I'll Clean it for You

I'm looking at the mess on my daughter's bedroom floor, and I can hear my mother's voice in my head: Clean this up now, or I'll go in with a trash bag and clean it for you. I generally kept my room clean, partly because I liked it that way and partly because I wasn't sure whether or not it was an empty threat. My mom, after all, would make a spur-of-the-moment threat reality on occasion, no matter how overboard a punishment it might be, so that we knew she was serious. She never changed her mind, and never apologized. I was grounded for two weeks for 'refusing' to eat stew one night, even though I changed my mind as soon as I saw the look on her face.

I was never entirely sure if the threat to clean our bedrooms with a trash bag was true or not, but I didn't worry about it. I was terribly jealous of my younger sister, however, because when her room got to be too bad—for example when the floor pile reached knee height and she needed to jump from the door onto her bed—my mother would clean it. My sister would get home from a slumber party and her floor would be visible. My sister would be wide-eyed for a brief time and then cocky about her special treatment, and I would sulk enviously.

One day my sister was gone and I was passing her bedroom to go somewhere. Our mother was crouched on the bedroom floor with a huge black trash bag and a stretched-to-the-point-of-breaking look on her face. She looked up at me with wide, angry eyes and held up some random toy.

"Does your sister play with this?"

My eyes widened as far as they'd go. My mother was not someone to be trifled with, especially when she was angry, and I didn't want any backlash, no sirree. I looked at the toy, shook my head, pointed out a couple others, and scrammed.

My sister remembers getting home that day. I must have been hiding somewhere, because I don't. Apparently the second she walked into the house she knew something was up. There were both our parents waiting for her with that look on their faces.

"I cleaned your room," our mother said, and my sister's heart skipped. "It will never happen again."

No further explanation was needed. My sister's room was spotless, she didn't know what was missing, and all I'd say was that yes, there was a trash bag involved. I didn't want to get on her bad side for my moment of cooperation, and I didn't want her getting upset about things I hoped she wouldn't miss.

It was months before she went looking for some random thing and couldn't find it. I would neither verify nor negate that it had gone into the trash bag. I'm not even sure how much our mother threw away, because my instincts said hide until they drag you out for dinner.

Back to the present. We've recently moved and my daughter hasn't unpacked anything that I didn't unpack for her. She spent two weeks playing Barbies in her room, and then when the third box of toys arrived from storage, her room got too full to enjoy and she stopped going in except to go to change clothes and sleep. I have two hours before I need to pick her up from school, and a box of black trash bags. Some of the stuff in her boxes has been in storage nearly four years, and chances are she wouldn't miss it.

I guess I'll find out.

1 Weird Trick to Looking Good in Photos

I recently read a blog post about incredible transformation photos. You know what I'm talking about; an ad for some diet aid or light food shows before and after photos of people who used to be lumpy and are now utterly svelte. I could tell you how to transform yourself, but I think I'll start off with proof directly from the source, who proved it.

Says MelVFitness:

"Check out my transformation! It took me 15 minutes. Wanna know my secret? Well firstly I ditched the phonewallet (fwallet) cause that shit is lame, swapped my bather bottoms to black (cause they're a size bigger & black is slimming), Smothered on some fake tan, clipped in my hair extensions, stood up a bit taller, sucked in my guts, popped my hip- threw in a skinny arm, stood a bit wider, pulled my shoulders back and added a bit of a cheeky/Im so proud of my results smile. Zoomed in on the before pic- zoomed out on the after & added a filter. Cause filters make everything awesome. What's my point? Don't be deceived by what you see in magazines & on Instagram.. You never see the dozens of other pics they took that wernt as flattering. Photoshop can make a pig look hotter then Beyonce."

That's right, fifteen minutes to a slimmer, fitter you, using this one weird trick.

There are other tricks. Resting your weight on one leg rather than both is one, and another is stretching your neck forward a bit toward the camera. From the side you might look a bit like E.T., but in the picture it'll smooth out your neck and jaw. Wear clothes that skim your figure instead of being overly loose or tight. If you want to play with the big dogs hire a tailor for everything down to t-shirts and sweats.

There are people who make careers out of posing people (or being posed). Models and photographers don't just stand there and take pictures, there's work that goes into it all. If you put in that kind of work, you could look amazing too. Or you could stop worrying so much.

Almost every photo of my mother when I was growing up was actually a photo of her palm facing the camera to block out her face. She was a little overweight, reasonably pretty, and somewhat obsessed with her appearance. Even on weekends she put on makeup before wandering around the house.

