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I remember when I first heard of PostSecret– my roommate and stumbled on it after overhearing someone drunkenly referring to it at a party. We spent the next morning, a Sunday, curled up in bed reading that day’s secrets. And then we spent the following Sunday doing the same thing. It became our ritual, to spend hungover Sundays cuddled in bed reading those.
I’ve read them ever since, own the books. I’ve never had the gall to send anything in mostly because I don’t think any of my secrets are extraordinary. The secrets I have all seem to already be on there. It’s impossible to look at the picture of Frank surrounded by plastic containers full of secrets and not think that your secret would be in there.
I also save the secrets that I like the best into a file that plays as the screen saver on my computer. A friend was in my room last week as I was changing for one of our runs and laughed, saying “Are those all yours?”
This video was posted on Valentine’s day and I fell in love with everything about it. And I’m sure you guys are aware of it, my one of my new favorite Bloggers has a great Monday secret lineup. Sundays and Mondays are my new favorite days of the week…
Whoa, emotional. I really did not mean for that post to come off that way at all. I went back and read it the next day and realized just how batshit crazy I sounded.
That post was the consequence of an accumulated 30 hours of surveillance in one weekend, a total of six hours of sleep, and no chance to really relax at all. To say that work has been stressing me out is a far understatement, even though I love being stressed out. I’ve found myself skipping lunches to finish work and then lying to my boss about having already taken them. And Friday-Sunday was literally straight surveillances- no leaving to use the restroom, no time to take a break and stretch out.
But in a weird way, this is where I thrive. I love the stress, I love the intensity. I can say with all honesty that I’ve never been more happy in my entire life. Of course I’m stressed- who isn’t right now? And sometimes that comes out in oddly emotional lashes, which just happen to end up on here. What I talked about was one thing that upset me. And to counter that, I have thousands of things that I’m loving right now.
For instance, I’m in bed (day off!) watching the first real “spring” rainstorm. I’m going to get my hair cut and glossed after this. Taking the puppy to the park. I cooked an amazing dinner last night of italian bread with tomato slices and melted gorgonzola, with a side of asparagus last night. I’m being trained in apprehensions tomorrow. I have reviews at work this week. I helped to build a case that we’ll be working with another agency. I’ve been asked by a local college to continue my education with them and get my Ph.D in Intelligence. I received a great email from FaveDave yesterday that just about made my day. I went shopping for guns. I have poker night lined up for later this week. I spent last Sunday morning at the park with Rebecca and the pup on a light trail run. Duke beat UConn.
So now, off to throw on the wellies and get the hair done.
One of my favorite characteristics of WordPress is a little gadjet that lets you see how people Googled to your blog. For instance, today I can see that someone Googled “cocaine stash necklace”, and that my blog was in the results. I have no idea why, but it is.
Other recent good ones:
“How to sleep with my brother“: made me shudder and wince. I’m guessing the reader had blue skin and was from Arkansas.
“Trashy campgrounds“: again, where is my audience?
“Zionist feet“: I had no idea the kinds of things that people get off on these days.
“What if feels like to be depressed“: Ouch, I’d like to think that my recent writing has become a bit more chipper.
“Champagne dress, what color shoes“: Let me forward you to a nice girl named Molly, she’s much better in that department.
“Cop bondage“: Seriously! When did this blog turn into Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down or Caitlyn Does Kentucky?
“Trashy Jersey girl“: Hey! We’re not all trashy!
“I want to talk Caitlyn“: Fine, send me an email. Unless you’re a creeper, don’t do that.
I have had people google the weirdest things to find this blog, but the one that bothers me the most? When people Google “Caitlynintherye”. II get between 6 to 20 people a day doing this and it honestly is the biggest tease. So I’m demanding (actually asking and stamping my feet until I get my way) that those few lurkers come out here. I mean, not the people who want to have sex with their brothers, just the people who search for “caitlynintherye”.
“When does compassion, when does morality, when does caring come in? I just hope that one day that people will realise that peace is a far better path to follow.”
My Opa always used to use the saying that it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. I thought of that saying a lot yesterday, though not used in the traditional sense.
As I was driving home from New York yesterday morning, I was listening to David Davies interviewing Desmond Tutu on NPR. Tutu, Davies said, had been recently linked to a poll that had been conducted in America concerning the top humanitarian celebrities.
