mourn what I might not ever receive. For now? I miss the hope - the giddy thought that if he likes me then maybe it will work! And if not, if I somehow captured the attention of someone so wonderful, then I should be able to find someone equally amazing later on!

I commented - I think for Dryden (yep, on this post) "My overall thought is that - in your position - I'd try to buy into the belief that things work out in the end. It may not be true, but at least there's some comfort in the present moment." And I do believe that's the way to go - assume that life is going to go your way, and live with that comfort and happiness.

But at some moments, when it becomes obvious that - while things are going to be OK and will work out in the end - you're not going to get what you wanted in the way you wanted, isn't it best to prepare yourself? For me to know I'll do pretty well on my own? To look ahead, think that I have a lot of time before I need to move on myself, but start resolving myself to the fact that it very well might come down to that?

"I don't like that you see it that way." Carrie said, setting her mouth in displeasure.

"I don't know that I do either." I said with a shrug, looking out the window and watching the world go by. "But I think that's just how it is."

And with a heavy sigh, I'll leave it at that.

Error: Out of Memory

Of all the excuses that can be used when you’ve avoided doing something – returning a phone call, responding to email, making plans to see a person – I have one that I strongly dislike hearing. Now I cancel plans and avoid people more than most, I guess. I get depressed or am overly self-centered. Just don’t feel like talking. So I’ve used many excuses myself and don't blame people for using the one I hate. It's not you, folks. It's me.

Why did I think of it? Are you ready for a programming story?

I did some work on Project H today – the time-consuming yet difficult part ended up being easy. Well, it was easy after I figured out how to fix a problem. Let’s see if I can tell you a bit about what I’m trying to do. There are these massive data matrices, and I think I’ve isolated the center of the most interesting information. To try to figure out what’s really going on, people have suggested that I create a series of spheres so that I have concentric rings in three dimensions that radiate outward from this center I can define. Through some sort of comparison of these 30 rings, I should be able to isolate the part of the data that’s most important.

The time-consuming but easy part was creating the spheres. Making empty datasets to match the original, then filling in values, clicking on points, checking to make sure everything was aligned properly. I did that for about 30 patients (that’s 900 spheres for those of you who didn’t feel like doing the math), then wrote a simple Matlab function that would give me the 30 histograms (per patient) that I needed. A few things needed to happen, so I decided to do it assembly line style.

To start, I need to have Matlab load the spheres. Then I wanted to know how big each sphere was (it did vary for complicated reasons. I’ll spare you that part), needed to reshape it, find nonzero voxels, make an initial histogram, then normalize it. Then that histogram waits for the next biggest sphere to go through the same process so we can subtract the two. And now we have a ring. We need 29 more.

Since it is a continuous process (sphere9-sphere8, then sphere10-sphere9, etc.), it made sense (to me, anyway) to go through groups of functions. Load all spheres. Then determine size of all spheres. Make all the histograms. Normalize all histograms. Then subtract. Lovely.

Except I tried to run that in Matlab and got to sphere 17 (of 30, remember?) and Matlab said no. Error: Out of Memory. Red text appears on the screen and the little “Busy” indicator in the corner goes away because I asked for too much. Dismayed, I stared at the screen yesterday and quit. Went to work, made my presentation (I got some money!) and decided I’d think about it this morning. Then I woke up and after my devotional time but before my walk (Oh, I still love The Plan. A lot.), I rewrote my code. The answer is obvious, after all.

What I want to do is only load what I’ll use right away. Then clear it so there’s room for new information. So I load sphere1, make it all neat, pretty and get it to final form, keep only that smaller, useful final piece of data, and erase the rest. Then there’s room for sphere2 to go through the same process. Matlab zips right through the data and spits out my histograms like a good little program.

What struck me – because this is a lot of mindless copying as I make my way through all the patient data – is that it might make a nice analogy. A sad one, but something I need to work through.

The truth is that we can only push ourselves so hard – can only ask so much of others. We have limited resources and are – in some sense – defined by those limitations. Some of us travel based upon how much money and vacation we can spare. Many of us live where we can find jobs that satisfy us rather than a great love for our geographical region. We share offices because there’s nothing else available. Deal with substandard software or equipment because we can’t afford better.

Choose people to love based on the amount of emotional energy we have to spare.

Or maybe that’s just me.

But as I get older, I already have people taking up space in my heart. And I don’t feel I’m able to give them the attention they deserve at times. I haven’t spoken to Rachel since she visited. Talked to Elle the following week, but not again recently. Carrie and I won’t see each other until next spring, and only then if we end up at the same conferences. M might visit me next year after an exam she needs to take in Kentucky. And I’m actually congratulating myself for actually doing in-person visits with 3 of the 4 women within the past year. I’m pleased I found time to spend with my family before coming home from my Florida trip. It just doesn’t fit in all that easily!

I love each of these people too much to discard them completely, so I’ve reduced them to some manageable form, then saved that. I used to help fix dinner and take turns with Brother drying dishes while Mom washed. Now, even when I'm home, we'll eat out or throw something together, then clean up as we find time around the Little One's schedule. Those talks with Mom are pushed aside. All that time I spent in undergrad listening to how a paper was graded unfairly or how this really cute boy smiled at her? Cleared. I have no idea how any of my girls are doing day to day. While the process seems normal and necessary, I also find it sad.

At some point, it’s a little like using people, isn’t it? My girls in undergrad – Rachel and Elle – were my first real friends. They knew me and loved me and offered this incredible sense of comfort and support. I, dazzled with gratitude that I found such amazing women to share living space with, showered them with affection and time spent listening, laughing, patting shoulders in sympathy, gasping with outrage when someone had wronged them.

Then I started grad school, and found myself making room for new friends, classes, research, my own apartment. Rachel and Elle got reduced and/or cleared in some normal but very real way. I find myself missing them, though there’s no way to incorporate them into my daily life now any more than there was in grad school. So is that it? I’m done? They were a sphere I needed at one point of the program, but now all I need is the final histogram? Push the rest aside so there’s room for new information to enter?

