The Masked Blade

When in doubt, make yourself a super hero.  A big gay shout out to Sammy and Aaron for prompting the spontaneous fun.  (Eddie saw the pic and thought it said “the Naked Blade.”)

The Masked Blade

For those who still frequent my infrequent and sporadic postings…  here’s your reader assignment:  do you have a favorite comic book character/superhero, and if so, please share in the comments. I’m curious how many times Wonder Woman comes up (because she was one of my faves).

***

Pardon the really rough subject change but it was a rough day.  A rough couple of days.  Like riding a cactus banister, bare assed.

I’m out of my comfort zone and don’t feel like I’m at my best.  One year as a manager and I’m struggling with the hyper-awareness of being referee for groups or employees that don’t share toys or play nicely in their sandbox together.  I struggle with fairness and objectivity, because I don’t want to treat team-mates like I’ve been treated in the past.  I do my best to speak positively as related to projects and accomplishments and deadlines and I bend over backwards to listen for more of their life story than the day to day grind – work is important, but people are more important than their work.  I’ve given criticisms and negative feedback when it’s warranted.  I struggle with the feeling that I could be doing more.  I feel like I need to channel more of my inner gay superhero:  magic personality, cutting wit, dynamic awareness, matching belt and shoes, and a mask that hides my alter-ego and delicate nature.

**sigh**

Delicate.

Right.  Delicate as a douche commercial.  Or pulling out those splinters from the cactus banister using a pair of pliers, as mentioned above.

This is the part where I’m doing a self-evaluation and wondering how I stack up in the “excels at” column.  Or not.

***

Last but not least, I have not heard back from the writing conference about my submission.  Meanwhile, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc.

Le sigh.

Here Am I on Writing

The last few months I’ve been working through my own “stuff” about writing.  I gave myself ample space (and very little blogging participation) to work it all out:  silence, histrionics, bellyaching, inspiration, desolation, and a pervading sense of isolation.  I let myself feel overwhelmed.  I also let myself get distracted (insert addiction or compulsion of the month, here).  I didn’t reach out to my friends who understand what writing means to me.

I’ve learned more about my self-imposed angst and inaction this time than in my entire last thirty years of non-writing.  I’ve learned that I will talk about my writing generally and not specifically.  I do not like talking about writing I haven’t written yet.  It’s letting the dream loose before it’s been realized.  I’ve learned that there are friends I can talk to about writing angst and that there are friends who I will avoid because they don’t “get it.”  I’m not saying they’re bad friends – I’m saying it comes down to different languages at a time when I crave communication and understanding.  Allow me a crude (but oh so favorite) metaphor, but it’s like putting a condom on a limp dick – a waste of time.

What do I need as a writer?  It’s not about time or resources or friends or ability.  What I need is the very very very simple idea that the only thing stopping me is myself.  Self:  get thee off thy ass.

Writing is more than fingers to the keyboard or pen to notebook, and it’s more than going back and editing for grammar, spelling and flow.  The other part of writing is making sure your words find an audience, and that can’t happen if they stay in my one brain cell every time I look at a computer and don’t type the keys that make them appear.

This week I’m submitting samples of my work to a writing conference.  I want to include a synopsis of the over-arcing story.  Based on acceptance, my work will be edited and critiqued.  That’s a lot of IFs to line up nicely.  It starts with submission (please don’t read any BDSM innuendo into that line) and putting my writing out there for critique.  Let it begin.

Nibbles

My family often went camping and fishing during the summers. My first fishing pole was a Fisher Price version – I would have been about three. As I got older, I graduated to a “real” pole, one crafted with increasingly smaller pieces of bamboo past the handle that fit together in metal sockets. There was no reel, only a line of about twenty feet max and the rod. I was content to fling the line into the water and make overlapping rings in the waves with nothing on the hook. From time to time my father would call out to check for a nibble. I was standing on the edge of a lake when something did latch onto the hook and pulled, hard. The rod flew out of my hands and I cried out as the pole went into the lake, floating and bobbing along since it was mostly a wooden rod. My father, at my side, laughed and told me not to worry. He cast out with his line towards the rod, reeled in the line, and cast out again. By god, he had caught my pole with his line and he reeled it in. On the end of my line was a foot-long catfish. He looked quite proud of my feat of catching a fish without bait.

Scott does this one thing where he grabs my arm, neck or earlobe and nibbles four or five times. It catches me off guard and sends frenetic energy through my body; I’ll spastically grab him and hug him and bite him back, usually on his shoulder while he’s giggling the whole time. There is nothing like the mischievous light in my man’s eyes.

