The 8th Nerve

Steve: Why did you think of that?

Me (hearing “Why, did you take a crap?”): No!

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May 31st 2004I Misheard When

The best line from a sitcom this year goes to Smallville:

“He was fine…until he started bleeding from the eyes.”

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May 27th 2004Uncategorized

I got a kick out this and it got me thinking about my past crushes. I too had the tendency to develop obsessively loyal, starry eyed, I-would-die-for-you crushes from early on. So early it makes you wonder. Who says a five year old doesn’t know anything about love and heartbreak?

I think young girls who have the tendency to crush hard need to be taken aside and counseled extensively on how to develop a more effective psychological armor against boys. In fact, ideally, they should be put in a separate special class and be paired with a very realistic, talking boy robot who returns their affections.

Kindergarten I actually didn’t have a crush in kindergarten but I did have a close guy friend who lived up the street. I have no idea how we met or how we got to be friends. ML was very tall, stocky, and rosy cheeked. He and I would walk to school together and hold hands; he brought me a bouquet of flowers once, and drew me pictures of houses that always had a round window at the top. We would come over to each others’ houses. Sometimes we got along well, othertimes I was quite mad because I wanted to watch She Ra: Princess of Power and he wanted to watch Inspector Gadget. As you can see, this friendship was doomed. My girl friends began to make fun of me for having a guy friend and I dropped him like a hot potato. I’m sure my name will come up in his therapy sessions if he regresses far enough.

First Grade I had a huge crush on the ladies man, the Don Juan of first grade. I wish I could say that I had an original crush and saw into the soul of an unnoticed, underestimated boy. But I did not. I bought into the propoganda and participated in the collective crush on LH, who was very tall with blonde curls and blue eyes and consequently, quite arrogant. I wrote him a love letter or two, which my Mom mailed. In my letter I gushed about how much I loved him and used lots of o’s - I love you sooooooooooo much- and drew hearts. I’m sure I sacrificed a sticker or two from my prized sticker collection. He never wrote back or acknowledged that he received it and I was very disappointed. I guess some guys just aren’t ready to commit at 5 years old.

(On a side note, by chance I discovered that LH and I went to the same college and looked him up. His hair was dark, he wasn’t so tall anymore, he was a beefy football player and a party hard DKE brother. I would drink a lot too, if I peaked in the first grade).

Second Grade Hmm… I had Mrs. Liberty. That’s all I remember. Oh, and I also became very nostalgic about my friendship with ML, oh so long ago, and felt very guilty for being cruel to him. I drew a picture of a house and I wrote “I like you very much” on it. I didn’t sign it, but I did draw a round window at the top as a clue. I snuck it into his desk. I just wanted him to feel better about himself, I didn’t really have a crush on him. The next day he walked around with it and asked each person if they gave it to him. When he asked me, I said no.

Third Grade I thought DB was very cute, also blonde and blue eyed. One time DB asked me if I wanted to play on the computer with him. We played on the computer. Then I found a girlfriend and gushed to her that DB asked me to play with him! Then I looked back and DB was walking right behind me and I could tell by the look on his face that he heard the whole thing. I had never felt so mortified in my whole life. I felt dizzy and sick with the shame and horror of it all. But then, in the shining pinnacle of all my crushes until I was approximately 20, I found a note in my desk with a pencil drawing of a rainbow and a leprechaun, and the words “I love you” and I found out DB wrote it. I was very, very happy and dreamy eyed. But then nothing more happened with DB and I was disappointed.

Also at this time, two friends of mine and myself developed an odd obsession with a boy a year older who we called Joe Schmo. My friend Rachel was talking about him one day and called him Joe Schmo. And at that moment it seemed, we all spontaneously developed this need to chase him and torment him. So for some time we did this. We chased him whenever we saw him, we laughed and jeered at him, we prank called him. He had curly dark hair and dark eyes.

Fourth Grade I believe it was RW. For no particular reason. In seventh grade I decided to revive this crush. For no particular reason.

Fifth Grade Fifth grade set the stage for a very long crush on SN. He and I played Connect 4 together. That was our thing. We were the best in the class. He had sandy hair, blue eyes and freckles. A friend of mine EC apparently also had a crush on him. Her parents were friends with his parents, so she got to see him outside of school. Then, even though she knew I liked him, she would tell me about getting together with him and the things they did together and say things like “I want to have his babies.” I was very hurt and upset, but never said so and continued to call her up and invite her over. I was masochistic that way.

I think I need to let a few more years pass before I talk about my high school crushes.

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May 26th 2004Uncategorized

Steve and I spent the weekend in Newport helping his parents move out of the home they’ve lived in for over 20 years. Furniture and things not needed for the next three months had to go into storage at a barn up the road. Things no longer needed had to go to a neighbor’s down the road for a yard sale next weekend. Things no longer needed at all was collecting in a big pile by the garage. Things needed during the next three months had to go across town to an apartment they will be renting while they look for land to build a home. Then so much of this will have to be done again once they have a house to put it all in.