I read something recently that claims "Real Women Have Curves" is doing damage, and I believe it. It took me years and years to accept that my shape isn't the one that's currently fashionable, and this applies no matter your sex or gender. Even if I lose every ounce of fat on my body I still won't be shaped like someone in a magazine because not everyone is built with a broad chest, narrow hips, a tiny waist, or legs twice the length of their torso. Buying mass-produced clothing would imply otherwise, but it's not true.

Says Hanne Blank:

"Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.

"Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever."

It continues in much the same way, the point being that people aren't all shaped the same. At all.

Guess what; the models in lingerie ads aren't the same ones you see on runways. Runway models are typically tall and slender. They're supposed to look like walking hangers so you look at the clothes. They're still real people, just tall, lanky ones who may or may not be pressured by their careers to eat little and stay slim. Lingerie models are shorter and curvier than them, but still pressured to stay fit.

What you see isn't the one version of perfection that so many people think it is.

So you can hide from the camera when you're not feeling attractive or pop your hip, stretch out your neck, suck in your gut and try to look like a model, or you can decide it's just not worth it.

Take my rant and search photography/modeling tricks or give yourself a look and decide that maybe you look like a person, like everyone else.

Discussion/comments are welcome.

Enema of the State

I was driving down a long, winding road in the dark of night, work behind me and home somewhere ahead. The day had been an arguable success; I'd only cried alone in the cooler once, and no one saw. My foot grew heavy on the gas pedal. The road was empty but for me, and I was hungry.

My phone rang. I don't make a habit of answering it while driving, but the late hour and odd timing jarred me. It was my father.

"Have you left work?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I'm nearly home."

"I need something."

What he needed was an enema for Grandma, who's apparently refused to go to the bathroom for a few days and now finds that she can't. I went home (to her house, though she lives with my dad) and scoured her bathroom cabinets. Found one, brought it to her.

Things I didn't expect to be doing after work #345.

Old Age, Death, and Stories

I watched family members take away my great-grandfather's car keys so he couldn't drive across the country alone, watched the local senior center close and take with it his reason to go on a walk every day. I watched him spend more time in front of the TV because he didn't have anywhere to go anymore, and I was torn because I could see both sides.

He was in his eighties, and if he died on a three-day road trip, how long would it be before someone knew? How long before someone found him?

When he was in his nineties his independence was gone, and he was having problems. The family in general chalked it up to "old age" and decided to make him comfortable. My father told him that he should go to the hospital and find out what was wrong because "old age" isn't a condition, it's a life state. He chose the hospital.

He had surgery for a pinched nerve in his back, which had been causing the trouble talking, the clumsiness, the symptoms of "old age." Family across the country came out to visit him, and after a second surgery, he went into a coma he never woke up from.

The few who'd insisted on "old age" blamed my father for my great-grandfather's death, because of the surgeries. I believe that things worked out for the better. He could have died alone in a dark living room, but instead he died in a bright hospital, surrounded by children and grandchildren, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. He got to see people one last time between surgeries.

At his wife's funeral, some twenty years earlier, he left the front of the room to sit with his great-grandchildren in the back rows and told us that she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad, she'd have wanted us to remember her life. He told us stories about her, a petite woman who, in the 1930s, had painted her long nails red and played basketball.

At his graveside, we did the same for him. We talked about things he'd said that had surprised us, talked about the stories he'd told, talked about his life story, which had been read at the funeral, so much of which we'd known nothing about. My daughter, his great-great granddaughter, was there, and old enough to share stories with us.

We could spend our lives feeling guilty for taking away his keys, or for taking him to a hospital which gave him the anesthetic he ultimately died under. Or we could remind ourselves that the last he knew was how much he was loved, and how many generations he'd seen grow during his long life. He got to share stories, got to say goodbye.

Some people spend forever grieving, unable to cope with certain holidays because someone's missing, unable to go certain places because of memories. My memories make me want to go back. They make me want to tell stories and include people, whether they're corporeally there or not. When I drive past the graveyard, I wave to all three of the grandparents I have there. I'm sure every one of them would appreciate it.

This post was written as a reaction to this one, by rantravewrite.

Out of My Head

If you've read more than a couple blog posts, you might have noticed that there are huge variations in my mood and state of mind. I've written blog posts about self-hatred and about hope for the future, about hating life in general and about amusing things that have happened.

I want out of my head.

This has been a hard summer, and I don't even know why. For about three weeks it's been severe depression almost constantly. Severe Depression as in sitting somewhere crying until I start to hyperventilate, getting dizzy, then forcing myself to breathe just long enough for the dizziness to go away before it's near hyperventilation again.

