I’m not doing NaNoWriMo this upcoming month and need something else to distract me from November, because I can feel it hovering around the edges of my consciousness, sucking the joy out of me like damp, moldy dementor.
Luckily, I was just reminded of NaBloPoMo or whatever it’s called (Thanks, Sophie!) so I think I’m going to do that. Like last year’s November Firsts, but not on just one theme.
Now, off to write a list. Feel free to ask me to write about whatever you want me to!
Me: So, what was more important for the early European explorers? Finding a trade route to Asia, or finding North America?
Student: Finding North America! Without North America, there would never be Disneyland! Or Sea World!
At the Deadwood, a forum where I hang out, we put (Not Dead) in the thread titles when we’re talking about celebrities, just so we don’t accidentally shock or freak anyone out.
That’s how I feel about me. (Not Dead) is pretty much what’s accurate. There’s family stuff and job stuff and health stuff and it’s all…stuff in my face. I’m not blogging it because it’s a bit personal, but I did want my loyal seven readers to know that I am not dead.
As you were.
Tonight I was at the Middle Eastern Dance Association’s annual show, Twilight At The Oasis. This is my gorgeous friend Claire, looking so saucy and confident, typical for her. She is such an accomplished dancer and never fails to entertain and amuse.
It was a very poignant show as it was the last performance of my first belly dancing teacher, Elizabeth, who moved us all to tears with her dance to a song called ‘Memories Of Love and Loss’. I was crying too hard to take pictures.
Elizabeth caught me up in her love of life and dance. She taught me that dancing isn’t about what your body looks like, it’s about what your heart calls you to express. It’s okay not to be Va-Voom, and it’s okay to be Va-Voom. It’s about what you feel, and that expressing that through dance is a wonderful gift. I took that into my heart and I carry it with me in life. I thank her for the gift she has given me.
I was just interviewed by some guy with a microphone and a cameraman with a big light.
Microphone Man: Excuse me, how do you feel about people not being allowed to wear anti-Olympic slogans during the games?
Me: I don’t like it.
MM: Could you elaborate?
Me: I don’t think it’s right that we’re not allowed to express what we think. Some of us voted for health care, not a circus.
As I turned away, I heard the cameraman say, “That was good.” I don’t know what station or what it was for, though.
Then I started to worry, because I am woefully apolitical, and am not exactly up on events. Possibly they were going to use me as an example of knee-jerk ignorance of opinion?
But the government telling me I’m ‘not allowed’ to wear something? I sort of want to get arrested for wearing a shirt that says something really offensively anti-Olympic.
My birthday fell exactly on Thanksgiving this year. That happens sometimes, and I have always felt it was an extra birthday present: A day off. It’s nice, and not so many people get that same present. Irrationally, I feel a little special.
But the best present was cooking Thanksgiving dinner in Jim’s kitchen for a bunch of friends. We made all the traditional stuff, and it was just a breeze because Jim’s kitchen is so awesome. Sandii and Simon and I were a fantastic team, and then our friends showed up to eat the ginormous feast we had prepared! Special mention to Mike for his sweet potato pie, which I cannot live without.
Also, for my birthday from E, Tickets to Evil Dead: The Musical. (Squee!) Also, flowers and jewelry and games and books from the Broadway Crew. It was quite a haul.
What’s extra super cool about a Thanksgiving birthday is that I can legitimately claim not to have had a party yet, and have one in November, when I need cheering up. Results for everyone!
The memory hit me out of nowhere. I was on the bus, so maybe I saw/heard/smelled something to trigger it, but I don’t know what it was.
I remembered being at a concert in Victoria’s Inner Harbour, listening to Jann Arden give a free concert standing on top of a concession stand. At least, that’s what I think it was.
I was there with a guy I was seeing, and a bunch of his friends, most of whom were SCA-types who had been driven half-mad by their own insecurities. Spending time with them was basically answering the question, “Do you like me?” over and over again.
In any case, this boy’s arms were around me, and we were swaying to I Would Die For You, and I had this sudden moment of blinding clarity: He thinks he loves me, but he doesn’t, really. And I know I don’t love him. I am going to have to cut him loose, because there is no way I am assuming responsibility for him forever. Maybe not even til the end of the month.
And then I had a pang of sadness, wishing I did love him, and that he really did love me. Because that would be so easy, and it would all be taken care of, and I wouldn’t have to do any of the long ghastly work of finding a goddamned man to love.
There’s something to be said for a Saturday where I just get a bunch of stuff done. It makes me feel clean and light, and is almost never as boring and arduous as I thought it would be. Also, because of the bowel-clenching lead-up to last weekend’s family letdown, I haven’t felt up to much. The house was beginning to look like a bomb had gone off and I kept sniping at myself, so I got laundry, bills, mending, cat litter, and random tidying all done.
I also moved my oak bookcase from the living room to the bedroom and got rid of about three feet of books! Usually I am terrible at getting rid of books, but while I moved the bookcase and books, I thought seriously about why I was keeping some of these volumes. Let’s be honest, I was never going to read a history of the OED, and I didn’t need the MLA style handbook anymore. If my bookcases tell me who I am, I was misrepresenting myself.
The book cull enabled me to reorganize the remaining living room bookcase so it could hold previously homeless CDs, DVDs, and LPs. And I’m thinking about doing a secondary cull. I’m looking at you, three separate biographies of Miles Davis. E’s never going to read you.
Two of the guys at the garage are nickname guys. They have a million nicknames for one another, some crude, some silly, some just funny. The nicknames are based on TV shows, song titles, behavior patterns, that kind of thing. So when Dave said, “Hey, we should totally give Liz a nickname!” I was happy. I’m comfortable with nicknames. I’ve had a lot of them.
Not so happy when they decided my nickname was Leopard Lips. What does that even mean?