If it were me, I would have thrown myself on the ground and wept uncontrollably, rendered incoherent by the mental and physical overwhelm of it all. I would have packed everything in the house and then paid a mover to take it all. Me, the money worrier, wouldn’t have cared a bit how much it cost. But not Steve’s parents. They’ve been working non-stop for the last two weeks, making countless trips with their Avalanche to the storage barn, the neighbors, and the apartment. So we threw ourselves into the midst for the weekend.

His family things are very different from my family things. They are different in color, texture, age and purpose. That is the best that I can explain it. His family will take wood, metal and other objects and put them together and I have no idea what they do. I hold it up to Steve and he says “Oh yes, that’s a…” and it’s always something very practical and useful, usually having to do with being healthy, active, or taking proper precautions to prevent injury and other catastrophes. My family things prefer aesthetics and have never in their life taken proper precautions.

It’s different when you’ve lived and raised a family in one place for nearly 25 years. The kids’ rooms are as they were when they left for college, full of books and papers and odds and ends. Things accumulate, hobbies proliferate. My family has moved around quite a bit over the years and consequently have become very streamlined. Things get thrown out over time, boxes are permanently stored and labeled. If Steve and I went down there for the weekend to help them move, we’d arrive to find all the rooms empty and my mom wiping down the door jambs.

That’s the only advantage of moving a lot. But still, the process itself is exhausting. However, I was galvanized to action by the piles of boxes with the destination clearly pinpointed. I was a fast moving, lean, mean machine. Then, once we had taken care of the yard sale pile and the apartment pile, things disintegrated into His Secret Family Code. There was stuff everywhere but I didn’t know where it was going and had to await direct orders. In the hustle and bustle, Steve and his parents, as if of one mind, would suddenly all go downstairs to the bedrooms and carry up the mattresses. I would follow and watch and say “Ah, I see. You’re going to get the mattresses from downstairs.”

We got a lot done, but there was still so much to be done that Steve stayed behind and worked yesterday and today. There’s so much to do that there is no time to feel, no moment to step back and realize that a home is being vacated. Steve and Eric grew up here, their boyhood rooms have been gutted out. The house was designed by Steve’s father and blood and sweat went into its creation and upkeep. Every nook and cranny and scuff mark belonged to this family alone.

As a child who moved from home to home whose origin is unknown, occupied by many unknowns before we arrived, I think this is incredibly special. I first knew I loved Steve when I saw his house. The house had all the clues I needed to piece together who Steve was and Steve-before-me. Unconsciously Steve must have known this, when on that very same day he first told me he loved me, in his boyhood room.

This house, unlike many others, was a true living representation and container of a family. I will miss it.

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May 25th 2004Uncategorized

Steve: They’re going to put air in the tires.

Me: (silently wondering) Why do they have Eric’s tires? Where are they taking his tires?

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May 23rd 2004I Misheard When

Steve: Dial
Truck cell phone: Dialing. Number please.
Steve: 3
Truck cell phone: 3
Steve: 9
Truck cell phone: 4
Steve: No!
Truck cell phone: 1
Steve: Wait! Stop!
Truck cell phone: 7! 2! Dialing!

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May 23rd 2004I Laughed When

I watched part of “Sue Thomas F.B. EYE” and the deaf character on the show speaks beautifully and easily reads everyone’s lips with 100% accuracy. Come on!

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May 23rd 2004I Peeved When

Nostalgia sets in at this time of year. The weather is getting warmer and sunnier. On my travels I see the deep blue lake glinting in the sun and I am overcome with wistfulness. The old feelings come back, ingrained from the years ‘96 to ‘99 when, at this time, I would pack my bags to spend the summer working at Silver Bay. I had the whole summer ahead of me, and at no other time or place was I so surrounded by friends.

The happiness of the late springtime was fueled by excitement, hope, anxiety and reunion. When the day finally arrived I would drive, filled with emotion and anticipation, up the Northway and the curvy mountain road that is 9N. I would arrive on the beautiful, familiar campus and be swept up in warm friendly greetings and hugs. Then the outright joyful, jumping up and down or being picked up and swung around hugging when the closest friends are found driving in or unpacking in the dorms. God I miss that.

Then the summer starts rolling. A bunch of young, tanned, attractive people are living in close quarters for two months with minimal responsibility and everybody is ready to have a darn good time. Round number one of drinking and hooking up begins. This of course becomes increasingly more complex each summer as past history builds and friends are hooking up with their friends’ exes. Rumors and gossip begin to fly. The drama, so much drama, it was the stuff of soap operas.

And it didn’t just end there. It carried on and on over the years in emails, phone calls, visits and New Years’ reunions. Silver Bay is compelling, addictive, joyful and painful.

There are good times- outings and drinking and arms around each other and group bonding and laughter. Silly crazy things and inside jokes that are talked about for years. Trips down to the drive-in at Glens Falls, trips to Montreal, practical jokes, water gun and shaving cream fights, swimming and sunning at the ERC, boating, camping, star gazing, girl’s night out at Lake George Village, rainy days spent inside reading or playing cards, sitting and talking at Slim Point, tennis on the clay courts and volleyball in the sand, the summer musical, the EMPs cruise and dancing. And of course summer flings, friends and falling in love.