I don't want to go to work because hell, it's work. No one wants to go. I've gone every day except two. The first day I was hyperventilating when I called in and the person who answered the phone couldn't understand me. The second day I spent attempting to calm myself so I could go back to work on the third day.

I don't want to go to sleep. I lie in bed for an hour trying not to think, or at least to think about something that doesn't terrify me. I fall asleep and wake up several times, often from nightmares. I lie awake again for a while, and eventually I get sick of trying and get up. Then I zone out because I'm not sleeping.

I don't want to eat. I don't want to do much of anything, really. I've written a couple stories, many of which were violence-themed or crime-themed because it gets the thoughts out without me doing anything.

Here are some things people diagnosed with depression can do at home to ease the symptoms:

• Get adequate sleep
• Eat healthy
• Take a walk outside/exercise

Here is how people in the throes of actual severe clinical depression might feel about that:

• HAHAHAHA *sob sob sob*
• Who cares about food? I'll grab what's closest so I don't starve myself. That counts, right? (Or, alternately, What does it matter? I'm worthless anyway. Gimme the choco-ballos.)
• What does it matter? I'm worthless anyway.

I don't know how I'll make it through the next few days, let alone another thirty years of life. There's not enough good to make up for all this crap.

Adventures at Smile Central

As you may recall, I have a job at a store I shall hereby refer to as Smile Central. That is not the store's real name, in case you were wondering, and in fact has nothing to do with the store. It is a pseudonym, because I dislike the idea of being fired and sued. Because I'm maybe going to complain about the place a little, and corporate entities don't have much of a sense of humor about these things.

But back to my job. I'm working a temporary security gig, sitting at a back door making sure construction and remodel guys don't steal anything. When the construction and remodel is done, I no longer have a job. Maybe. I have strongly hinted and pledged and vowed and sworn on my name badge that I would appreciate continued employment. At least two people have consulted the store manager on my behalf, and other employees miss me when I'm not here, so I'm doing a decent job.

So I got to work tonight and no one acknowledged my request to open the door (not unusual, actually), and eventually someone wandered back and asked what I was doing here. He told me that the remodel guys aren't using this door anymore, and hauled away their mobile office. As we debated the merits of sitting by a closed door making minimum wage and playing smartphone for four easy hours versus being sent home, someone else showed up and blew my cover.

Send Lyric to stationery.

Does Lyric know how to do this?

How about housewares?

Pharmacy?

Go see the manager.

I'm going to say I don't have to worry about being dropped and jobless in a week. Nervescitement? Lots of it. I've been waking up my daughter with somewhat noisy nightmares about work for weeks because I knew the remodel was wrapping up. I could about puke right now from the nervescitement.

I ended up talking to the store manager personally. Not a department manager. Not a shift manager. The Big Boss of this particular Smile Central. I was asked what position I wanted, to which I replied that I was open. I mentioned the departments which had expressed interest in me before. I was asked what my Goals are.

That's right. My Goals. In the blink of an eye, about a million thoughts rushed through my head. My goal for the past however many hears now has been stay alive, with a side of get a job so there's one more reason to stay alive. Before that, my goal was to move to a specific urban area where there would be job opportunities appropriate to my bachelor's degree, which so happens to be in a field I love.

So I blinked. I said that I was interested in management, that I've applied for management positions more than once, and that I have a degree in a field without many opportunities in this area. I said that when I'd graduated I hadn't intended to stay in this area, but now I do.

This is true in a way. I cannot legally leave the state and take my daughter because her other parent objects. I will not leave without her, and if I must stay, and I don't have the resources to move to a city (I don't), I may as well stay here.

Big Boss asked what my degree was in (Graphic Design), and I told her. I can't say what the smile she shared with the shift manager was about, but I said that I was thrilled that they knew what Graphic Design was to begin with. Many people don't, or they have a very limited view of what it is. Graphic Design isn't really something you do for glory.

This hasn't turned into me mocking the place. Sorry about that. Too excited and all.

Big Boss asked if I minded working in produce.

Now, that sounds bad, but what I've learned is that they shuffle people from position to position, based on what's needed, and they desperately needed someone in produce. I said that was fine. I was asked if I liked cleaning. Pfft, who likes cleaning? I said I like feeling useful, which is the truth. Approving looks all around. I was given a new schedule and sent out... to straighten shelves in housewares.

By this time I'd run back and forth answering summons to this place or that (as mentioned in paragraphs 4-8), and straightening shelves sounded pretty decent. I've got no clue how long I did that before someone walkie-talkied someone else to call me back to the remodel door. Then they paged me over the store speaker, by which time I was halfway there.

Apparently they'll need me at my door until at least Friday.

