I've been thinking that since I'm not too prolific with the "life moments" blog format, I should just start posting about the music I'm listening to instead. It's likely the music posts will lead to some life moments musings and that way I get to do my favorite thing--talk about what amazing new (or new-ish) things musicians are offering up these days and why they give me "the feeling."
The feeling is something that happens to me when a song really takes hold and compels me to listen to it over and over again. Sometimes when I haven't had it for a while I start trolling my friends' playlists on Spotify for something I haven't heard of but might--just might--be "the one." Or at lest the one for right now. Occasionally the one turns out to be one of a bunch of great songs by an artist previously unknown to me and I get to revel in the feeling for a good long while and come away with a new favorite band/artist. Otherwise I just burn up that one song until the feeling is gone. It's always sad when that happens, but there is no avoiding it. Rationing doesn't work, and it kind of defeats the point of chasing the feeling anyway. When it comes to music bingeing, go big or go home.
The artist I most recently went most apeshit over was Phosphorescent. Want some to hear a guy with an appealingly unusual voice choke up about his twelve-too-many failed love affairs layered over gorgeous, soaring, etherial backing tracks that flow innocently into your ears and then get to work slicing up your heart? He's your guy. Here's Song for Zula, one of the (deservedly) best-known tracks off his last album:
Yeah...um, so Phosphorescent dude (Matthew Houck) is not only sick of love, he thinks it's bullshit, a an evil force that has disfigured him and turned him into an enslaved caveman who can only move in slow motion. Povracita! I could love you so good, Matthew Houck, but I won't because then you will stop making killer albums like Muchacho, which is 98% pure gold.
Another guy I've been digging on recently is Daniel Norgren. I don't know anything about him, but there is something about his delivery and the simplicity of his arrangements that reminds me of J. J. Cale (RIP)--except their voices are totally different. Not-quite-apt comparison aside, here's Black Vultures, a song about being out of luck and out of options and knowing it full well but doing whatever the fuck you want while waiting for whatever is going to happen to happen.
I am particular about my revivalist singer-songwriters (there are just too damn many of them), but there is something about the naked quality of this guy's voice that really gets to me. I feel like he was transported to this decade from the Great Depression a la some kind of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure happening. He just sounds old, and his songs sound like they were recorded on a wax cylinder, but he is--as far as I can tell--not old and not mysteriously arrived from the early 20th century. He's just the real deal, and he fucking rips it up. The only thing I don't like about him is the industrial/experimental noise tracks interspersed between the songs on his latest album, Buck. But perhaps I am too impatient, too eager to get to the feeling.
That's it for the first installment of "What's in Neuro Crash Girls' Headphones." I promise I'm not depressed and that I don't only listen to white men!
The amount of change that my life and, consequently, I have undergone since that last post makes it pretty intimidating to even consider jumping back into this blogging thing again. But one of the realizations I came to over the last six months was how incredibly, mind-bogglingly lucky I am to have so many people in my life who care about me and genuinely want to know how this transition has affected me. For the sake of those who have asked and kindly expressed (and continue to express) concern, here is a very brief synopsis of life since I left Portland followed soon by what I hope will be regular updates about life in Montgomery.
If I think too much about it I won't do it, so here goes!
In September I drove to Denver with my good friend Dylan who is not just a good friend but a lifesaver and kick-ass travel companion. We went through Yellowstone, which I have never done, and ate/stayed at some pretty hilariously random diners/hotels along the way. Please visualize a Keystone Cops-style montage of Dylan and Frida and I getting in and out of the car, racking and unracking my bike, running in and out of rest areas, looking at maps (okay, okay, looking at our phones) hiking around in Yellowstone, seeing some ginormous buffalo, and getting back in the car over and over again. Then picture my red car moving across a map with a little dotted line appearing behind it, tracing our path as we wound our way from Portland to Denver. It was fun. We got in one fight when Dylan said religion was "nonsense" and I decided he was an insensitive beast for stating the obvious in such an inflammatory manner. But we worked it out. Dylan freaked out about 2/3 of the way through Wyoming and decided Wyoming was a worthless wasteland, but we got through that too. Eventually we arrived, and there was much rejoicing.
Before he left, Dylan and I had a nice few days in Denver, the highlight of which was also the lowlight: We rode our bikes 10 miles to the Stranahan's whisky distillery for a tour. The ride was great, the tour was awesome, the generous "tasting" was even better, and the two additional Stranahan's drinks we had with lunch were even better. HIGHLIGHT! Then we rode home in 90 weather with no water. LOWLIGHT. There's not much more to say about that, but I'm impressed we did it and even more impressed we survived.