There are not so good times- lies and betrayal, painful attachments, drunken mistakes and regrets, cliques and “bonding” that left others out, broken hearts, broken illusions, jealousy, hurt, secrets, mind games, destroyed friendships, and sometimes lingering disappointment because somehow the idealized expectations of that late, bag-packing springtime are never realized. There were times I was so stunned, so stricken mute with hurt that I did not think I would survive it.

But oh, those summer days and nights.

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May 20th 2004Uncategorized

There are people who believe that not only is blogging a waste of time, it is also a self-absorbed and egoistic pastime. Bloggers who write about their lives and post it for the world to read must be rather conceited and self-involved. It is offensive that people would share quite personal things about themselves online and it’s stuff that people really need to keep to themselves or just close friends or family. The critics of blogging grimace at blogs and express disgust at the time invested and mentality that must be behind posting aspects of your life online.

Sometimes I feel the beginning of fear, of being overwhelmed by doubt, when I hear this argument. Oh god, I think. What have I done? I must be crazy to have written some of the things I have, for anyone and everyone to read. Have I exposed myself? Will this come back to bite me in the ass someday? Am I being conceited or self-absorbed? Should I stop this altogether?

But even as fear and doubt wash over me, I know I probably will not stop anytime soon. Even if friends think less of me, I will not take it down. The question I ponder then is, why do I do this? What is my motivation?

My husband kept an online journal years before I started one. I loved to read his entries. When he was far away during his year in Germany, I knew I could log on the computer and read his newest entry, be carried along by his words and feel close to him. I never considered having one of my own. I didn’t know what I would ever write about. I didn’t think I could cultivate a voice or writing style of my own.

Then, for some reason and with Steve’s encouragement, I started one. I discovered that it was second nature. I discovered a natural flow of inspiration that strikes every few days and gets me immersed in creating an entry. I love doing it.

One of the main benefits I discovered was that it is therapeutic. Writing is my most natural and comfortable mode of expression. I find my voice, I express myself. I am swept along by rhythm, energy, discovery and insight.

Yes, I could do this in a private sphere- I could keep a personal journal and not be so presumptuous as to put it on a public forum. However, one of the most therapeutic aspects of this exercise has been expressing myself to the world. To friends and family who read it regularly, to the person who stumbles on it by chance. My hearing loss has often confined me to a prison of silence and marginalized me in social spheres when I longed for the spotlight and when I wished to be part of things. My blog is my spotlight. I can express myself and people can get to know me.

Just by knowing that my friends and family are reading it, I feel closer and more connected. I know that the people who read my blog regularly care about me. I know that at one point or another I have surprised and intrigued my friends and family through this blog. Many times I have surprised myself. And maybe I have touched someone who can relate to my thoughts or experiences.

This is what brings me back and keeps me writing, whereas my personal journal would be lost and discarded by now. A personal journal would have become a burden of me telling myself how I should write in it but never getting around to it.

For some reason, I never have this problem with blogging. At the beginning I thought I would, but I never have.

The second important benefit I’ve discovered is that blogging is an art form. Yes, I could share my personal experiences in emails to friends and family without going so far as to post it all online. However, in an email, I can’t necessarily be “artistic” or to write in the type of style that flows in a blog entry. Plus, I have a tendency to be thinking about the people I’m writing to- asking questions and thinking about their lives. I don’t think or write so much about myself. With blogging, I can, because I have no one in mind when I write. Call that self-absorbed if you will, but it has been tremendously beneficial to me. I can experiment, I can dwell in moods and emotions. I can relive memories. I have laughed and cried as I wrote entries. I have mourned and felt better.

Blogging is also an art form in cultivating the tone, style and even entertainment value of the entries. I have read blogs that really are quite self-absorbed or tedious and I do not go back to read them again. Other blogs I’ve read have been truly amazing in their humor and insights. Some bloggers go much further than I have dared to go in sharing their personal lives, and I have found that instead of being put off, I have related to these people I’ve never met and cared about what is happening to them. I have learned from them. The truly skilled and authentic blogger creates a genuine community and connection over the internet. They are the bravest ones.

Sometimes I think about the “audience” or who is or isn’t reading my blog. But most of the time, I am simply entranced with writing, with thinking and cultivating, with having fun, with losing all sense of time, with the satisfaction of being able to “publish” it and sometimes get feedback.

So I keep coming back. I dare to express myself. I dare to be honest and hold out my life to you. I dare to seek connection. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?

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May 18th 2004Uncategorized

casper decided to do some spring cleaning and unearthed one of his secret cat toy lodes and spread it all over the kitchen floor. three or four different types of toy mice, a cat ball with a bell, thumb massager, a pinecone, rubber fangs from a halloween costume..

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May 18th 2004I Laughed When