Okay, complaining time now. This place is a mess, and I don't know how they manage to keep things on the shelves. The right hand not only doesn't know what the left is doing, but is totally unaware that it should be watching its own fingers, and that there are also arms, feet, eyes, and other such things.

Earlier tonight I got paid a total of approximately fifteen dollars to sit by a closed door, listen to people bicker about what to do with me, and straighten a few aisles' worth of merchandise. I was given a new schedule, then put back onto my old one in the space of a couple hours.

For now, I'm still door security. I have no desk to rest my head heavily on, so facepalm, I say. Facepalm.

Wear Your Underpants; A Cheese Factory Tale

So one time, at the cheese factory, we had a guy who was fresh out of prison working as a janitor. He had a bushy mountain-man beard going on, but what he was really known for was the complaints about his refusal to wear undergarments. See, at the cheese factory everyone wore white, and if you didn't buy your own whites, you could use a jumpsuit deal provided by the factory. Those things were well-worn and therefore a bit thin.

People complained, especially the older women on the janitorial staff with him and the younger women who had no desire to see his hairy butt-crack. It was, indeed, hairy. My lovely photographic memory has the moment I realized what I was seeing as I followed him up a staircase burned into my brain. I was told that the front view was even worse, but cleverly kept my eyes up to at least mountain-beard level after that.

He was told several times by management to wear something under his jumpsuit, and didn't. So they fired him. Today's lesson: Wearing underpants to work is probably a good idea, unless you're a stripper.

Why I Don't Dance in the Rain

Life's not about waiting for the storms to pass... It's about learning to dance in the rain.

Not for me, it isn't. I will wait inside, thank you, and this is why:

One day as a young adult I decided that dancing in the rain was a very romantic notion. I had never danced in the rain, to speak of, without an umbrella and a destination. I declared that I was going to do so, just for the experience, so I went outside.

I tried dancing, but it wasn't very pleasant. "Is rain supposed to hurt?" I asked, and my family, watching from the door replied, "Get back in the house! That's hail!"

I grew up in Southern California. I wasn't really familiar with hail, so forgive me learning that lesson the hard way.

A few years later I was confident that it was not hailing, it was only raining. I had a significant other, and again romantic ideas flooded my head. We could go dance in the rain together! What fun, what a way to live a dream! My s.o. refused to dance, but we walked together, so I counted it.

All in all it was successful enough, until I arrived at my aunt's house, sopping wet. Something was wiggling in my hair. I pulled out one nasty green worm-thing and decided in retrospect that I wished I'd just brought along an umbrella. I haven't danced in the rain since.

If you're now thinking that the whole dancing in the rain thing is a metaphor and maybe I'm taking it all a bit seriously, my reply is that this post is an allegory answering the metaphor. Dancing in the rain usually ends up backfiring. I am, therefore, a cautious person, despite the fact that, at my core, I am a rebel. I am a rebel in mind, heart, and spirit, who is contained by the lesson that if I'm too happy, I'll get slammed in the face with hail or a worm or something. Metaphorically speaking.

I'm not going to tell you not to dance in the rain, though. I probably won't tell my daughter not to, either. Maybe it'll work out for you. Maybe you'll get hailed on or step in a puddle that looks an inch deep but is actually a small pond. I will be perfectly happy standing off to the side with my umbrella, chuckling.

Grandma is a Klepto

Grandma is not literally a kleptomaniac, I'll get that out of the way first. Still, she's developed some bad habits over the years, and one of them is assuming that anything she sees in certain places is hers. I'm going to tell you a short story, and I promise it's relevant, so pay attention:

Once upon a time there was a loving couple. The wife died, and so the husband let the house go, because let's face it, bachelor pads happen. His daughter and her husband eventually came to live with him, but the son-in-law had mobility problems and no one was willing to go through Mother's Things anyway. So more things got put on top of the original things. Then the son-in-law died, and it was just father and daughter, neither willing or able to go through their deceased loved ones' belongings. They now had A Mess.

The daughter is my grandmother, and now that her father has died too, about twenty or thirty years' worth of stuff has piled up against walls and taken over entire rooms. I am currently living in said stuff, and cannot afford to move out. Back to the point.

There's so much stuff that Grandma has grown accustomed to poking through piles and finding things she doesn't recognize. Sometimes she finds stuff on top of piles that she doesn't recognize, and if she really likes it, she takes it back to my dad's house, where she's currently living. That would be cool if everything in the house was still hers.

I am currently living here.