Dylan eventually left and I settled into my new life as an unemployed drain on my family/childcare provider. This went on for about four months (September through December) and was truly one of the most fun and rewarding times of my life. First, Evelyn, my niece, just happens to be the cutest and smartest baby ever. Sorry, all other babies, but you lose. I spend about three days a week with Evie and, while I can't say I loved every minute or didn't occasionally glance at the clock to see when one of her parents might come through the door, it was much more engaging and interesting than, frankly, I thought it would be. Probably because of the cuteness and the smartness. Anyway, we read books, we took nature walks in the yard and said "hi" to trees, we strolled around the neighborhood and swang on swings, we danced A LOT (I still have the "Evie Dances" playlist on Spotify) and we watched the occasional Yo Gabba Gabba sketch on my phone. For those of you who do not know what Yo Gabba Gabba is, here's a little taste of my world last fall:
Fun, right? Oh my god, I wish I still had an excuse to watch this video daily. But I live alone, so I guess I don't really need one.
Anyway, while I obviously have no idea what it means to be a parent, I do now understanding the joys of having a little person fall asleep on your shoulder, or demonstrate something you taught them, or catching them innocently talking to themselves, or seeing them try to do something over and over and finally succeed. Kids are pretty fucking cool and my niece is the funniest, most bad-ass little bean-face ever. I feel so lucky (there's a theme here) that I got to spend this period of her life with her. When I got to Denver she could not walk and was only making vaguely "mama"-ish sounding words. By the time I left she was scampering around and saying "Doggie barking!" I'm telling you...genius!
Me and the most fabulously adorable child on earth.
A few other things happened while I was on my "sabbatical from life," as I began calling it. One, I did some online dating which led me to make one very interesting friend with whom I am still in touch. He is an MMA fighter and used to be in the military, two things that were new to me in a friend and really taught me a lesson about making assumptions. Hi, Loki! Two, I took the opportunity to get into some serious shape. There were a lot of 24 Hour Fitnesses within 10 miles of my sister's house and I started going to classes almost every day, particularly yoga classes. Oh my god, you guys, guess what? I made this fabulous discovery that no one else in history has ever made before. It turns out yoga makes you feel really really good! Who knew!? Yeah, so that happened, and it rocked my world. I am now one of those fucking insufferable "I love yoga" people, and you know what? I don't even care! Because in addition to making you lean and flexible, yoga makes you not care about stupid shit! Woot!
(Disclosure, I have not kept up my yoga practice very well since moving, but fully intend to get back into it with a vengeance!)
Okay, back to my time in Denver. So, in addition to yoga, dating, and snuggling my niece, I also got to spend time with my amazing sisters and brothers-in-law. I don't know how I hit the sibling jackpot to the degree that I did; it actually makes me start crying to think about it. What neat, interesting people I get to be related to! Spending that time with them at this point in my life was huge for me. When I could have been feeling really low and anxious and uncertain and loser-ish, it made me feel good about where I came from and grounded and secure in my identity as a member of a kind, funny, smart, functional family. Again, the luckiness I felt the whole time I was there...I can't quite get over it still. And I don't want to. I love feeling grateful!
Anyone who is friends with me on Facebook knows I also took two pretty amazing trips during this time, one to India and one to Korea. Both were pretty life-changing in their own ways. I had never traveled in Asia before and, man, have I got the bug! While I was in India I had a job interview with the Southern Poverty Law Center. The interview was at 2:30 am during a major holiday that the Indians celebrate by setting off fireworks 24 hours a day. I did my interview from the business center of our hotel where the Internet went down frequently. I later found out the person conducting the interview couldn't hear what sounded like bombs going off and had no idea where I was or what time it was, and I wound up getting the job but...yeah...the universe made me work for that one! I currently have my business cards in a holder I bought while I was in Bangalore. Hooray for manifesting the future!