I was in a foul mood yesterday. I know that my work-attitude is the pits right now, and it’s not helpful when people tell me to chill and “just go to work and do your job” when the last thing I want to do is be there. If I was less responsible, I would have quit already and would be making lattés at Starbucks (foam or no foam?). On my way to work this morning, I decided to focus and “just do my job.” I wore headphones through most the day and I didn’t join in the reindeer games. I was surprised by a phone call from a prior client who wanted me to call their associate about an opportunity. There are some potential past/present client conflicts, but the job description has my name on it. I nibbled and I called. The hurry up and wait game begins again.

Play Ball

Maybe it is an attitude thing.

Curious how life keeps throwing the same lesson and you keep on swinging until you connect and get a fucking clue. Today was more of a base-line double instead of a home-run. Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me, too.

The day was not only tolerable, it was great.

• Starbucks was not out of soy today, unlike every day last week (HOW can you run out of soy, I ask you?)
• My boss and I had a big Big BIG talk (can’t comment, because I’m still processing, but I do love that woman even when she’s right and she pisses me off that I’m wrong (Julz, I said it, okay?)).
• I finished a few projects and started several new ones. I’m the first to admit that I’m a horrible programmer. Today, I discovered I knew more than I thought. Just jock-full of surprises, aren’t I (do you know how hard it is to NOT link something to that one?).
• I love the wonderfully supportive comments from all ya’ll. Consider my big sappy grin as evidence of my giddiness and affection.
• Immediately after work, I had a massage therapy appointment. My neck and shoulders are no longer granite, and the oncoming migraine dissapated. I’m like butta. I feel like… the Celestial Kingdom and Zen and Nirvana, rolled into strong hands that snuck up on my stress and had my brain doing the flat-line thing. Yep, I even fell asleep.

Why was it such a great day? Why were there more smiles, neglible tension, and moments of clarity?

Why? Because I finally chose it, and I’ll choose it again, curve-ball or no.

Batter up!

West and Wewaxation at Wast

The last several days have been restful and relaxing. We had met Mary & Maura for brunch on Saturday and had a fantastic time kicking back and catching up. After brunch, we hit our favorite electronics store, totally expecting chaos and discord. It was busy, but it wasn’t crazy with lines wrapped all through the store like we’d seen in prior years. Maybe it was the fact that every check-out station was filled with attendants (major tangent alert: can banks get a fucking clue and get more staff behind the counter for each of the stations? cheap bastards!) and the lines moved along quickly.

I have been to the gym a few times since last week, but the holidays are always a losing battle: a gain of four pounds since Thanksgiving. Not a lot for some, but on my frame, I feel like it’s 50. What the hell does this have to do with rest and relaxation? Everything. I’m so rested that I can’t get my ass to the gym.

Christmas Eve: we went with Merle and Jed (together 49 years!!!) and with Mark and Rommel to the Gay Men’s Choir at the Castro Theatre (pure gorgeousness) in San Francisco. This was our third time. Merle and Jed have been attendees and contributors since the group’s beginning. The full choir does not perform together during the holidays. They put on three shows on Christmas Eve – 5:00pm, 7:00pm and 9:00pm. We’ve always attended the very family friendly 5:00pm showing, but I’d like to attend a later show one year because everyone’s more liquored up by the 9:00pm show. The highlight of the show, to me, was the crowd participation during “Silent Night.” The choir then recapped the chorus, and then the entire choir did the chorus again in sign language. To go from a theatre with everyone involved, to the harmonious blends of the choir, to the fluid and graceful movements of the men and conductor signing the words was stunning. I felt tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

Christmas Day: Scott woke us up early, excited to open presents. He gave Midas a bow from one of the presents and told him to go show me, since I was still snoozing under a pile of blankets. Midas burrowed into the covers with the bow in his mouth, and I woke up to him standing over me, wagging his tail. Julz called from Idaho, where they definitely had a white Christmas. Scott and I sat together on the sofa and had coffee, opening presents and sitting close. We made our phone calls to family and friends and got ready for the afternoon party at Mark and Rommel’s. Over there, I blended zin and a cab for the mulled wine. The food, the wine, the company: spectacular. Before bed, I read a few blogs and commented, but Mr. Sandman had already socked me upside the head with a big ole bag of sleepies.