Sometimes she finds stuff on top of piles that she doesn't recognize, and if she really likes it, she takes it. You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

She's tried to give away my stuff before. I left some things behind when I moved to my sister's, and when I'd visit, I'd find things like my vacuum in places slightly closer to the door every time, as though they were in the process of being sneaked out. My dad actually caught her trying to give something of mine away to a cousin because she'd found it and it looked nice. I believe she tried to give away some of my stuff that's in her storage unit, too. "There's so much stuff in here, I don't know where it came from."

Another short story, but I won't pretend this one didn't happen. Sorry for the subterfuge up there, but I wanted to convey a sense of sympathy and understanding instead of the baffled frustration I really feel.

My father had brought a flashlight over intending to look at and/or fix something, but when he needed it, he couldn't find it. He asked my grandmother, who was also here, if she could help him find a flashlight, any flashlight.

She smiled and said, "Yes, I have one right here in my purse." She dug it out and handed it over. "Isn't it nice? It's much better than the other one I had."

And my dad's like, "That's my flashlight." He let her keep it since she liked it so much and since her old flashlight really sucked, but things like that happen a lot. You don't set things down in this house, even if you'll remember where you put them, because they'll disappear. Sometimes they'll get knocked over, but more likely a visitor will take them.

By "a visitor" I could mean one of my cousins, but I don't. I mean Grandma.*
*Author's Note: I love my grandmother. All this is between me and you, right?

Does This Job Come With Benefits?

I'm not too bad-looking. I'd say I clean up well enough. My first day on the job my boss said, "Don't let them flirt with you. And they will." And they did. Two weeks later I've got a date coming up this weekend and a friend who has confiscated my right to low self-esteem due to my persistent single status.

The last time I had a date (more than two years), I exploded with nervescitement. It was high school all over again with the talk and the social panic. This time was actually kind of fun, though. And then, of all the ridiculous things for me to think about, I realized that the nicest clothes I own are my work clothes.

When you're unemployed for a while and don't get out much, or at least in my personal experience, you don't buy new clothes for yourself. It doesn't matter if the edges are frayed, doesn't matter if there's a little stain right there. Who's going to see you anyway?

Well, maybe, just maybe, you have three interviews and have to wear your "best shirt" more than once. Maybe you realize that your "best shirt" might not work the same for a movie date as it did for the old lady who interviewed you. Three times. Maybe, and this is all hypothetical here, maybe this movie date is an attractive person whom you find witty, amusing, and/or attractive. Like, really attractive. Hypothetically.

It'd be cheating to buy something from the discount store I work at, right? Especially since my not-actually-hypothetical date is doing work for said discount store until sometime this summer? Maybe I'll go next door to the factory outlet place and get something there instead. I'm not vain or anything, but I'd like to look at least as decent as I do in my work clothes. That's fine, right?

Like I said, high school. At least I'm not talking in all caps this time. I did that yesterday, via text.

Epilogue:
There was no date, after all. Someone went and got drunk instead, and my interest faded while watching them work with a hangover. Nothing ever got arranged and nothing ever happened. The end.

I have a job.

That's right. Actual, legitimate employment where I'll be going to a certain place every day at a certain time, working, and getting paid for it. It's a temporary security gig until July, but there's a possibility of being hired for a different position after that. And by security I mean sitting at the back door checking toolboxes and receipts while remodel workers go in and out, but I'll get a walkie-talkie.

I finally found a place that doesn't mind my art degree, and I'm taking it, dammit. It'll get me approximately $600 per month and no benefits, but that's four times what I get in child support. (A certain someone quit their job a week before going to court to have child support calculated, then had another job a week later. Bad form, that.)

I didn't tell anyone I had an interview until after it happened, so don't feel left out. In fact, the only two people I ended up telling after wouldn't have heard about it either, except that it was valid information in Obviously you don't want to work, or you'd have a job by now arguments. Because obviously everyone in a small town with no art-related fields is very interested in someone who wasn't born there, didn't grow up there, and went to college elsewhere for graphic design.

But I digress. I didn't tell anyone I'd been hired until after my first day of orientation. That would be yesterday, and a total of four people; the two I mentioned arguing with, my best friend, and my daughter.

I also didn't tell you guys that my sister kicked me out. According to her, what she said was that I needed to get a job by the end of the month and move out by summer, because she can't handle having a kid around all day. According to me, she said (and I quote), "I want you out by the end of the month. I want my life back!"

So I'm living in my grandmother's house in the middle of nowhere again, only this time I have permission to clean it myself. On days I haven't been in orientation I've averaged 3 bags of trash per day. Whenever I'm bored I'll throw together another bag or two.