There are a million great stories from India but I will just share my favorite. My travel companion, Kara, and I visited a town called Panaji in Goa; while we were there we stopped in an art gallery. I love art and have a history of spending money I don't have on posters and framing, but this did not stop me from strolling right into the danger zone. Sure enough, a painting caught my eye and I was disappointed to learn it cost the Indian equivalent of $200. I left the shop, but went back later because I could not stop thinking about it. I just knew I would always regret it if I didn't buy it. The fact that unemployed people probably shouldn't take trips to foreign countries much less buy oil paintings while they are there did cross my mind, but I managed to rationalize it away quite easily. I am an excellent rationalizer. Anyway, I spent the money, left the shop with the painting safely rolled into a cardboard tube, and Kara and I prepared for the next leg of our journey.
In an effort to save money and have a more "flavorful" experience, we had decided to take the "local" bus rather than taking the government bus or hiring a driver. This turned out to be very flavorful indeed. The station was a kaleidoscope of colorful old buses from the 60s and 70s that had been repurposed, painted bright colors, and decorated for Diwali (see prior reference to fireworks-holiday celebration). There were people everywhere; they all seemed to know exactly what was going on and what bus they needed despite the complete absence (or so it seemed to us) of any kind of central information system. We asked and asked and asked and were old to keep going keep going keep going down the seemingly endless rows of buses until we finally came to a bus that said "Baga." We knew Baga was very near Calengute (our destination), so we checked this assumption with the conductor who told us to get on. We settled into our seats and began the journey.
About 2/3 of the way to where we thought we were going we got a text from our Indian friend telling us to meet her at a certain hotel. We asked the conductor if the bus could let us off at the hotel since, by our calculations, the bus should go right by it. He looked at us strangely and then told us very gruffly to get off the bus. I am still not entirely sure why, but it seemed the bus actually did not go where we thought it did, and if we didn't get off at that point, we would actually be getting further and further from where we wanted to go. We freaked and scrambled to gather our belongings (which we had been curtly told we could NOT keep on the seats as every square inch of of the bus was crammed with people). We made our lame, unceremonious exit from the bus and stood bewildered on the side of a dusty road, wondering what to do next. We were about three miles from where we needed to be, so we decided just to walk. The packs were heavy and it was hot, but we joked that at least this way we could say we backpacked in India.
About 5 minutes later, Kara looked at me in horror and said, "Where's your painting?" I had a terrible sinking feeling. I had left it on the fucking bus. I couldn't believe it. I was so angry at myself, but at that moment I also knew that we were in a bind and it was not the time to let myself go down the mental-emotional path of what it meant that I had spent money I really didn't have and basically thrown it away less than 24 hours later. Instead, I trudged. Eventually we made it to the hotel where our Indian friends listened sympathetically to my story before informing me matter-of-factly that I would never see my painting again.
Two days later, I was riding on the back of a scooter when I saw the bus again. This was in an entirely different part of the state, but I knew it was the same bus because I recognized the neon-pink teddy bear hanging from the rearview mirror. I remember thinking when I was riding the bus that the teddy bear was odd since most of the other decor was religious and/or Diwali-related. I told the scooter-driver, Divya, and I almost asked her to pull over so I could run after it. That would have been suicidal madness, but I just couldn't stand the fact that I was probably within inches of my painting and could do nothing about it. "Remember this number," said Divya, and gave me the license number GA N1010. I keyed the letters and numbers into my phone thinking, "This is pointless. I'll never see that bus again."
A day or two later, Kara and I were headed back south and needed to go through Panaji to get to our next destination. I asked her if she would mind if we went back to the bus station just so I could say I tried everything before giving up hope completely. She kindly agreed. We returned to the mayhem of the station and asked at a what we thought was a ticket window (which turned out to be for something unrelated to the bus station altogether). The attendant wasn't hopeful. "These buses are privately owned" he told me. "There isn't a central authority or a lost and found. Your best bet is those guys over there." He motioned to a cluster of conductors smoking by one of the bus bays. I thanked him and took my sob story over to the conductors. Three of them clearly had no idea what I was saying but the fourth nodded solemnly as I attempted to explain what had happened. Finally, he asked, "Do you have the number of the bus?"
"Well, yes," I said, stunned first of all that I actually had the number and secondly that having it would mean anything in the midst of this chaos. I showed him what was in my phone at which point he got on his phone and motioned for me to sit down. I joined Kara on a nearby bench and watched the conductors resume their talking and smoking. Ten or fifteen minutes passed and I was starting to feel like this was a waste of time. I didn't even really know that this guy had understood what I was asking, and I didn't want to sit there forever chasing some pipe dream. So I went back to the conductor and did my best "So what's the deal?" pantomime, to which he responded, "He's coming."