The problem – for me – with living alone for so long is that I’ve become a bit more selfish. Find I guard my time carefully. Decide to refuse social plans so that I can rest and relax at home. I love doing my yard work because it’s productive time I can spend alone with my thoughts. Yet I’ll sometimes scowl when my parents call to talk. Find myself wishing for a nap when the Little One asks for more Blue or Barney. It’s awful, but I get tired. Out of memory, basically. Something has to get shoved aside to make room for more work. Different friends. Implementing The Plan.

It seems, therefore, that I’d be understanding of getting pushed aside myself. Would be gracious and understanding because, after all, I count myself among the worst offenders.

So, the worst excuse you can give me? That makes me hurt though it’s completely honest and understandable?

“I’m just really busy.”

Because all I can wonder, upon hearing such a thing, is when I’ll find someone who wants to keep me. Who finds me so fascinating and charming that he’s willing to clear other things to make more room for me.

Even when I hear it from friends or colleagues, I remember I hearing the excuse from Gabe – despairing over why I couldn’t be more important to someone I considered so amazing. And now, over 7 years later, I still haven’t found it. The sphere that makes up Katie is easily reduced to a tiny blip or erased completely. It’s difficult – even with The Plan – to ignore that fact. To make my way through these data with my efficient little m-file and wonder why I can't find someone who wants to keep me.

Katie + The Plan = BFF

I realized, full of self-congratulatory sentiment on my commute home, that I’m firmly within the honeymoon phase of The Plan. Look, I even gave it capital letters because I like it so much!

The Plan and I are deeply infatuated at this point. I woke up this morning at 3:30. Not a good habit, honestly, and you will find “Wake up – sick and worried – between 3 and 4AM each day” nowhere in The Plan. I do not enjoy this activity and would be content if I stopped doing it. Really. But instead of lying in bed for hours, trying to figure out what my problem was, I got up, picked up the devotional book I left on the kitchen table, and previewed my morning message.

It was good – all about certain things being better after a rest.

“I wish I was resting right now.” I mumbled as I made my way sleepily to my favorite spot on the loveseat and picked up the laptop. But I was comforted by the little page of printed material and soon left email alone and shuffled my way back to the bedroom, nudged Chienne over to one side and cuddled into my pillows.

I remember thinking, as I tried to relax and let sleep come to me rather than determinedly glaring at my inability to rest, that I wanted a nice dream. Something about a man who loved me. Maybe our children sleeping down the hall. A safe, comfortable, constant presence in my life. Perhaps he’d ask if I were OK if I woke up in the early morning hours. I could cuddle until I fell asleep again rather than wandering the house. The little fantasy helped and I did drift into a dream. The fact that it was about looking for a lost, chirping cell phone on a mountain trek with people I didn’t know is hardly the point.

I woke up this morning (at 7 this time), sat at the table while coffee brewed, and re-read the little story about rests in music and life, then opened my Bible, as directed, to the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20). Then I sat and read the chapter out loud and considered how very long it’s been since I’ve done anything like that. I’m easily motivated by lists and guilt, so seeing the materials sitting proudly on the table I rarely use for eating should keep me sitting down each morning. I hope so, anyway. I think it's good for me.

Chienne and I took an extra long walk, and I smiled happily over the mild temperatures. I realized that I’m about to be rewarded for suffering through this miserable summer. Fall seems long here in the south – in my 1 year of experience, I remember some heat being inflicted, but mostly there were long weeks of moderate temperatures that make excellent walking weather. Then we’ll ease into “winter” where I likely won’t use my coat at all. Rather I’ll wait a bit later in the morning to walk, then happily head out in a sweatshirt. I’ll scrape ice off my car once or twice if at all. I won’t worry about my ability to drive home in awful weather. And knowing it will be my last winter here will likely make me appreciate it all the more.

I dealt with miserable nerves this morning, made a presentation, then basked in the euphoric relief that inevitably follows. My boss was quite proud, which made me very happy. If all goes well, I’ll actually get some money to do some research. Delightful. All around goodness.

I left a bit early and marveled again and the fantastic weather today. So I traded my pretty heels for flip flops and walked to my car after work. It's a pretty campus, I decided, then cocked my head at myself. Dare I call myself happy? Really?

I listened to America (The Audiobook) on the commute home and instead of my becoming-typical moping, I laughed. Hard. A lot. It’s an excellent way to spend my driving time, I think. So it made me happy. I know I’m late to read it (or “read” it as the case may be – I’m all about the “quotes” today, aren’t I?), but it’s smart and terribly funny. I highly recommend it.

As I drove Chienne home from her vet appointment (a shot for her allergies – she’s been sleeping and calmed down with the itching already), I was convinced that I’d turned my life around. No more being sad! It’s all about the changes! The Plan!

“Oh.” I told Chienne as I realized something. “This is the easy part. Where I’m excited and eager and focused. I wonder how long it will last?”

Not long, I suspect. I’ll start “working” from home more and lose track of all these projects that are supposed to be going so well. I might find television shows I just have to see in the new fall line-ups and avoid going out and being social or busy. Come closer and closer to writing my “Fine.” post. But for now it’s all easy and wonderful. So I’ll enjoy that while it lasts and hope for the best.

So maybe BFF is a bit strong. But The Plan and I are definitely Best Friends For Now.

Look out! I have a plan!

I love plans – there are very few things that make me gleeful when I’m having a bad time than plotting how to get myself out of said sadness. The problem is that plans – or rather the execution thereof – require a ton of energy. Change is hard – from beginning to end – and the more I realize how very true that is, the more likely I am to think a nap is likely the better option.

But no. I think control (or the illusion of control? No matter – we’re focused on the plan!) is crucial right now. I need to be busy – have needed that all summer, but have instead wallowed and moped. I’m OK with that – it was probably the right thing to do so I could prepare for what could be a challenging several months. But when I spent parts of last night walking from the bedroom to the living room to the shower, murmuring alternately “it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” Or “I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m sad.” It's just too much lately - all kinds of sad things keep happening and I'm tired of feeling helpless and small. Something has to give.

Or, in my case, a number of somethings!

