Yesterday was a big barbeque fun day. Lots of folks from different aspects of my life all in one spot. I smiled a lot yesterday, and I’m still smiling now.

I don’t tend to like to make a big deal over things that have to do solely about me. I’ve never really been the “look at me, look at me” type as far as a whole event/celebration goes. I’m totally that way about small successes and with people I’m close to. But I’m usually expecting the “wow, that’s great” response and then for everything to go back to normal. I tend to rather celebrate someone else’s big day. It’s a strange thing—the spotlight.

And I just spent an hour looking at the photos of my cousin’s wedding from two weeks ago. Gorgeous pictures. Wonderful candid shots. The photographer is truly talented. Some of them look like print adds, and not the perfect, happy pictures, but the ones where people look tired but loving (on the day before for the rehearsal) and the ones of people engaged in conversation at the wedding. And the still life shots of the champagne glasses, and the food, and cakes and flowers and the Inn. Wonderful. If you can’t tell, this has put me in a gushy sentimental mood.

Happy lazy holiday Monday to all Americans out there. To my non-American readers, happy regular Monday.

Today, I killed a few wasps and soaked their comb-like nests (there was one big one that seemed dormant, and two smaller ones that were active with the insects) with poison that shot in a long stream from the cannister. And while I know my husband is allergic, and I don’t enjoy their sting much either, I felt guilty for their destruction at my hand.

Some people never give a thought to killing an insect, and others would never do so in their lifetime. And I used to be of the former, and I think I may be becoming the latter. But realistically, I’m just caught in between. I’ll kill them, and feel guilty afterwards.

Another insect story of today...I caught a slow-flying housefly in my hand and walked it outside and released it. I’ve never been able to catch a fly before, but this one seemed drunk and easily catchable (like some men I’ve seen) and so I just did it without much thought on it at the time. Afterward, I allowed myself to be impressed for about ten seconds until I remembered the dead wasps.

I hate guilt. I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate the things it makes me do. On some level, guilt is healthy and will sometimes keep a person from doing the wrong thing, or at least feeling poorly when they do, and apologizing and attempting to do the right thing the next time. And that’s all well and good, but what I hate is when guilt decides it wants to attach itself to everything, even the things I have no control over.

They say if you feel guilty then you’ve done something wrong. But, I know that isn’t always true. As a child I was made to feel guilty over getting up 30 minutes after I went to bed, because I wanted a glass of water. I was made to feel guilty for so many things that I don’t think a child should be made to feel guilty over. And I can know this now. I can know it like I know that I’m sitting here, that I’m breathing, that I’m typing and even at this moment that I am holding back tears with the sniff of my nose.

I can know it like that, in an immediate way that flashes into awareness for a second but then it’s gone. Moreso I can easily forget knowing that I shouldn’t feel guilt with a memory. There are places in my mind that house guilt, and the doors have been trained since I was two feet tall to open and release it. It’s automatic. I feel it coming like a flood, and I have no way to hold it back. No one has taught me how to build a dam that could possibly hold it back.

And that’s why I hate guilt.

Joyce Jillson (EDIT: who is now deceased in 2005) has given some startlingly accurate horoscopes in the past. And though many, many, many people will dismiss horoscopes as too general to be anything other than a bit of fun, I still find myself thinking about what Joyce Jillson writes, whether I read it before or after my day. Today’s is no exception.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20). Consider what you’re looking for in a friend because you’ll attract the wrong sort if you’re not consciously trying to do better for yourself. All things being equal, you may as well find someone who gives as much as you do.

I’ve been thinking about friends quite a bit recently. I’ve been thinking about the kind of people who are attracted to me, and vice versa. I’ve been thinking about being healthy in new friendships. I’ve been thinking about what makes a good friend and what makes a bad friend.

I’ve been thinking about a specific person who seems to have animosity towards me, though we don’t really know each other. This is a person I may be paired up with for a project. I’m dreading it until I know for sure who I am paired up with. I’m praying for anyone but her, because I don’t want to face the frowns, the glares, and the vibes from her on a daily basis. Twice a week for the next two weeks of training is quite enough for me, thanks.

I’ve also been thinking about friends and colleagues and the differences between the two. Some will never distinguish between the two. There is a difference. I know there is a difference. I need to remember when they forget. I need to remember when they forget. Because not everyone is cut out to be a friend. No, not everyone. Or maybe, the truth lies more in the fact that I’m not cut out to handle certain types of people as friends. That’s likely more towards the truth.