"He is?" I asked, incredulous.
"He's coming, he's coming," the conductor assured me, gesturing for me to sit back down. This was the first moment I allowed myself to feel any real hope, and it was rewarded. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the bus pulled up, pink teddy bear swinging in the windshield. The door opened, the diver appeared, stepped out of the door, and handed my my painting.
I could not fucking believe it.
I started crying immediately, of course, which did not go over well with either the driver or the conductor. I tried to give them money; the diver took it, the conductor did not. After I composed myself a bit, he looked at me sternly and said, "You lose things in Goa, you get them back. Not like that in other places." I thank him about 10,000 more times, then stumbled away, clutching the tube like it contained the secrets of the universe.
Which, in a way, it did. Here is the painting I lost.
As you can see, it is a painting of Ganesh, who is not only the god of war but is also the god of OVERCOMING OBSTACLES. I know. Mind blown. So in addition to forcing me to meditate on mindfulness, attachment to belongings, faith in humanity, coincidence, destiny, and literally being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time with the exact (randomly-acquired) information necessary to reunite with this thing, now I get a daily reminder of my Indian miracle from my good friend Ganesh who also inspires me to overcome obstacles.
Bear with me while take a moment to quote myself from this blog a few months ago when I wrote about being in an especially low period in my life:
Did I run out of luck? Or did I accomplish so little with the luck I did have that the universe decided that it was wasted on me and took it away? Or did the fact that I began consciously thinking about my luck make it disappear? Or are all these little set-backs just setting me up for some cosmic payout so mind-blowingly awesome that I had to save up a few months worth of luck just to make it happen? Um, yeah. I wrote that. And, yeah. I know which one it is now.
It is mid-October and Denver is providing one of the most beautiful falls I've had the pleasure to live through. Life here is very different than it was for me in Oregon, but at least I am not being denied the feeling of walking outside and seeing colors so stunning and breathing air so fresh and lovely that I am practically forced to feel joyful. If I can lift my gaze above the strip malls and see the mountains, it is not uncommon for be to be overcome by the splendor of the light as it touches the snow-covered peaks.
I assume none of you will find this shocking, but day-to-day existence in a four-bedroom family home in the suburbs has very little in common with day-to-day existence in a one-bedroom singleton apartment in a downtown urban area. Because I am who I am and tend to, in the words of Steve Windwood, roll with it (baby), it has not been a difficult transition for me (remember, NCG used to travel all over the country living out of suitcases and surviving on hotel happy hour fare). I don't feel terribly homesick and I don't long for a different life. I do know that I probably won't stay here forever, but since that was never the plan, I don't think that will be a disappointment to anyone. I love being with my sister and watching her and her husband parent with such patience and joyfulness. And taking care of my niece has been much more fun than I anticipated. She is a a sweet, sassy, groovy, squalling, squawking little beast of a monkey child, and if anything were to keep me here in the mile-high city, it would be my inability to tear myself away from her shrieks, smiles, and squeezable little cheeklets. I mean, just look at her...come on!
So, despite not being miserable (far from it!), I decided few weeks after I got here to take some steps toward the goal of getting out of the house and seeing a bit of "the real" Denver (which I have heard is great but rarely experience because when I visit I spend all my time at my sister's house watching "Jersey Shore"). One of those steps was activating my Ok Cupid account and configuring the settings to reflect my new surroundings. I have a brief history with this site. I went on two OKC dates before I left Portland (in keeping with my pattern of only wanting to initiate relationships with men whom I cannot actually date, logistically). One became oddly attached to me within 45 minutes and kept saying things like, "I just want to KNOW you!" and awkwardly trying to hold my hand. He sent me several texts afterward to which I responded minimally or not at all, and when he found out I actually had moved (as I explained to him repeatedly I was going to), he messaged regretfully, "We never got to make out :( ." The other guy seemed great but never took his sunglasses off throughout the entire date. I thought that was probably a sign he was a douche, but then told myself not to be so judgmental. Then he turned out to be a huge douche. Score one for female intuition...although, actually, I think a witness of any gender could probably have seen his douchiness coming. Actually, my niece could probably have called that shit. But that is why I needed to go out on these dates, to hone my skills, learn how to deflect the weirdos and identify the creeps.