Problem 1. Location
On my drive home a couple weeks ago, I rolled down the window on a country road that had been reduced to a single lane over a bridge that was being repaired. Chienne doesn’t like to stop without being able to explore, so I compromise and roll the window down so she can stick her white nose and floppy ears out the window and sniff. She enjoys this very much.

I glanced in the rearview mirror as I leaned over to pat her as the window eased downward and was wearing a grimace. I despise the pervasive heat and humidity that defines every day of my life here in the south, and though I expect it, I greet it with uniform displeasure. I eased closer to the open window when I noticed the air coming in was not hellishly hot and heavy, but cool. It smelled of freshly cut grass and oncoming rain, and there was a hint of exhaust from the construction equipment busily working as we waited our turn to cross the bridge.

I opened my window, resisted the urge to stick my nose and newly cut above the shoulder hair out the window like the dog, and breathed in deeply. My mood was instantly lighter with eager anticipation for fall. But I don’t want to wait until it creeps down to me. I want breaks from the heat, the early arrival of the turning leaves and cooler temperatures, bitterly cold winters that make your ears and nose hurt then go numb. So I looked at Chienne as our lane of traffic started to move, but left the windows down as we proceeded north.

“I want to go home.” I told her, and decided that when my second year is up, I will depart my southern city. This is a big deal, and is causing me a small amount of worry, but I believe it's right.

Problem 2. Health
I’ve been half-assing it here. And that’s OK too – I’ve taken off some weight that I desperately needed to lose. I feel and look better. That’s nice. But enough screwing around.

I haven’t had a physical since I got here. I can’t get the doctor’s office to answer right now, but I will make an appointment today. Then I will actually show up at said appointment, and let them draw blood, look at my freckles to make sure they’re not bad freckles (I don’t think they are though) and go through that general unpleasantness to make sure nothing is wrong. Then I will feel happy and relieved. It’s going to be fantastic. (It's also going to be in late January - I could pretend I'm disappointed in the long wait, but I'm not.)

My morning walks are great – good for me for doing that. I eat reasonably. For someone who is somewhat busy and single, that is. But I’m adding aerobics to my routine – when my walk is rained out or I’m feeling blah in the evenings, I plan to do something extra. Plus, Richard Simmons believes I can lose the weight and since I did the last time I worked with him, I like him. I find him sweet and nonthreatening, and he usually says “God bless you.” at the end of the tapes, at which point I can say, “God bless you too, Richard Simmons.” and I feel good about having done a gentle work-out. I've done tapes with Mom since I was young, and I'm not ashamed. Richard and I are going to be pals again.

I’m more on the fence about the food, but I do think that’s important too. I still have to come up with a plan here though. Luckily, being depressed has morphed into a 'too sad to eat' sort of experience of late. This is a huge contrast to my grad school experiences of 'eat everything in sight then figure out how to get more delivered.' Neither are good, but given the choice, I'll take the former.

Problem 3. God
Well, God isn’t the problem, being perfect and all, but I’ve drifted away. In my mind, He’s pulling me back and I very much appreciate the gesture. I’m being reminded in several ways that I need Him a great deal. I’m praying more and feeling more peaceful. I’m scared about some of these changes I want to implement, so I’m seeking reassurance, comfort and some sort of gentle guidance of which direction might work best.

I have several guided devotional books gathering a great deal of dust. I’ll have to actually find my Bible and note it’s good that God forgives because it’s shameful that I haven’t used it in so long. I’ve abandoned the ‘find a new church!’ plan and have decided to attend the one I originally chose. It’s convenient, comfortable and will provide me a place to worship – sing and pray and learn in a community with many families. I like contributing financially to their ministry and I can grow a bit there. It doesn’t have to be perfect because I’m not staying here. And that makes me more relaxed about my relationship with a church, and more intense about my relationship with God. Both are good realizations.

Problem 4. Professional
Lack of progress. Always with the lack of [insert curse word because I'm trying to cut back. See Problem 3.] progress. I think the knowledge that I’m going to be doing some job searching in about 9 months will provided the terrified motivation to get something done. After all, who wants to answer, “Not so much. I did start a blog!” when asked about their postdoctoral experience? Not I, said the Katie. So after I finish writing out the overall plan for life, I shall write out the overall plan for research. With a time line. It might even be color-coded!

Briefly, I’m not going to resubmit the grant. I’ll wait until I move, decide what’s appropriate and submit it elsewhere. It’s a good start, so I’ll work on revising it, but not a priority. This frees up time. I sort of enjoy seeing people post lists of their work, so I'll give you mine too. Free free to skip it since it's more for my benefit than yours. (Why I think the rest of this post is keeping you on the edge of your seat with fascinated interest, I'm not sure.)

• Pilot Project M – 100 patients? Intimidating. 10 patients? Doable. Schedule a meeting (check!), figure out the plan, find some money and get the data. Write a paper.
• Project X – 20-30 patients on the best study I’ve ever designed. It will work (I think). It should generate 2-3 papers of high quality (maybe). I’m asking for money tomorrow and very much hope to get some. Then we’ll get started (hopefully). This is going to be the main priority very soon (though I wish I had more confidence). It’s exciting.
• Project P – This is a pain in the ass for a few reasons. I need to sit down with Boss and decide how we’re going about it, what the endpoints are, and what the weekly responsibilities should be. I don’t want to do it, but understand it will help me and the institution. So just deal, Katie, I scold myself.
• Project H – I want my own paper out of this and have stubbornly set my mind on it. I have a decent idea, have done the time-consuming yet easy part, and need to finish up the analysis with the time-consuming yet hard part. I’d like to present it to a few people again next week, then write. Please work. Please, please, please let something work. Regardless, it should provide a much-needed authorship on what could be an important piece of work from the penguin.
• Project F – for Finish up the Freaking thesis crap already. Paper 1 – published soon. Paper 2 – revised and resubmitted. Oddly proud of that little guy. Paper 3 – undergoing major revisions with Boss’s help. Please, please, please let that work out.
• Project B – Play whatever minor role can get my name on this paper. Don’t focus too much on the mindless tasks offered here because it’s not that big of a deal.