(note: repetition intended)

I have tiny bursts of thoughts that seem to want to take residence on this page, but without coherency.

Dreams. Being male in dreams (Jackie Chan’s son, no less. Sliding down an electrical wire. No one said I was smart in my dreams). Singing in dreams (And it felt good, on stage, like a celebration, they actually loved it). Chasing and being chased in dreams (that comes in dreams with consistency).

Coincidence. Someone doing something drastic on a day that s/he thought was just like any other, but if s/he really, really thought about it, it wasn’t just any other day. In fact, any other day would have been about 360 of the other days of the year that weren’t that day.

Obsession. When you fight it in steps, and you think you’ve gotten it beat, only to realize the damned thing has you in its clutches again.

Insecurity. It can come tumbling forth in a nasty, embarassing display. Why do I watch it like a horrific car crash, and then continue watching it even in the aftermath?

Speaking without thinking, regurgitating. Don’t care for it, but I’ve done it. And probably too much.

Interesting. I’m not sure I’m so interesting, as much as interesting by association. I’m drawn to some strange people, and the problem with that is, they can be extremely fun to engage with, or quite a bit dangerous. Knowing that doesn’t make them any less appealing.

Drinks with friends. Brand new friends. Slightly less new friends. There’s a lot that can spill out when people are drunk. Another forgotten pleasure. The spill of words when nothing’s at stake.

Now, I remember.

Restless.

If I knew how to fix it I would, but I don’t, so I’ll just keep on working and hope that it fixes itself.

Trust.

Am I a trustworthy person? I’m not sure. I know I can be doggedly loyal and trusted to try to keep the object of that loyalty’s interests at the fore. But the moment I feel mistreated, abused, or betrayed something happens and all bets are off. And usually the other person doesn’t even know. I’m a complete ass in that case. And it’s not that I like being that way, but I can’t seem to figure out how to not react that way in those situations. Those people who can always be the bigger and better person and never resort to pettiness, I’m in awe of them. I can even recognize in the moment that I’m feeling the need to lash out at someone who has hurt me, and occassionally stop it, and say to myself, I’ll be the bigger person here. But the truth is, inside my mind boils with every thought of their deserved torture and pain. And it takes quite awhile for me to really, truly realize that it’s not healthy; I’m not healthy.

There’s also the effect of time and space. And after quite a bit of both, I can be more objective and see the worst of me, and feel disgusted, but then feel human, and real, and accept that we all have some flaw. And maybe the flaw of the other person is something they can’t see, and maybe I should feel sad for them, instead of wanting them to feel pain, because I know we all feel enough pain. Wishing for more on someone else, really only brings more to me, to my thoughts.

Objective.

It’s one of those words that can never quite be put into action in its true meaning. I can never actually be objective, nor can anyone else. We can, however, try to be objective. And I think that’s got to be good enough.

Subjective.

Because even when we try to be objective, we are at the core a specific person, with specific consciousness, and a specific relation to the people, world and things around us. Maybe our subjectivity changes with each new experience, but it is who we are and how we see things. I don’t believe in the debate of biology versus environment. I don’t care which one someone else thinks makes up a person. I believe in human beings as being of themselves and their place, both to equal the whole. And place is much bigger than where one’s feet rest, and the self much bigger than the water, blood and bone of the body. But my point… I’m a subjective being, trying to find my balance with objectivity.

So, back to trust.

I’m not even sure if I can always trust myself, but I trust that in the grand scheme of my life, I’m trying to do my best. I make mistakes. I royally fuck things up. I create beauty. I create laughter. I create tears. Maybe, I shouldn’t always be trusted, but I’m going to go ahead and give myself the benefit of the doubt, and trust that overall, I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be my best. Even when, I’m...

Restless.