In Denver, things in the OKC world were different. First of all, almost every single person who messaged me said something about my profile being different than other profiles. My profile was exactly the same as it was in Portland. Only the city was different. No one in Portland ever commented on my profile relative to other profiles. One P-town guy told me I was a hypocrite for claiming to like animals while also claiming to like sushi. Another told me that I seemed depressed and that he hoped I found what was missing in my life (???). But no one ever said I was unique, and I kind of like being told that. Good job, Denver dudes! The second difference that I noticed was that in Denver I received messages from multiple people I actually might want to go out with. I don't know what part of "31-42 and no kids" makes dudes who are 50 and have four teenagers think they should message me, but apparently men in Portland think chicks on OKC don't really mean what they say. Or they just don't read the fine print. Or they just don't care. Or they think they are SO GREAT that if I'd just meet them in person, I would throw out all my crazy, irrational "limitations". In any case, it was nice to get messages from people even remotely in my age range who seemed normal and were not either shirtless and flexing or surrounded by offspring in all their photographs.
So off I went, into the wild blue yonder of "Menver" (as my sister calls it due to the supposed abundance of dick in this town). My sister also warned me of a common phrase she heard from her single friends re: the quality of the men in "Menver": "The odds are good, but the goods are odd." I have to say, several dates in, that that may be true. However, I think anyone who is single in their 30s or 40s bound to be a bit odd, myself included. Patterns have formed without he guiding hand of a partner. Idiosyncrasy has had time and space to really sink in and take hold. I don't think that's a bad thing. Everyone I've met here has seemed very nice, and if they were odd they were odd "interesting," not odd "change your phone number". No one wore sunglasses inside, and no one attempted to hold my hand when I was pressed to the opposite side of a booth and avoiding eye contact. Out of four people I made a very charming connecting with one, and although there has been no subsequent "dating" to speak of, he is smart and fun to hang out with, and sends remarkably entertaining text messages. Considering that I don't plan to live here for very long, I think one new friend out of four attempts is a huge success.
Having experienced a bit of what OKC: Denver Edition had to offer, I decided to deactivate my account again. Despite the fun of meeting enjoyable people and seeing new parts of the city (which I desperately needed to do) I am periodically bothered by the fact that almost all people who are on dating sites either really want to find a partner or really want to find someone to do it with. I am not the answer to either of those prayers. After a while, it feels disconcerting to meet dude after dude and look at profile after profile and realize that each encounter, no matter how small, is attached to someone's private life. By responding or not responding, meeting or not meeting, I in some miniscule way become entangled in their quest for companionship, and that doesn't always feel right. I realize this is a silly thing to get hung up about, and that there is a very clear social contract with the Internet dating thing: no one gets to have any expectations. But I cycle in and out of finding the whole thing either super fun or really stressful, and I think such a low-stakes, optional activity should be fun. Maybe I'll hop back on at some point after...I...get...back...from...INDIA!!! Until then, I've got some planning to concentrate on that does not involve responding to "comparability" questions or uploading Instagram pictures of myself.
Oh, and here is a little parting gift for you readers from the mind of the Portland douche. "All girls who wear white sunglasses are bitches."Apparently he has tasted the rainbow and drawn this conclusion based on pure science; you should all be grateful that he took the time to share this important discovery with you through me. I don't know why OKC doesn't make "sunglass color" a category on their profile. Perhaps I will suggest it if I return to the site. I also don't know why I agreed to go out with someone who would bother to publicly make such a ludicrous observation, but this is where the practice of only dating people when you are about to blow town comes in reeeeal handy. In the words of Liz Phair, fuck and run, baby. Fuck and run.
(Note: Neurocrashgirl did not actually fuck anyone mentioned in this blog post. Liz Phair lyrics referenced for artistic impact and coolness points only.)
I woke up at 5:30 am, stripped the air mattress I had been sleeping on, and stuffed the sheets, pillow, and pillowcase into a dumpster. I folded the mattress into a square and put it under my arm, threw the keys on the counter, and walked out the door.
It felt like a scene from the Bourne Identity. Okay, it really wasn't quite that dramatic (or that simple...I might have done some last-minute mopping before making my triumphant exit), but waking up alone in an empty apartment and knowing it is the last time you will see that place does carry with it some emotional weight. The relentless chaos I lived in for weeks leading up to the moment of vacancy was so overwhelming that opening my eyes to uncluttered floors and uninterrupted expanses of clean, white walls felt both surreal and mercifully calming. My body and my soon-to-be-disposed-of bed were the last remaining objects in the place. The fridge gleamed with bright white emptiness. My eyelids stuck to slept-in contacts because my solution had been packed. Even the dog and her fur-blanketed neuroses had been removed days earlier.