By trash I mean old, empty envelopes, things too broken or otherwise destroyed to be saved, grocery lists from the 1970's, torn up fake flowers that generations of cats have peed on, that kind of thing. Boxes and boxes of that kind of thing, and I go through every bit of it because I'll find a deed to some bit of land somewhere or a photo of a man in a military coat from WWII or handmade paper souvenirs from 1907 that a teacher made for his 18 students grades 2-5 who attended a local school.

Some things could have historical significance and some things just couldn't.

My father, who is notorious for making wonderful promises that he may or may not be able to actually keep, but wants to keep, told me that if I spent the summer here and cleaned this place up, he'd give me the thousand dollars I need to get into my own house. If I manage to get hired permanently at my actual official job, I may not need him to keep that promise at all, which is a relief.

I'm gainfully employed for the first time since I started this blog. It's no longer the story of someone struggling with unemployment, but no worries. I have more goals to reach. I'm still hoping.

Personality Tests

I'm a sucker for a good personality test. It has to be difficult, however. I can see results a mile away, and can't help tweaking my answer toward one result or another, or spreading my answers out so I know the result could have gone in multiple directions.

This one, however, stumped me. (Disclaimer: flashy lights, avoid if epileptic.) You're given a couple circles on a pulsing background and asked a question, such as, "Which one is angry?" or "Where will you never be safe?"

I, being the smart-aleck I am, started out picking the opposite of what I thought was obvious. As I went through it got a little disturbing, and I started to play it straight. My results were... me.

Though quiet on the outside, you are often the hidden hero; someone who rushes in when needed and then after the emergency is over fades back into the woodwork. Because of this sense of duty and honor, you can also on occasion be rigid in your viewpoint and unyielding in the face of other ways of thinking. Usually cynical and rarely trusting of others, you maintain a small set of intimate friends. These bonds are stronger than most. You are always grounded in the present moment. Your close bonds can also lead to clique-ishness and a tendency to gossip about those who are deemed less worthy. You are an integrative thinker, collecting data from a wide range of sources and applying it to your worldview. You can become overly task-oriented. In stressful situations you often withdraw from the world to seek peace in contemplation. You often seem cold and withdrawn. Often you will withdraw rather than verbalize your discontent.

Maybe not the best parts of me, but that is me, minus the bravado. That's me minus the logic that keeps me going. "I feel ____, but logically I know ____, so I refuse to show anger because I have no real reason to be angry."

Eh, it makes my mind swim. So of course I took the second test in the series immediately.

This one was four pulsing colored squares, each with shadowy figures in the center. "Which one knows your secret?" "Which is better than you?" Entirely different results, but still me.

A risk taking individual who fights against the burdens of life through a quest for excessive stimuli. This individual is not only impulsive but admires impulsive behavior, as this is perceived as being free of the exhaustion he or she feels from everyday life. Best method of entry is to appeal to the novel and the future development of our protocol. 

This client feels that times have come to a juncture that is requiring immediate action. This belief is often mistaken however and such an individual can react to perceived threats with overzealous behavior or asymmetrical responses. This client will not heed advice, whether good or bad, and will take his or her own guidance, even if it is only chosen as a means of asserting individuation.

This one cut deeper. Part of it is who I want to be. I want to take risks. I want something to truly interest me. Yes, I admire people who can set aside that very logic that I hold to and do what they want. Freedom is a heady thought. Freedom from constantly thinking about the consequences and deciding "It's not worth it," because maybe sometimes it is.

Also, interesting little fact here: When trying to read the second paragraph, I blanked out. I do that sometimes when something hits too close, or is too stressful. Rather than stressing over it, I just lose my train of thought and have to start over (much easier when I can reread what I've written). A quick read tells me that I sometimes go overboard and I don't trust advice. Sometimes just to prove that I have my own mind.

Well, ouch.

You know what's really fun? They have a third test, complete with pulsing lights and disconcerting noises.

You feel frustrated in your attempts to make your will manifest in a relationship, either personal or public. This frustration can be seen by others as irritability or anxiety and occasionally a tendency to drift into righteous anger. There is a feeling that society or people are holding you back, which can lead to a moral exhaustion and a sense of apathy if allowed to fester. If this continues you will ultimately desire only to be left alone.

Insecurity is the watchword for you at this moment. There is a strong sense that you have been socially demeaned or ignored recently. Hopes and dreams have been stymied, leading to an ever greater anxiety or unease. You need reassurance and to believe that your problems will someday be overcome, whether or not this is actually the case. Often your anxieties will lead you to become unreasonable or demanding. 

Mild discomfort now. I'd really rather deny this one and delete this entire post, but I won't let myself.

Big Disclaimer:
The tests I just took may beat your ego to death and creep you the heck out. In fact, they recommend not taking them unless you have a clinician ready to look at your results. I don't know if I just took one for the team or if I'm psyching myself out.