Problem 5. Social
Emboldened by meeting my Unnamed Friend, I have decided that I will enjoy my current location (which is delightful, actually) as much as possible in the coming months. I could easily blow this one off though (Know thyself, yes?), so I’ve set specific goals.

I bought season tickets for football, which was insanely cheap. They arrived while I was away and the tickets are so pretty! I will find someone to attend each game with me and can trek to campus to enjoy this activity. I like (though not love) football and have never attended a college game. Ever. I’m fixing that very soon.

I’m seriously considering dating a bit. I’m thinking eHarmony. 1 month only. No initiating contact, but responding to everyone promptly and happily. I like those guidelines – I think I’ll do it. Perhaps I'll meet someone to take to football!

Given the choice between forcing friendships – whether through dating or picking people and trying to do things with them – and going someplace alone, I’ll go alone more often than not (though not always). So I’ll try that – art exhibits, shows, symphonies. If I want to go and nobody wants to go with, I’ll try going by myself. If it’s awful, I won’t do it again. But it might be just fine.

Problem 6. Family
I miss my family. A lot. I enjoy the Little One tremendously. I can laugh and talk to Mom with such amazing comfort that I’m lost as to how I can live without it on a more regular basis. While I’m not able to move immediately (it doesn’t fit with the plan!), I am going to make more trips home. The drive is inconvenient. It’s sometimes stressful to be at home around the noise when I’m so accustomed to quiet. Goals 4 and much of 5 might suffer. That’s OK. I want to spend more time with people I love – this every other month thing doesn’t work for me.

One thing I've learned is that some things - many things, maybe - are finite. People go away in any number of ways, for any number of reasons. And while it can be heartbreaking, infuriating or surprisingly OK, there's a reason that so many people advise spending time with people you love. Showering them with affection and attention while you have them. I need to do that.

Problem 7. Being selfish
This is probably a big one, and I'm throwing at the end because, well, I am selfish. It's a character flaw. So I'll talk endlessly about me and how life is going to change (yes, I know it's going to be hard. Parts of it may not happen. But part of the joy in a plan is the initial stage where I believe it's not only possible, but likely that I'm going to emerge from the plan a better, stronger, super Katie! Wait for the post in just a little while - I think I'll title it "Fine." and write something like, "The plan failed. I'm watching televison. We won't speak of the plan again.")

I got distracted by talking about me again. Sorry.

I want to tutor my little group again, starting soon. Next week, hopefully. I enjoy them. I think I'll do better this year. I hope it matters a bit to them. It, at least, takes me out of my head for an hour and keeps my focus on younger people who have choices ahead of them that I've already made. I wish I could do more, but I don't know that I can follow through. So we'll stick here for now.

I think that's it. Seven problems - seven ways to make some serious progress! I'm excited - it could generate some new, interesting posts. Or at least the "Fine." one. Good times.

Time

I have a few good coping mechanisms. They’re not novel, but I continue to remind myself of them when I’m feeling badly. I’ve done my share of moping in the time I’ve been here (posts too numerous to link), so I’ve done more than a little thinking about some tricks that help me function.

The first is pretty obvious. I’m introverted and tend to gain perspective and strength through time spent by myself – whether I’m mindlessly watching television, forgetting about my problems through reading blogs, curling up to nap, spending time in prayer, writing something appropriately painful and miserable. It takes some time – sometimes days, sometimes weeks – but I tend to bounce back. I count on that – tell myself that if I hang in there, I’ll figure it out, then return to full productivity and cheerful enjoyment of the outside world.

The second is equally important since I’m a bit sensitive. My delicate feelings are easily bruised, then I feel sorry for myself and things spiral downward relatively quickly. On a day like today – where sadness seems overwhelming – I kept reminding myself of how I heal. It just takes time. I get through today – whether by working or watching television or reading a book – then tonight I get to sleep and wake up to tomorrow. One day exists between me and whatever hurt me. Those days have a way of starting to pass more quickly – I forget to dwell upon the boy who didn’t call or the grant I didn’t get funded or how very much I miss living close to my family. Sometimes those thoughts return and they sting, but it’s more manageable.

After I wrote my dating series, many searches regarding ‘how long do I wait for him to call?’ or ‘should I call him?’ brought people here. I’d twist my mouth for each of them, shake my head, then shrug. I’m not really sure, even having done more blind dating than any one person should have to endure. It’s tough, and all the He’s Just Not That Into You books or Dr. Phil advice doesn’t appeal to me. Though I haven’t read either, so I guess I can’t make a strong statement either way.

My guess – the one that’s hopeful – is that it doesn’t matter if or when you call him. If he likes you, it’ll be fine. He’ll be charmed by your interest or intrigued by your absence. If he doesn’t, day 2 vs. day 5 won’t matter much, I think. If you can’t stand the wait, call. I’ve been there – it’s strangely soothing to take control, regardless of the outcome. If you’re despondently resolved to let him come to you (or not), then wait it out. I’ve found that every day I come home to an unblinking answering machine light, no jingles to notify me I have voice mail, or an empty inbox means that I’m one day closer to diminished hope that he’ll wake up and realize how fantastic I am, which means the intensity of the pain lessens as well.

Making my way through those days isn’t easy, which I why I keep a careful mental list of all the times it’s worked before. I believe completely in the efficacy of this strategy – difficult as it may be at first – so those reminders help. I can think about Gabe – now 3 years after we’ve had any contact at all – with not much feeling at all. I am, in fact, befuddled as to why I cared for so long and with such intensity. When I first went home after we had our family dog put to sleep, I wondered if I’d ever stop looking for her. Suppress that impulse to reach down to cuddle her before I went to sleep. I knew I would - I stopped dialing Grandma's number when I wanted to talk. But I was just back at my parents’ and didn’t think of her at all. Time passed. It got easier. It’s the only thing I’ve found that works. Though I still look for Winnie at group meetings.