And so began the countdown to my last moments in Portland. The following morning I would leave on a three-day journey to Denver, Colorado. But for the next 24 hours I would regroup and rest at the home of a dear friend, pack my car at the home of yet another dear friend, clean out my desk at work and drink with several beloved coworkers, visit with dear-friend-of-the-day # 3 over a glass of wine, and watch a flock of swifts roost with a new friend I am sad I didn't get to know better before I left. All these lovely moments occurred on a gorgeous sunny day in Portland that melted into a glorious sunset sliced by the rising of a milky blue moon. All quivered under the uncertainly of whether (or, more realistically, "when") I would regret the decision to leave.
Many people have contacted me recently to ask why I moved and, if the conversation's length and format allowed, why I moved so suddenly. This is a fair questions considering that most of these people have, in the last 18 months, been subjected to an outpouring of elated babbling about how much I love Portland and how ecstatic I have been to live there. Allow me to be the first to agree that it is strange that I no longer do and that I very much hope to again. So, the quick-and-dirty answer to this question is that I moved to Denver to help my sister and her husband with their baby. The full-fledged, bona fide reason I decided to make this move is not a single reason, but an amorphous composite of smaller reasons that includes elements of: family stuff, job stuff, double rainbows, and a recent decision to begin steering my own ship (see previous post). Granted, if that is the best reason I can come up with, it is fair for readers and friends to also wonder if perhaps I may be steering my ship away from any kind of remotely reasonable or recognizable port, therefor defeating the purpose of steering it at all. I would have to agree and admit that this fear is at the forefront of my mind. I do, however, take comfort in the fact that at least the ship is moving.
Now that I have been in Denver for almost a week, a number of crystal-clear truths have emerged from the ether of the last month's emotional and logistical turmoil. One, I do miss Portland terribly, like a jilted lover who keeps finding ways to work Portland's name into conversation. Two, my dog is a fucking freak. This shouldn't be a surprise (see previous posts) but new circumstances provide new venues for her to reveal the depths of her freakishness, and this one is no exception. Three, spending large amounts of time alone with someone who is a single year old is one of the most unnerving and revealing and thrilling and exhausting experiences a person can have. More to come on that (stay tuned!). Four, I am going to have to learn to love driving again, against my true nature and better judgement. If you will remember, I was about to sell my car. I now live somewhere where to be car-less would equal complete dependence or complete isolation. Five, the months I will spend here are a perfect opportunity for me to test some of the mental habits I have tried to form over the last year, specifically: making good use of time, persisting in the fact of obstacles, thinking positively, and making/pursuing plans that I know are good for me even when all I want to do is fall back into the blessed comfort of sameness.
None of these is a small thing. But I feel lucky to be so acutely aware that I am doing, as Mark Knopfler phrased it, the Walk of Life. My circumstances are fluid, in motion, out of balance but, in some ways, more under my control than they have been in years. My future is unknown, but that fact increases my awareness, my vigilance over every second. I have inexplicably left left the life of my choosing. I am starting over, staring out over a precipice. I feel lonely and scared, but also happy and excited. I feel alive.
Prologue: Don't ask me what this post is about cuz I'm not sayin'. If that disappoints you, you should really keep reading because you might learn something!
Remember that time when something you reeeally wanted to happen and thought was going to happen didn't happen and it made you feel like crap? And then the same day a bunch of other stuff you wanted to happen also didn't happen and you started wondering if overnight you had become a loser and the universe was mocking you and no good stuff was ever going to happen to you ever again, ever? And then you decided to blog about it and while you were blogging you burned your toast? Remember that? No? Well, good for you I guess.
You may find this shocking, but something vaguely similar to the above scenario happened to me recently. So today's post is about disappointment. If this were a real blog where I attempted to convey real information, I would have researched whether or not there are actual stages of disappointment (a la Kubler-Ross' stages of grief) and talked about those. But it isn't, so I am going to make up my own. Oooh, or maybe I'll make up my own and then try to locate the real ones and see how close I was or (more likely) how much better mine are. IN YO FACE, real researchers!