Little Disclaimer:
I love stuff that messes with your mind. For example, The Game, starring Michael Douglas, is an awesome movie that will drag your brain through the mud, push it off the roof on your dad's birthday, then laugh at you.

The moral of this blog post: How I entertain myself alone on the Internet.

A Kid, a Puppy, and a Pointless Story

I was looking over my blog and thought I might go ahead and update you about the dog situation. Quick recap: Excited puppy too much for 11-year-old girl to cope with.

When my sister calmed down, she decided to have a puppy/kid training lesson, and it was a success. The puppy got treats for keeping her paws on the floor instead of jumping, and since it was a specific lesson with specific instructions, my daughter concentrated and obeyed. By the end, she was able to walk across the room without squealing, the puppy was able to follow her without jumping, and she could feed the puppy a treat from her bare hand, though she tended to drop it more often than not.

Another success began with a recent question: How come nobody ever takes me to the movies?

The answer, of course, is: one time, you went to the movies with grandpa and ran out crying during a preview for Coraline. He didn't catch you until you were outside, and you were maybe seven years old. You then began refusing to go into movie theaters.

That's not what I said, though. I said, "Why, do you want to go to the movies?" She did, so we went, and it was a normal movie experience. Since this is all rather anticlimactic, here's a cheese factory story:

One time, at the cheese factory, a coworker told us that he'd heard a completely pointless story once, and it had inspired him to learn to tell completely pointless stories. Here is his story:

He was under the influence of a mind-altering substance and had locked himself out of his apartment. Since he was locked out, he went for a walk. He realized at some point that he wasn't at all sober and he'd wandered into a very bad neighborhood. He was lost and very possibly in danger, so he called the cops on himself. They took him in and locked him up.

An older man there who was very friendly asked him, "Do you like boys, or girls?"

That was pretty much the end of the story. We all looked at each other in confusion. A story like that had to have an ending, didn't it? No, apparently it didn't.

"Well, did you get back into your apartment?"

Yes.

"How?!"

Oh, I'd left the window unlocked. I climbed through.

Mr. Former-Coworker, if you ever read this, thank you. I've told that story so many times, and the looks it gets me are priceless.

A New Blog

Why, in the name of all that is good in this world, would I start a second blog? You rarely get as much as a post per month out of me as-is, unless I'm feeling especially moody, right?

This second blog, depending on your taste, might just fill those gaps. That is why.

I love to write. I write about my misadventures, I write about living with Clinical Depression, and occasionally I tuck something in for your amusement. Plus the cheese factory stories. It wouldn't be my blog if you didn't hear some cheese anecdotes now and then. Unfortunately, posts like these depend on my mood and whether anything is happening that I deem interesting enough to write about.

The rest of the time I write fiction. I write one-page blurbs about a set of characters my friends are familiar with, and they seem to enjoy getting my messages: Here, read this. Did you like it? Did you like the part where they decided to make out?

Oh yeah, I ought to put a disclaimer in here somewhere.

Disclaimer:

My short fiction explores themes which require an open-minded audience. It deals with discovering sexuality, living with difficult decisions, and loss. It's snapshots of characters' lives, in no particular order. It may feature fantasy elements, it may be fluffy bits of same-sex relationships. And it's fiction.

That is why it needs its own blog. This blog is my personal thoughts and experiences. It's things that actually happen to me, through glasses tinted with my sense of humor and perspective. It's normal events presented with flair and accidents of life presented as everyday occurrences.

This blog will continue as it has since October 2010 (sporadically). But for those who are interested in what my mind can come up with out of nothing, I offer you Dahlia at Large. If you are not interested, stay here and don't worry about it. Unless it spills over into my "real" life, you won't even hear about it again.

DSL - Dog-Specific Legislation

My sister has rottweilers. If you just grimaced or shuddered, feel free to hit the back button, because the dogs are not the problem in this story. The dogs are house pets. One is from a long line of show dogs, and spends most of his time cuddling and asking to be pet. The other is from a line of working dogs, and enjoys fetching things and learning commands. A busy dog is a happy dog, and these dogs are happy.

Puppies do not come trained, this is a sad fact of life. Kids don't come trained, either. When a puppy was introduced to my 11-year-old daughter, there was much drama because puppies nip, and they have no sense of personal boundaries whatsoever. It has been six months now. The puppy is quite a bit bigger and far better trained. She knows things like off, down, toy, bring, and leave it. The kid, however, does not seem to understand this.