Now there are all sorts of mechanisms for getting through the bad days, right? I tend to give people some sort of free pass here – you’re hurting and I hate to see people in pain, so if you can find something that comforts you, go for it. Eat some ice cream, though I prefer cake (brownies, cookies...) Drink – I like white wines, but don't have more than 2 glasses without getting sleepy. Sneer and swear at the happy couples around you – they clearly do suck when I’m unhappy. Drive by a prison on a commute and think that at least I have my freedom. Pray. That last one does the trick for me, though it often takes me a little while to get there. I wondered, as peace settled around me recently, if this is all some continuous lesson God can’t quite get to stick.

Things go wrong. I don’t always get what I want, and understanding that life has a way for working out for the best doesn’t offer a significant comfort in the moments after I realize I’ve been thwarted. Let’s say I fell in love. With a man who lives in Town which is outside City. Perhaps the relationship has been ending for a long time, but I officially took steps to finish things off, though I did so only “for the time being” understanding that it would likely culminate in “until the end of time.” I would be sad about this end, but would acknowledge that it was the right thing to do. It doesn’t help when I need a moment to catch my breath from the stress of work and have to recoil from a comforting fantasy of being with someone specific. When I hear a song I’d told him I liked, then skip past it on my iPod because it hurts to think about – to remember the brilliant hope I had and realize that the goal now is to kill it.

I returned home today – one day away from the pain I estimate will last a nice, long while – and opened some mail. There were 2 wedding invitations that arrived while I was traveling, which is funny in a sad sort of way. But so many people have found what I’m looking for that I’m used to sending my regrets, choosing a gift to have delivered, then forgetting all about it. I don’t like weddings. These two – one from a grad school friend I liked a great deal, and another from a cousin – are in Town and City, respectively. I laughed - life is funny. And if sometimes there are minor pains – frustrated desires, basically – it’s good to put them in perspective.

Which I will do. Later. Until then, Time – Sarah McLachlan – makes me ache and feel desperately sorry for myself. So for now, I think the goal is to wallow a bit, distract a lot, and keep waiting.

Jean C. DePalma

I’ve put a lot of thought into how to write this. I think it’s an incredible idea – a set of tributes to a group of people killed on a terrible day.

I didn’t make the decision to participate lightly, and was moved to tears immediately when seeing Jean’s picture. So I did what I normally do when something upsets me. I look for long enough to remember - to make sure it lingers in my thoughts, then wait until I figure out what to say.

My first thought was to do research – to find details of her life and family and work so I could share them with you. So we could get a sense of the true loss not only in the overall event, but in this individual life lost. After my searching though, I’m left with very little more than was offered by the 2,996 project.

Jean was a vice president in the CAPS division (Claims Accounting and Preparation Services) of Marsh. She lived in Newfoundland, New Jersey – apparently about 40 miles outside New York City. I’m not sure if she was married – if the baby in the picture is hers. She was 42 when she was killed.

It's precious little information, isn't it? She was important to people. I've given her a great deal of thought lately. And though I've written and rewritten this several times, it's terribly difficult to know what to say.

My life of late has included a great deal of thought about death. About how to remember a friend – someone I did know, someone I loved and respected though I wished I knew her better. I watched the world around me continue – work went on, a brief tribute was attended, but I felt that there needed to be more. She was special, my friend, Winnie, and I wanted there to be some … something that indicated she mattered. That showed we missed her, wished desperately that she was still here.

I feel the same for Jean – wish I had something profound to indicate that I was saddened deeply that she was taken from the world. Wish she’d had the opportunity to spend time with those who loved her already, and to meet people in the future with whom she could laugh and learn and live.

I’ve talked with people I love about death – what it means to not be here anymore. And apart from my personal religious beliefs, I’ve learned something comforting. The world doesn’t have to mourn you. It can’t, really, because not everyone was blessed with the opportunity to know Jean. We don’t know if her sense of humor was gentle or biting. If she smiled easily or was more stern. If she sighed with impatience or listened to audiobooks on her commute. If she concerned herself with politics or preferred quiet community service. If her family is facing a terribly difficult day even as I sit and try to finish this.

“Katie,” I was told by Carrie – a dear friend from graduate school – as we spoke on the phone soon after Winnie died. “It’s good that you miss Winnie. That you think about her and wish there was something more you could do. But you didn’t have time to get close to her. You do love other people though. Your family and friends. Those are the people who know you, who would be crushed with sadness if you left us.

“I love you.” She assured me softly. “How we share sitcom references and laugh at the same jokes. How you have nightmares when you watch disturbing movies and sob over the sad ones. How you agonize over the future, then bounce back with sunny hope and trust that it’ll work out in the end. How you coo over dogs, regardless of how homely they may be. And when you decide to love someone, you do so completely. Not everyone gets to know you on that level. But those of us who do? We’d cry ourselves sick if you were gone. I promise.”

On that level, I trust that those who knew Jean have mourned her loss deeply, and hope that time has eased some of those wounds for them. I’m profoundly sorry for their loss, and simplicity has to work in writing this paragraph. There’s no way for me to express how very much she must be missed by those who played a role in her daily life.

The amazing thing about this online world in which many of us participate is that we do get to know each other – share worries and joys, offer sympathy that is surprisingly effective to people we might never meet. So when I asked to be part of the project, I felt very certain that my friends here would take this seriously. Would understand that regardless of how well or poorly I wrote, that I cared about Jean. Wanted people to spend a moment thinking of her and her family. It matters – sharing pieces of myself online. It makes me think about concepts I might have ignored, has introduced me to people I've come to love. It connects us in an unusual but important way.

This blog, due to the notice on Parts-n-Pieces, has connected me to Jean C. DePalma. Has afforded me the opportunity to think about her, cry for her loss, to hope that those she loved have found some measure of peace and happiness in these past years. I’m grateful for the chance to try to write this – I knew I’d feel inadequate in doing so, and I was right. I wish I could have done better, more, offered something appropriately meaningful. But we do what we can, I think, and continue to grow in our experiences and understand that this pain has various degrees of sharpness, even 5 years later. It's a very difficult day.

This blog, for me, has offered a great deal of support. I’m asking for a bit more tonight and tomorrow. Please think of Jean, and perhaps visit some of the other tributes that may celebrate or mourn people many of us did not get a chance to know.