A is for arithmetic, athletics and acceptance

B is for beaches, bonfires, The Bangles, boyfriends and beauty

C is for cats, concerts and college

D is for dreams, dancing, dogs, debt and desire

E is for eloquence, effort and elastic

F is for family, funerals and flowers

G is for gymnastics, goats, The Go-Gos, the Grand Canyon and grandmothers

H is for hunger, happiness, hugs and hope

I is for intelligence, insight and In-n-Out

J is for jello, Junipers, joy and jump rope

K is for a family name, kindness, kisses and kites

L is for laughter, longing, losing memories and love

M is for mom, music, my husband, the many M-named pets (Mocci, Maggie, Maxwell, Mitzi, and more) and memory (finding it)

N is for newness, nightmares, New York and never surrendering (again)

O is for orthodontia, oranges and openness

P is for parties, Prom and promises

Q is for quintessence, quarters and the quickness of time

R is for relaxation, reserved and random thoughts

S is for strength, stubbornness, survival, Snoopy and Strawberry Shortcake (the doll, and the food)

T is for trying, temptation, tomorrow, today and my brother

U is for urgency and understanding

V is for voice, victory, vision, and vacations

W is for Washington D.C., asking myself Why? and the west

X is for x-rays and x-large

Y is for yellow, yelling and yesterday

Z is for zero, zoos and zits

It happened again. A completely different person, as I was walking to my car (last time I was walking away from my car to class) in the parking lot, called out my name and said hello. It took me a moment to recognize her in the glare of the evening sun, but once I did I called back my hello and waved.

I tend to be a friendly person, I know this. And once people get to know me, I’m still friendly, though I show my sarcastic sides. And I know I almost can’t help myself from speaking up in classes. And I’m pretty sure I seem to sound and look smart, because people who I don’t even know come up to me after class and ask me if the teacher said such-n-such. But that’s nearly always been the case. Even still, it has been amazing me lately. I was out of the world of teachers, lectures and students for 6 years, and I thought I would have lost some of that original je ne sais quoi, but I guess it is like the saying about riding a bike: you don’t forget, or in my case, I didn’t lose the it.

Now, to talk about procrastination. I’ve done (more than) my share of it in my lifetime, and I’m still doing it on occassion. And I’ve been trying to get at least some assignments done earlier, so I have some extra time to work on others. Still, I seem to run close to the last minute on many assignments. There isn’t enough time in the day for someone like me—older without the stamina I had ten years ago. Some of that stamina may come back when I get into a little better shape. My plan—an old plan, a revisited plan, a good plan—is to get in (back into) shape. I can fall out easily, and falling in isn’t really too much harder except for the dedication to the routine. And though I don’t usually recognize a regular routine in my life, I do like them mixed in with the mess.

Tomorrow. I’m much more ready for it, than I was last week. I was simply stressed and stuff last week. I’ve still got a bit of healthy stress, but at least I’m not cranky. I’m huggin’ and kissin’ my 29th year’s end. Baby got back!

It’s as if the weather was thinking, “I think they forgot just how hot it can get.” And so, it had to remind me.

It was my fault for putting on black jeans this morning because it looked overcast, and I thought it was going to be another one of those fake-out days, when it looks like it will warm up but stays cool (So, inevitably I wear shorts and then shiver under the hand of the cold wind). We’ve had a few of those in the past week and a half.

Well, that’s over. The devil’s home. And yes, he lives in Riverside. Welcome back Mr. Lucifer, let me help you crank up the heat a notch.

P.S. LA and OC Counties, I know you make fun of us here. But beware, we’re closing in on you. That’s right, cower. The 909 is knockin’ on your door.

P.P.S. For those of you not familiar, 909 is the area code of meth labs, oranges, repressed rage, and not-so-repressed rage, and Beelzebub. Oh and I just watched Eight Mile, so I’m feeling a lil silly with the verbage.

Ok, so yesterday I was a bit snarly, and well, an overall grump. (Though, I’m glad it came off humorous to my readers. I mean that. I don’t like “Grumpy Erin”. She’s not much fun.) And today, I feel more in control of me.

My husband said to me last night before we were going to bed, and after he read my blog entries, that I should actually be extremely pleased with where I am at age thirty. And he was proud of the steps I was taking and the things I’m doing, and in comparison to this time last year when I was turning 29, I’m light years closer to my dreams and goals. And he’s absolutely right. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I won’t keep wishing for the future to go ahead and get here RIGHT NOW! But, he was able to re-ignite my self-confidence engine in just a couple sentences. If you’re married, romantically involved, or have kids or roommates or close friends you can really talk to, then hopefully you know moments like these are the good stuff.

For the rest of my “birthday week” (see Trace [UPDATE: site is now basically defunct] for more info on this phenomenon), I’m going to try to be “upbeat, but spoiled Erin”. This sounds like a temper tantrum waiting to happen. Beware!