Now, if you don’t know much about Desmond Tutu you should do minimal research or read his books. Tutu has spent the majority of his life in dedication to protest. A line he said, roughly transcripted, was that in every case he was for justice, against injustice. He wholly opposed apartheid, brought together a league of churches to protest the segregation, and received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984 for his related work. There is absolutely no way that you can see or hear him speak without being moved.
Davies laughed when he mentioned that Tutu had been placed third on the poll in which Americans named the top celebrity humanitarians. Ahead of him? Angelina Jolie and Bono. I felt a wave of embarrassment for all Americans when I heard that- how in the world have we named Jolie and Bono ahead of someone who spent years protesting segregation, oppression, and wicked customs? Someone who has been jailed repeatedly, had his family targeted, had his life targeted?
Now understand that I’ve had a long-standing dislike for Jolie. Aside from the fact that her acting is subpar (have you ever seen The Good Shephard? I cringe.) I hate the fact that I’ve heard “oh, like Angelina Jolie!” as a common response to saying that I want to adopt. I want to adopt an orphaned refugee, and have said that since I was six, and somehow that links me to her. A friend once argued that she brings awareness to the fact that children in other countries need to be adopted as well. That’s great, but the people that she’s swaying would only be doing it for image sake. Is that ever enough reason to adopt a child? A sudden wave of a thousand Lucille’s from Arrested Development?
I think that what I’m trying to say is that there are numbers of people that I would have placed on that list before Angelina Jolie and Bono. Kofi Annan. Nelson Mandela. Coretta Scott King. John Hume. Elie Wiesel. Woodrow Wilson. All famous names, all great humanitarians. And not known for making out with their brothers or keeping a glass encasement of their lover’s blood on a necklace. People that didn’t decide that they need an image other than “sexy but creepy”.
I’m just going to throw this one right out there- do people consider themselves to be in public or in private when driving in their cars?
In the time span of driving to the gym today (approximately ten minutes) I saw at least five people picking their noses. And not just the casual hands swiping at the end of the nostril; I mean that the entire tip of the finger was lodged inside. Scraping. I felt nauseous by the time I’d even gotten there.
This is something I’ve picked up on lately- most people consider themselves to be in a private setting when driving in their cars. I’ve seen people in business suits in a Mercedes picking their noses, I’ve seen grandmothers digging for gold. And it’s not just nose-picking. Last week when driving to New York (and stuck in terrible traffic on Staten Island) I saw a couple turn their car into a bedroom. Maybe they got a kick out of the voyeurism, maybe they just didn’t care that dirty Brooklyn cab drivers were watching with me.
I admit- I’ve completely changed clothes in my car before, including shirts. I’ve even been pulled over for “indecent exposure” once when I was changing after being soaking wet from kayaking. But what is it that makes us think we’re invisible in a hunk of metal and windows?
As the few and faithful remaining readers may have noticed, I’ve been M.I.A. on my blog for the past few weeks. I’ve been in the midst of trying to figure out why I haven’t had the urges to get back on here- maybe it’s the fact that I had to make a huge, possibly life-altering decision regarding the job in Iraq? Or perhaps it was that my laptop, the computer I write the majority of my posts on, crashed and burned (I’m praying to Geek Squad that it can be fixed). The thing is, I’ve had this exact feeling before. This whole, as Clink put it, inability to “get it up” for the blog.
It’s another relationship; it’s a surrogate relationship. I know, it’s very “me” to compare everything in my life to a relationship (that’s how it works around here), but hear me out on this on. When I started this blog a bit over a year ago, I was crazed with the idea. I loved it, started writing on it several times a day. I even started forgoing plans with my friends to write on it. I’m not kidding about that, I really spent a Friday night in writing instead of going to the bar.
I can remember the first time I had a fightwith my blog- a random reader left a comment about how I couldn’t keep a guy around because, in his eyes, I was a “fat slut”. I literally gasped when I read that, and even spent a few days away from the blog.
I certainly had moments of sudden disinterest in the blog as well, usually at times when a new guy popped into the picture. Those were the times I’d break away for a few days. When the guy didn’t work out, I’d lapse back into blog mode.
I’m not even sure if this makes sense at all; in my sleep-deprived, coffee-fueled mind it does. It’s just that the way I reacted towards this blog is in fact similar to the way I’d act in a relationship. For the most part, I’m usually the one to pull away, to need space, to end it. I usually get bored quickly, detach myself when things slightly go wrong. Any usual reader might not guess that, particularly because of my past with P, but it’s true. I’ve ended almost all of my relationships in that exact manner.