Uncle Ray

“We should go to dinner first.” I said, peeking at the clock on the dash from the backseat of Dad’s sedan. He hasn’t driven it in months since he bought a used truck. Apparently we want to keep the blue car in pristine condition, which isn’t all that surprising if you knew my father.

“If we wait,” I continued, liking the sound of my own voice, “it’ll be crowded. We’ll have to wait for a table. Might have bad service. We should eat now, then go to Uncle Ray’s.”

In the absence of the Little One, my parents typically defer to me, so we picked a restaurant, had a pleasant dinner, then went back to the car to complete our trip.

I was dreading this, if it’s not obvious already. I don’t know how I feel about losing Uncle Ray – have cried over him, watched the online video of news coverage following the accident. It’s an awful thing, but it didn’t touch me in a deeply personal way for a lengthy time because we simply weren’t close. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, didn’t expect a response to the graduation announcement I sent many months ago. Knew we wouldn’t see him again anytime soon. Though his death was absolutely shocking and sad, I was more concerned on the impact it would have on Dad than myself.

I roll my eyes at my family because they’ve taken stuff. Scolded Mom about having piles of DVDs in the living room – tacky decision, that. So she put some in the office and then took a case from Uncle Ray’s that neatly displays the others in the living room. Dad, Brian, and now myself – we all have tools and parts and pieces from his garages. The man has an estate that looks to be worth upwards of $400,000, owned a veritable fleet of vehicles and bought all his clothes at Goodwill and shopped for other items at Dollar General. All that money – I keep thinking, knowing I won’t turn down what Dad plans to offer me – and he didn’t do anything with it. Travel, give it away so people could think him kind, build a bigger house than his modest 2 bedroom structure. I don’t understand, frankly.

I walked up the two steps to the porch, reaching out for Mom since her knees are bad and the ground was uneven. She and Dad preceded me into the house – a small gray building that matches the two garages Uncle Ray had built. It was much warmer in the house than it was outside, and Mom quickly turned on a fan inside the door. I commented on the high ceilings – they were pretty and as Uncle Ray had designed. Then frowned over the bare light bulb in the hall – no glass globe to soften the glow. It smelled of Uncle Ray – grease. Not unpleasant, but perceptible. The scent had seeped into his clothes and skin, his love for cars and their inner workings immediately apparent to all who met him. In addition to his superior, negative attitude, of course.

I looked around, then followed Dad down a short hallway to a bedroom.

“Is this how he left it or did you do this?” I asked Mom, not bothered by the clutter of clothing, but unnerved that it might have been left that way and remained undisturbed.

“We’ve done a little in here, but not much.” She said, waiting in the doorway as Dad and I took up most of the space around the bed and piles of clothes.

“Are those dirty? Does he have a washer?”

“Yes, and no. He had his laundry done by a service, I think.” Mom responded to my questions, looking to Dad as he nodded in confirmation.

“So those are clean?” I pulled my attention away from the full laundry basket, feeling the pull of grief begin, and looked toward a clear plastic bag full of more clothes.

“I think my sister is going to give those away.” Dad said. “I’m not sure.”

I nodded, glancing at the piles of sweaters on the bed, cringing over the t-shirt casually thrown to the floor because I do the same thing. Toss things down where I stand when I remove them, then gather them up later for laundry. It’s not ideal, but it works.

“I love that fan.” I said, grateful for the distraction. It was an old black fan – it didn’t rotate, you could easily stick your fingers through to the blades and it couldn’t have been more than 18 inches tall. It was a Westinghouse - perhaps 50 years old, and I thought it very cool.

“Take it.” Dad said, and I smiled briefly because I knew that’s why he’d brought me here – to find anything I might want – before shaking my head.

“I’d feel weird, Daddy.” I said softly. Then explained further when asked why. “I… He just left it like this. Bought this stuff so he could use it, and now he can’t anymore. It’s sad. And I don’t think he’d want me to have his fan.

“I know – I doubt he’d care that much.” I continued after a brief interruption. “But shouldn’t someone else have it? He didn’t like me much.”

It wasn’t so much that he disliked me – when he used to come over every Saturday morning, we’d exchange greetings. Our dog at the time – he called her Wolf, while Dad went with Ralph, neither was her name – adored him to distraction. He liked her a lot. As a toddler, I demanded affection of some sort – after all, everyone must love me. But I’d calmed down considerably, understood that I was an acquired taste for some and others would always pass when offered time in my presence. I simply assumed Uncle Ray would rather avoid me if possible, and made casual attempts to accommodate him.

I turned from my examination of the fan I really did want to find Dad going through a clear plastic box on the other side of the bed. He showed me a small stack of photos – told me they were right next to his bed, stored in this container.

“Brother cried when I showed him.” Dad said, and I was moved enough not to offer a verbal response as I nodded over pictures of Brother and myself as we aged from toddler to junior high. We would proudly give them to him when he visited. I stopped doing so because I was sure he threw them away. Perhaps he liked us a bit after all.

Or perhaps, in a house that was filled with stuff – from cool fans to actual garbage – he just saved everything. It’s hard to tell.

I watched Dad place the pictures back in the box, then he walked across the room to the chair, unplugged the fan and handed it to me. It was greasy, which didn’t surprise me, and dust coated it liberally.

“I’ll clean it up before I put it in the car.” I said, remembering the pristine sedan waited for us in the drive.

I wept in the second bedroom, looking at the microphone set up to record music. Uncle Ray used to sing in a band and continued to record vocals. I have cassettes – probably 50 – in a shopping bag so I can go through them at home. Figure out what we want to do with the good stuff. When I wondered where he wore ties as I peered in his closet – he had two and I’d never seen him dressed up – Dad pulled the funeral program from another uncle’s funeral service from the jacket pocket. Uncle Bill – a gentle, easier man – died when I was still in high school.

“He didn’t wear it much.” Dad said, tucking the paper with a picture of Uncle Bill back in the pocket. He left, and I smoothed the jacket sleeve, then made sure it had room to hang flat between a Ford Racing coat and an awful paisley print shirt. I glanced around at the music stuff, hoping very sincerely that he was happy here. Felt talented and useful and content. And cried while I whispered I was sorry he had to leave.