Maybe the other thing that goes along with my previous post a few minutes ago is that I’m turning thirty in less than a week.

Why is it thirty is the magical age when a person is supposed to have grown up and gotten their shit together? I’m fairly grown up, but my shit is nowhere near together. Why can’t 31 or 34 or, hell, 52 be the age when we are supposed to have it all figured out? I mean, do we even really have to get it together and figure it all out?

I thought 30 was just another year until now. Why the hell does it have to be a big deal, afterall?

I think seeing the last half hour of the Dawson Creek’s finale has made me cranky (the only part I watched of the thing). Stupid in-the-future, happy-ending bullshit. Thanks for aiding my feelings of soon-to-be thirty-something inadequacies.

I was sitting here thinking about things I want… a new car, a nicer house, a job teaching at a college, a published book, no more financial worries, and more and more. And then I realized...

What I really want is not to want so much. I want to be happy with what I have.

Oregon was quite nice. In fact, it was so nice that I have given it a special gold star on my list of grad schools. It rained just a little, was overcast and cloudy quite a bit, and was gorgeously sunny for a little while. All of that without the oppressive heat of Riverside. I know, I know… I’ve been warned and warned that the kind of weather we had was a bit unusual and that there is usually a lot more rain. But there was more to it than that. There was the atmosphere of a college town—two of them in fact, one more liberal and citified, and the other well less of those things. We drove from Portland to Corvallis and except for one crowded delay of 10 minutes, the freeways were uncrowded and easy to maneuver. And there was the drive from Corvallis to Eugene—long, open spaces and trees galore. The lushness was wonderful—different flora from Hawaii, but just as breath-taking, I thought.

This trip has caused me to feel more anxious about grad school. I want to be applying now, I want to have received my acceptance and rejection letters yesterday, and I want to be planning the move to my new school a month ago. Instead, I have projects and homework due, events coming up, and a pile of laundry that knows no bounds. Can you say reality check? Reality Check!

So, it’s back to life for me. And my life isn’t bad in the least, but I’m still hopeful that it can get better and better.

I shall be in Oregon in about 14 hours from now, and a little more than 24 hours after that I’ll be wearing the salmon colored gown, holding some calalilies, and completely happy that I splurged on the cushy, one-inch heeled, sling-back pumps. I don’t wear heels, so the three inchers with the piece of cardboard for a sole would have been murder on my feet.

Another thing to looks forward to is… sex in another state! For those of you who didn’t want to know that (in the words of Craig Shoemaker) Erase, erase!

Hopefully, I’ll also get a chance to check out the colleges up there since they are both on my grad school list for the time being.

Have a good weekend! Erase, erase! Make that a great weekend!

UPDATE 2005: I’ve seen Craig Shoemaker live since this post, and he now also says, “Delete! Delete!” for those too young to get the other one.

When a person calls out across a parking lot to a former hermit (who doesn’t necessarily revel in hermit-hood) there can be a visceral reaction in said former hermit.

For about six years, I had lived a life of relative isolation. Of course, there was my husband with me, and the occassional family gathering, but that was it in terms of physicality for the bulk of my existence. I had online friends: digitized, characterized, classified, and alternately minimized and aggrandized. This life came about a little slowly at first, and then it was so complete that it was hard to remember a time before it.

And when I was walking to class the other day, alone in my thoughts, and not even realizing that I was alone in my thoughts—it being such a natural state for me by now, a voice called out my name with enthusiasm and excitement at seeing me. Yes, me. I was punched in the gut and floating on air at the same time. A moment of blushing shock, of uncertainty at what I was supposed to do in return (quickly I recovered and gave a hearty wave), and of pure awe. I was back in the world of the living, the undigitized. It was hardly believable. When was the last time I could recall such an experience of someone, someone who I had nearly no ties to me except sharing a class, being excited over my existence on this planet. Now, I realize that this is a friendly person that called out my name, so perhaps she calls out to everyone she knows, and yet she has some bite to her personality and a flittering attention span so that I can imagine her just as easily not even noticing me.

And a few days later, another woman, the teaching assistant for my English Lit class, called out to me from her table at lunch with other teaching-type folks as I walked past.

I had forgotten about this part of life. This part of the university life. This part of other people’s lives. I’m still feeling the tingle of it inside of me. I like that tingle.