My daughter panics every time the puppy comes toward her. The puppy's intentions are greet-and-sniff. My daughter starts turning away to cower against something, squealing, bending and covering her face. Unless something has happened with her father's dog that I don't know about, she's never been hurt by a dog in her life, and yet she acts terrified.

The puppy sees this squealing and body-contorting, and thinks my daughter is initiating play. My daughter won't listen to simple commands, such as Say off, or Ignore her and keep walking, so the puppy bounces or jumps up or yips, and my daughter claims that the dog has attacked her.

Let's pause a moment. The puppy is a rottweiler. What could happen if a melodramatic pre-teen goes to school and tells someone that a rottweiler attacked her? There's a possibility that two pets could be taken from their home and put down, isn't there? Even if neither dog has ever left a mark?

My sister is a certified dog trainer. It drives her crazy that my daughter, after six months of living with my sister and her dogs, still panics. But only over the puppy. The full-grown male rottweiler she's fine with. He can come greet her and she pats his head awkwardly. He tends to move slower in general, but he is no less capable of acting like a dog than the puppy is.

My daughter is afraid of the puppy's potential to hurt her. She's done this with other things, too. For example: she's been afraid of movie theaters since she was about seven because her dad took her to a scary movie once and she doesn't want to get scared.

My daughter doesn't want to listen to instructions because her fear has gotten in the way, and my sister is so upset that she doesn't want to work with the kid. My sister has taken this stubbornness or fear or whatever it is as a personal insult.

I have now ranted myself into either mental exhaustion or a block, which means that I might have been about to really get somewhere. Can't think anymore, though. My sister's crying because my daughter cries every time the puppy comes up, and my daughter is in her bedroom doing whatever 11-year-old girls do in their rooms alone.

So one time, at the cheese factory, they decided to tell a guy he was being fired for a bunch of tardies during his lunch break. Then they sent him back to finish work all emotional and he cut his hand pretty badly with a box knife. The whole line had to be shut down so they could clean everything. They decided after that to maybe start giving people notice on Fridays after their shifts.

Hunting for my Supper (True Story)

I stalked my prey through the wilds of the kitchen, with only my spear and net to protect me. When I caught scent of her, I crouched, peering through the meagre light until, yes, a cache of eggs lay nestled in the brush. My net took care of those, and soon enough I had found her.

Ah, she was a beaut, all pale golden, and she was ready for me. Oh yes.

I threw my spear too soon and thought I'd lost her! She gave a merry chase, but in the end, she succumbed. At last I slid the omelette onto my plate, and realized that I really need to write something if that's how I entertain myself over the stove.

Please say I'm not the only adult person who occasionally does this.

Close, But No Job

The interview was an hour long. They didn't seem interested in my work, but asked a lot of questions about my field in general, giving me the impression that they weren't actually sure what they wanted. They didn't ask for references until last night, via e-mail. Two professional and two personal. I sent them off today, and within a couple hours, got back a rejection e-mail.

We appreciate the time you took to come out Wednesday, but we have decided we are looking for someone with a little more previous work experience for this specific position.

I actually wonder if anyone else applied for the job. I live in the middle of nowhere, and this place is located just outside town. There are plenty of lawyers, nurses, truckers, and construction workers here, but not so many designers. They may have decided they didn't need anyone; who knows?

So I'll just be overthere eating a bowl of comfort cereal and learning about Amazon Mechanical Turking...

I Don't Believe in Luck

I found a sequin on the floor. That may seem random, but in my mind, it's a little eerie. Let's go waaaay back to the 1900's, when I was in high school. There were some rough times, and I did a lot of praying as well as some tinkering in wicca, and a lot of things I prayed for came true (though, as usual with life, not in quite the ways I expected). I did not live in a house full of glitter and confetti. My mom hated the stuff, and so my tendency to find a piece of metallic confetti in some random shape in between a prayer and something life-changing happening was unexpected. I have a sister, but she's not really the glitter and confetti type either.

I have a job interview in just over an hour, my first job interview in three and a half years. Life has done a lot of shitting on me in the past five or ten years, so no confetti and little luck. It's hard times all around. My family decided that since 13 is supposed to be an unlucky number and we're among the unluckiest people we know, all that unluck would cancel itself out and this could be an okay year.

The first resume I sent out this year, one in the field I want to get into, got me an e-mail asking for an interview two days after I sent it. I found a sequin, recognizably from one of my daughter's shirts, on the kitchen floor not fifteen minutes ago.

Logic says that shirt went through the kitchen yesterday on its way between the dryer and her bedroom, but I don't care, I'm taking it! Random sign from the glitter angels! Confidence!

I'm so sick with nerves that I only slept an hour and a half last night. I'll tell you guys how it goes.