I walked to the kitchen, then out to the back deck he’d recently had repaired. It was peaceful, there on a hillside among the tops of some trees, rain moving through as it cooled the air and bathed my new fan in soft gray light. I brushed at some of the dust, commented on my need for cleaning supplies to combat the grease, then placed it gently on a plastic bag to await our departure.

I helped sort through the last of the movies – probably about 100 titles left – A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Matrix, Mona Lisa Smile. Eclectic taste, I mused, normally leads me to think that someone is complex and fascinating. As we went through the movies, leaving only a few where none of us expressed interest, it occurred to me that he could have invited nearly anyone over to watch movies. His collection was impressive, and he had a bit of everything. Then I noticed a stack of No Trespassing signs that matched the 3 I’d seen while walking to the house from the garage. He liked watching people in movies – loved it, actually – but he sure as hell didn’t want people around.

And for a man who professed disdain for religion and the people who followed it – Dad included – he has a lot of Christmas music. And a CD he burned of Christian songs. Maybe he just liked music – his collection of tapes and CDs certainly indicated that was so, but maybe he’d also made peace with God. Developed a bit of faith for himself that helped him achieve tranquility as so many of his CDs indicated he sought. Classical music over ocean sounds. Relaxing collections that promise rest. I hope he found that. But I’m not sure he was even looking.

I left with a few DVDs, CDs that I’ve just finished loading on my laptop for transfer to the iPod as an Uncle Ray playlist, and the fan that I took outside my parents’ house an hour ago to clean. It’s stuff, yes, and someone needs to do something with all that still remains. But the few pieces I selected will be used primarily to remember a man who was incredibly intelligent, reclusive, judgmental and incredibly demanding. When I think of him, I’ll likely always wonder if he regretted some decisions. The silly tiff with Dad that ended up lasting until he died. His divorce and refusal to remarry – to make a family for himself. I understand that people are different – what makes me happy doesn’t necessarily work for everyone else. And I’ll hope that he found something that worked for him.

I’m not sure whether that’s enough or not. But for now, it’s all I know.

Brief comments

My first nerdy joke
I don’t give myself much credit for being smart or scientific. I don’t think what I do is all the interesting when I’m with folks who don’t do something similar. I don’t mean to misspeak – I adore my work and when placed with people who know the language and can offer interesting insight, it’s an interesting topic for conversation and I enjoy it. But if you don’t do my stuff, let’s speak of other things.

When I’m with Carrie – who does what I do – we generally avoid science topics. So I was shocked and delighted when we were discussing music and I came up with a relatively nerdy statement. We were perusing music libraries over a shared network – a bit nerdy in and of itself, and talking of KT Turnstall – a new favorite artist of mine.

“I don’t like her song. Horse, cherry, something.” Carrie said.

“How can you not like that?! It’s so catchy!” I replied, a bit offended.

“[Her husband] hates ‘woo hoo.’ His grandmother apparently used it all the time and he hates it a lot. So in support of him, I dislike the song.”

“I don’t mind ‘woo hoo’ as a phrase.” I said. “It’s interesting that he dislikes-“

“Hates. Not dislikes.” She interrupted. “And it’s anything starting with ‘woo.’”

“Hmmm.” I responded, starting to get distracted by her music – much of which I wanted. “I get it. Rm woo *”

I glanced up to find her grinning at me like a proud mentor. “Woo *.” She laughed. “Exactly.”

A study in contrasts
Yesterday I was home (my parents’ house) alone. I did very little. Finished up a bit of work, moped about having to go home to my solitary and sometimes unhappy little life. I need to figure out what to change to make myself more hopeful and upbeat. I’m working on it. The problem is that in changing parts of my life – somewhat haphazardly – could result in changing the wrong things. It’s difficult, but I’m impatient. It goes against every instinct for me to wait situations out. I’ll give it only so much time, tapping my feet impatiently all the while, then I’ll start altering conditions in the hope that something works out. Makes me feel better.

So yesterday I slept. Ate a significant (yes, p<0.05) amount of leftovers from a family gathering I missed while in Florida. Felt sort of sick from eating more than normal (stromboli, chicken salad, chips and vegetables with dip, rice krispie treats, chocolate chip cookies… There was more but I blocked it out, apparently.), so I slept some more. Listened to sad music, and basically moped.

The Little One slept over last night, which I was kind of dreading in my “woe is me” state. But she was cuddly and a bit whiny, offering up a few simply worded demands before being put in a stroller for a walk. Her mood greatly improved thereafter, and she proceeded to scare us by jumping forward in a crouch, hands curled into claws, and shouting “Boo!” Then she’d laugh at our expressions of fear. With all modesty, I’m best at pretending to be afraid. She’s also impatient when playing hide and seek – she’ll let me look for her very briefly (like 5 seconds) before shouting, “Katie! Katie!” which makes her pretty easy to find.

This morning found me waking before 6 and taking Advil immediately. I didn’t sleep well. Coffee helped a great deal, and I perked up enough to get ready for another walk. While trying to control my exuberant dog and push a substandard stroller full of toddler, carrying a sippy cup and boppy, doesn’t sound particularly relaxing, I found myself feeling increasingly content as we wandered my old neighborhood. Adding memories of walks with the Little One to the ones of many trips around our street that I’ve taken with other friends.

The point? A busy Katie – one who socializes with the select group of people I love – is a happy Katie. It’s good for me to continually remind myself of that when I tend to withdraw more often than not.

Stuff
My uncle – Dad’s brother – died in July. They weren’t close in recent years, and I haven’t written about it because it’s strangely difficult to articulate my feelings on the matter, but I’m bothered by it. The loss of someone who had ample time but failed to reach his potential. Putting his life in perspective – while family is vitally important for me and while I’ll mourn deeply if I don’t have a child, it’s not the same for everyone. I’m still pulling it together though.