Stages of Disappointment (as experienced by Neuro Crash Girl)
1. Very hot and uncomfortable prickly sweaty feeling
2. Sinking heart
3. Numbness
4. Tears
5. Anger
6. Tears
7. Talking incessantly to anyone who will validate that was happened is "totally fucked up"
8. Drinking
9. More talking
10. Microwave lasagne
I think that pretty much sums it up. So now the question is...what next? One cannot sit around sweating, crying, and eating microwave lasagne for the rest of one's life.
It would seem there are two broad categories of action available--dwell or move on--and numerous sub-categories within each. I'm sampling from both, sliding back and forth for a bit. Ultimately this will mean that truly getting over my disappointment will take longer. But I kind of feel like going for broke on this thing. If I have to feel like shit anyway, why not get really into it and ring every last drop out of the experience? The opposite of feeling good isn't feeling bad, it's feeling nothing at all.
Having committed to wallowing around in my disappointment for a while, I'll attempt to share the essence of the self-talk running through my mind as I leap-frog from resignation to rage to delusion to optimism to bitterness (and occasionally flounder helplessly in the murky waters lying in between). In general, I consider myself a blessed and lucky person. Maybe I am not be the most motivated individual in the world (see: every post ever made to this blog), but things generally go my way. Recently, however, I have begun to waiver in this assessment of myself. Did I run out of luck? Or did I accomplish so little with the luck I did have that the universe decided that it was wasted on me and took it away? Or did the fact that I began consciously thinking about my luck make it disappear? Or are all these little set-backs just setting me up for some cosmic payout so mind-blowingly awesome that I had to save up a few months worth of luck just to make it happen? And this is where I think I have to make a choice. Because to truly move on, I think I have to believe that there is a big pile of unspent luck hanging out somewhere, grinning and rubbing its hands together in anticipation of the coming awesomeness. And I think I also have to believe that operating on that assumption will actually make some awesome stuff happen all on its own. But if I don't chose that approach, the likelihood of being disappointed again goes way down because I will have resigned myself to a permanently overdrawn luck account, so any good news would be like a nice surprise.
Having said all of that, I am going to disagree with myself. I actually don't think I need to chose either of those options. I am going to choose a third option which is to get down with some first century Roman philosophy. I'm going with Seneca who shared the wisdom, "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity." I like this because it brings to mind an intersection of two necessary conditions, only one of which we have any control over. Seneca also said, "If a man does not know to what port he is steering, no wind is favorable to him." Change that to woman, and I think I have identified a big part of my problem. I have pretty much been bopping through life assuming things will always work out without having a clear idea of what "working out" really means. I can get my luck back...I just need to select a port and stick with that choice. Which is actually the theme of this whole blog which makes it kind of funny that I ended up back at that conclusions when I never intended to write about that at the beginning of this post. Hmmmm.
Things got a bit more serious than usual today, but it has been kind of a serious week. I can't stay down in the mouth for too long, though. First of all, the boundlessly kind friends putting up with me as I cycle through stages 7 and 9 will need a break eventually. And secondly, I need to save my lasagne for lunch this week. And sadness (even carefully cultivated sadness) gets kind of boring after a while. Maybe number 11 on my list should be "boredom." Oh, and in case you were wondering, this is the closest to an official "Stages of Disappointment" list I could find during my 30 seconds of intensive internet research:
Experience a range of negative feelings (anger, anxiety, confusion, numbness, self-doubt).
Feel a loss of self-esteem.
Begin to accept the change.
Acknowledge that you need to let go of the past and accept the future.
Begin to feel hopeful about the future.
Feel increased self-esteem.
Develop an optimistic view of the future.
Remember that time my list was soooo much better than this load of crap? Me too!
I have been seriously thinking about selling my car. Sadly, I cannot claim that these thoughts stem from a desire to reduce my personal contribution to global warming, or concerns about peak oil, or even a sincere wish to represent "one less car" in the cramped lanes of Portland's roadways. Not-shockingly, my motives for considering dispensing with my daily driver are purely selfish or--at the very least--not admirable.
Why I Want to Sell My Car
1. I don't drive it very often and when I do I incur monstrous fines for really stupid shit.
2. Driving in the city makes me an angry, petty person who enjoys life exponentially less than walking, biking, or even sitting across from smelly weirdos on public transportation.