For the first time in many many months, I’m feeling rested and relaxed. If I was Mormon, I’d say that I feel positively saintly. Ideas of stories and poetry are bubbling to the surface again – I had felt like that well was dry. My neck and back are relaxed, my heart is full of love, my brow (that’s a major forehead, by the way) is calm. I squeeze hard and I hold on tight – consider yourself hugged.

Frazzle Dazzle

I don’t like posting about work because there are not many positives to mention, other than my awesome team and their tremendous abilities and personalities. I’ll be as non-identifying as possible, not to protect the innocent (because there are none), but because blogging about work is a Dooce-able offense. Allow me a moment to explore my frazzle.

In the last several months I’ve completed major projects that saved another department months of processing time and thousands of dollars in personnel costs. That department is not technologically savvy. Technology to them is an extension cord for the abacus, stone and chisel. Watching them open Microsoft Office applications (Excel, Word, etc) is like watching elementary school kids on their first time through a Spook Alley. They hate me. I represent change. I represent the frightening unknown. I represent automatation and efficiency, which is frightening to a department that acts as a feifdom with entitlement. I’m not humble (I know my stuff) nor shy (fearless, as far as employers go), which only adds to their hatred. It’s taken a lot of work, but our collective relationship has improved over the last year, except for one specific woman.

This woman talks behind my back. This woman talks out of both sides of her mouth. She is two-faced. She is tolerably human when you’re face to face, but a character assassin as soon as you leave the room – not only with me, but with her supervisor and co-workers. What I despise is the act of saying one thing and doing another. Her words and actions aren’t congruent. What I abhor is her thanking me for my help and then trying to savage my performance behind my back. What drives me crazy is her insincerity.

Okay, so she’s a bitch, but so am I. What this comes down to is the challenge of letting it go without being vengeful. The shadow side of me wants to make sure that when she needs/wants something (and she will), that I will make her crawl through glass before she gets it. That meanness is what bothers me more than she does. How to be graceful and “let it go” without feeling like I’m compromising my integrity? I’m still cooling down, so we’ll see what another day does to my attitude.

Quiet and Stewing

I haven’t posted much. It’s not writer’s block, it’s more like apathy and angst. I can’t figure out this stupid software I’ve been using to mix a music cd. It’s one huge wav file – one huge track.

Work is work is work, and the people I support need medication (or else I need the medication to continue supporting them). It’s one thing to feel like a data whore, but another to feel like a a jock strap in a women’s locker-room (or a sports bra in a men’s locker room): unsupported and useless.

I’m pondering “follow” on the weekly anamnesis. Not writing about it yet. Just pondering. And watching myself pondering. And wondering what devastating brilliance JLO will write about.

This year I hit my first big wall on aging. Most birthdays I look forward to. When else can you run around singing “happy birthday” to yourself all day long, annoying everyone within earshot? (My favorite is actually Cartman’s refrain from SouthPark: “Cuz it’s my birthday, buh buh buh buh biiiiirthday!”) I’m dreading next Friday, in a “just shoot me, please”, kind of way.

I suppose if I have breakfast and coffee and drag my ass to work (I just went to the dentist for my 6 month cleaning), then I might have a better disposition. Grrr and double grrr. I hate when I get this manic.

Monday Mischief

I need all the help I can get today. This made me smile.

Muir Woods

Scott’s aunt Kate and her grand-daughter Jenifer are in town from Chicago. Scott has the week off, but I only took today since I’m crunching projects at work, big time, to get ready for the users’ group conference – I’m so not ready this year.

We got a late start with the day, plus it rained quite a bit through the night and into the morning. We all had umbrellas just in case, but the weather was supposed to be clear when we got near Stinson Beach and Muir Woods. The last time we had been to Muir Woods was when Doug had visited, almost two years ago.

The redwoods are magnificent. There’s a certain area called “the Cathedral Grove” that I think is the closest to deity, god or goddess that I’ve experienced. I love the circles of redwoods that tower through the glade. Sometimes when I’ve visited the sun is still burning through the fog laden air. Once, we saw salmon swimming upstream. One time Doug and I heard a redwood falling down and crashing into other trees; it was within several hundred feet and the noise was incredible. A few times, I’ve gone off the beaten path, crossed a stream and stayed the afternoon near a waterfall against the mountain side.

Going to Muir Woods, I feel recharged, like an internal clock has been reset. At dinner tonight with Scott and his family, I realized that we all laughed and smiled a lot, that we were silly while playing cards. A few times I laughed so hard that I was crying, and I realized that the clean and clear feeling I had was the same type of feeling I bring back from the redwoods.