It’s probably due to the fact that I’m not ready to completely process this – his death, what it all means – that I’m bothered so much by seeing his stuff here at my parents’. I remembering throwing a minor tantrum when cleaning out Grandma’s apartment after she died. I was in high school and demanded her engagement ring – the only jewelry I wear consistently. Then cringed over the packing – taking what we wanted, deciding what to send to the women’s shelter. It’s just so crass on some level, isn’t it? Someone’s gone and you should care, yet it’s reduced to a matter of what to do with this stuff – the items that exist around a life.

My uncle had a lot of stuff. Movies probably numbering near 1,000. They’ve been divided – people taking what they want. There are likely 100 or so here at the house. Some I wouldn’t mind watching. So why does the thought of watching them creep me out. Make me think of Uncle Ray sitting in his tiny house – alone by choice – watching movies. I wonder if he laughed – I seldom heard him chuckle, though he has many comedies. I wonder if he had friends come over to watch with him, but sincerely doubt it. I think he’d resent that we had them now – he wasn’t overly fond of us, more critical than anything else. Maybe I’m too attached to my own possessions - but I doubt I’ll watch Bewitched or Madagascar or Shark Tale. It just strikes me as uncomfortable. As will putting the tools in my garage that Dad just gathered for me to take home. Brother has a garage full – Uncle Ray loved working on cars.

Dad, having created a pile of stuff for me to take from his own piles, just informed me that my aunt – I haven’t seen her in years – has Uncle Ray’s ashes in a box in her house.

“I didn’t want him.” Dad told me, and I nodded. His stuff is bad enough, but does it get less classy or dignified than Uncle Ray in a box? Good Lord.

Arial update
The writing, once fearfully faced, went pretty well. I’ve heavily revised one paper and sent it back to my advisor so we can continue to mess with it. I sent more revisions off – 2 weeks before they were due! – and am proud of the paper. It’s pretty darn good. My abstract got accepted, putting me in the cool weather of the northeast for part of October. I’m looking forward to that – nothing wrong with the Poconos in the fall.

It’s still hard – it likely will be for some time since there’s so much rejection involved in the process. But it’s coming along.

Return to normal programming
I return home on Sunday – to wireless internet and relative loneliness. Normal posting and whining should resume very shortly thereafter. I miss you guys, but sporadic wireless in Florida followed by painfully slow dial-up here in Illinois has meant my online activity has been pretty low.

I'm dreading the return home - I'm not completely sure why - but having easy online access is definitely not the reason.

Like a sandpiper

“See?” I said, pointing with the hand that held my flip flops, “they’re just so busy!”

I giggled, euphoric because we were staying at a cute little condo which would afford me the ability to hear the ocean while I slept Sunday night. Carrie and I wandered along the shore, feet in soft sand brought in after some hurricane whose name I can’t remember – there are, after all, so many down here - feet wet from the water at high tide, walking the beach soon after our arrival there.

“They’re my favorite birds.” I confided, and set about making sure she appreciated them an appropriate amount. “I think they eat something in the sand – see how they poke their beaks down?”

“That one’s picky.” She pointed out. “She seems to wait for a good place to poke, but he’s not so discriminating.” And we laughed at the little guy with his head down, frantically searching for food. Then a wave came in and I gasped with excited delight.

“They don’t like to be wet.” I told her, “See how they run run run run run away from the water? Oops. Now they’re coming back! Run run run run run.” I laughed while she smiled, united in our love for the ocean and the creatures in and around it.

I was distracted, pouncing on shells I thought were pretty, pushing back the hair that refused to stay in its ponytail.

“Their bodies don’t move much.” She said, and I followed her gaze to another sandpiper. “But their legs are like lightning. Just so fast!”

I watched them twice more – on a morning walk with Carrie, then as I wandered alone before we left last evening. Sadness settled heavily since I don’t know when I’ll be at the beach again. Since I was raised vacationing on the Florida coast – childhood on the Atlantic, recently shifting to the Gulf – I’m conditioned to be happy there and miserable when I have to leave. I finished my book on the way home, satisfied that I’d worked my way through major revisions on one paper, though I hadn’t accomplished as much as I’d hoped on other projects.

We’ve been busy, you see. Run, run, running all over the place. And while I’ve no doubt I’m sweet and cute while doing so, it doesn’t amount to a whole lot in the end. Disney was delightful, but I told you that. We did some shopping for a couple days – cute little towns in Lake County where we could look and talk and eat. A party at Carrie’s parents that I skipped for the most part, retreating to my room and sleeping for hours instead of being social. Too many people make me uncomfortable though, and I’m finally old enough to opt out early rather than suffering through an unpleasant evening.

I’ve indulged Carrie her memories, which was actually disconcerting to some extent. Driving around old neighborhoods, listening to her talk about herself as if little Carrie was a different person. “She didn’t know anything!” But I smile because I do the same thing – feel badly for little Katie, envy her the sunny optimism that I feel fading a bit in myself. So I looked out my window at houses where Carrie's friends and family used to live. Wondered if we’d get in trouble for driving slowly through school parking lots, wanting to put up a sign that said, “Not kidnappers – just looking around.”

My favorite of these experiences, I think, was visiting an old church. A gorgeous Methodist structure, I breathed in the smell that so many churches have in common. I’m not sure what the components are, but it’s churchy – immediately recognizable, comforting and mellow. While we stared at stained glass windows, prayed briefly in the chapel, then wandered rooms where “I played bells here,” “sang here,” “working in the nursery here.” I found myself heavy with the knowledge that I need to find a church home. Wish I had somewhere I could point our rooms with confidence and settle snugly into the knowledge that I was home.

Then there was the beach – walks to walk, swims to swim, food to eat. (Oh, by the way, if you ever have the opportunity to get vanilla honey cream cheese, purchase as much as you can as fast as you can. If you’re of limited financial means, forget the bagel and just buy the vanilla honey cream cheese and lick it out of the tub. Trust me.) So I was busy – little legs moving like lightning as my cheeks and nose turned a bit pink from the sun – but I wasn’t accomplishing much at all. No writing for the blog, little checking of email, work only when I felt tremendous pressure to do something about the massive amount I brought with me.

It’s not out of a zenlike tranquility though – I don’t feel the world is far away on this trip. I’ve just been run run running like crazy.