3. My car used to be beautiful and now it is beaten up and dirty and I don't want to fix it or clean it.
The car in question is a sporty little 5-speed Mazda station wagon. I bought it new in 2002 when I was young and thought that making $32,000 meant that I was rich, and that buying a new car was a great idea because it was red. I had seen this new model at the Mazda dealership in my neighborhood, and it was love at first sight. My heart was never fuller than when driving my friends around with the sunroof open, arms hanging out windows, blasting The B-52s or The Roots, rocking our way from parties to bars to swimming holes. I slept in it. I drove it across the country. I encountered my first bona fide sexual predator when it blew a tire on the side of I80 (and escaped unharmed). This car was a huge part of my identity for a long time. It represented adulthood and freedom. Plus its beauty and newness satisfied some un-admitted-to shallowness on my part without making me seem like too much of a materialistic asshole.
Fast-forward several years and the story starts to get (even more) embarrassing. My red car was trucking though life, doing her job, getting me from here to there like the reliable little Japanese engine-that-could she was designed to be. But I didn't get that thrill when I looked at her any more. Her paint was chipped and faded. Her side was scratched (by this weird moving pillar that appeared out of nowhere from the shadows of a haunted parking garage). I knew it was wrong, that I should attend to her scratches, get her detailed, maybe buy her a news stereo...but my eye began to wander. Then, through a series of strange and unfortunate events (and perhaps a few mini strokes) I became two-car family-of-one when I purchased a black 1978 Jaguar XJS. The story of how I came to own this notoriously dysfunctional car is a topic for another post, but the short version of the story is that someone (who definitely had my best interest at heart) told me not to buy it. So I did. In unrelated news, Oppositional Defiant Disorder is typically only diagnosed in juveniles, but the DSM V isn't the boss of me, so whatever.
So here I am, the owner of two cars, one of which runs great but is suffering some cosmetic damage, the other of which is so gorgeous that people stop and stare and smile when they see it...but it barely runs. Having just written that sentence, I am suddenly gripped by intense concern for my own ability to think logically or make rational decisions, since the entire theme of this post is getting rid of the reliable, working car and keeping the money-pit lemon that gets 9 miles to the gallon. On the highway. Remember why my blog is called Neuro Crash Girl? Yeah, that's not just me trying to be cute.
Anyway, being a shallow weirdo with no common sense it only part of the story. Since moving to Portland, my love of driving has completely disappeared. I have gotten a speeding ticket (to the tune of $280 dollars), a parking ticket for not having a permit (that I actually did have, but just didn't have displayed - $60), and a photo-bot ticket for running a red light ($260). Plus my car got broken into requiring me to replace not only the window ($150) and the stereo (free--thanks Kara!--plus $60 in labor for installation). That's a fuckload of money that I don't have to spend on a car that I drive maybe once a week that is definitely going to need some serious maintenance soon. Plus, when I drive I realize how stupid people are and how much I want to punch their faces. And sometimes that feeling doesn't go away, and I feel the minutes of my life ticking away in anger which is not how I'd like to spend my time.
Soooo, should I keep both cars? Sell both? Keep one but not the other? I like the idea of having a classic car that makes driving an every-once-in-a-while, special occasion event (especially if it only runs every once in a while). If I need to leave town I can use Zip Car or take the train. And, if I sold my Mazda, I could use the money to buy a super-pretty brand new bike that I'm sure I would always love and never mistreat or neglect or grow tired of.
And if I sold my Mazda and felt trapped and isolated and impotent and worthless and all the other things I worry about feeling if I made such a bold move, I could always buy one of those sporty new Volvo station wagons like the ones at the dealership down the street from my house. Like maybe the blue one.
Okay, loyal fans. You've been toyed with long enough. The truth is....(what is the truth? shit...why would I ever start a sentence with the phrase "the truth is"? That is just asking to be called out on your disingenuous bullshit. GODDAMMIT. Okay, okay, still time to recover....everyone likes the truth...right?). So, as I was casually saying, the truth is that I may not be totally up to the task of writing a very well-constructed blog focussing on a single theme every month of my life. Or every two months of my life...or three...or, well, whatever.
So, Neuro Crash Girl is going to experience a bit of a metamorphosis. I know that after reading SIX WHOLE POSTS followed by months of silence it is going to be a huge adjustment for you. Fear not, loyal readers, for NCG would never subject you to this fate unless she had faith that you were entirely up for the task of altering your reading strategies to accommodate her writing whims. Hopefully, the whole experience will result in a lot more interaction and fun for both of us. Things may be a bit more casual, a bit more mundane and less story-like, but I think that's what needs to happen. Blogs need air to survive, and this one was on its death bed. Time to blow this fucker up.