So I guess that when these so-called fights started raring up, I turned my back on the blog. When some random person commented “who sits around all day and looks at clothes and ugle [sic] dogs!”, I wasn’t angry. Instead I was annoyed, sick of the backlash. It felt like the old boyfriend I had who told me that I wasn’t allowed to wear certain shirts because they made me look like a whore. I didn’t need that, I don’t need that.
But this is something that I’ve worked at for over a year, a relationship that I’ve cultivated and nurtured. And when I started to receive emails asking where I was, I realized that I really missed this. It’s totally worth the few occasional comments from bitches to have my own place. And unlike real relationships, I can delete those comments the second they occur.
So I’m back to stay, for now at least. I have a lot to catch up on, but for now I need to catch up on sleep.
…to sit in bed while a spring time thunderstorm rages outside.
…to move somewhere new, somewhere far. Djibouti, Cairo, even Oregon.
…him to stop seeing me as just another girl, to see me as his girl the way I see him as my boy.
…to hop on a plane to Texas to see my Meredith.
…to hop on a plane to anywhere warm.
…an apartment with white molding and walls painted blues and greens. And a purple bathroom, with hydrangea by the sink.
…a library with bookcases stuffed with books, and a warm leather chair in the corner.
…a flight to Denver to see my love Brizzle before she moves to Thailand next week.
…to be able to travel to Boston this weekend with my rowers.
…to get over this flu, and be able to run more than three miles without feeling nauseous.
…a pair of J. Crew Fulham heels from several years ago. I have dreams about those shoes.
…to never, ever be hit on by a married or relationshipped man again.
…to rock my interview (my third call back!) with this agency on Monday morning.
…a sunny, warm day so that I can get to water practices already.
…a pot of lilies of the valley in my bedroom.
…to end the fighting and arguing, him calling me crazy and me calling him a jerk.
….me to stop being crazy and him to stop being a jerk. In essence, for us to work out.
…a weekend in Atlantic City with all of my friends from college.
….the Phillies season to start up already! I’m impatient.
…a bowl of pomegranate seeds, fresh and cold.
…that brown sweater dress that fit me like a glove, and the gold belt on top.
…all of my favorite bloggers to stop going on hiatuses (I miss them!)
What do you guys want on this dreary, snowy friday?
On Saturday night, after catching up on “Lost” and turning off my bedside light, I sat in bed thinking about a few things I wanted to write on here, more specifically a few things that have made me angry as of late: Hurricane Katrina, this “recession”, the National Guard. I fell asleep planning on writing them on Sunday morning, except that I woke up and hour later, deathly ill.
This is, by far, the worst case of the flu I’ve ever had. I fell asleep on the bathroom floor, went through fits of ripping off my sweatshirt because I was so hot, and then shaking from the cold in my tank top. I didn’t sleep; I curled into a fetal position in my bed coming close to crying. I’ve literally consumed only three bottles of Gatorade since Saturday.
I’m even exhausted just by typing this much.
So instead of typing some ranting post here, I’m going to link to the Valentine’s Day edition of one of my favorite websites. This website, updated on Sundays, was pretty much the only thing that I even looked forward to yesterday (that and Kanye singing “Hey Mama”, which pretty much brought me to tears).
So, regardless of whether you have a Valentine or not, check it out.
In one of my undergraduate clinical psychology courses, my professor pointed out how, as human beings, we attach ourselves to materials: to food, to clothes, to books. These things, he told us, were manifestations of love. We replaced love with tangible things, filling an empty void in our lives.
Of course he was a batshit crazy, new-age psychologist. But he had a point. In fact, he compared it to Lent, how people have to sacrifice something on which they are so dependent that it actually pains them to do so. My friends always give up things like chocolate, fast food, cursing. One (a very nasty one with whom I’ve since stopped hanging out) gave up cheating on her boyfriend, a very trying experience for her.
I’ve never been religious, though I love many aspects of religion. Including, and especially, this one. I’ve never actually participated due to the lack of religion (remind me that I need to relay the story of the time my grandmother tried to convince me on religion by taking me to “The Christian Clown Act”, in which I helped to magically build an “Ark of Faith”) But I love the general idea of Lent. My college professor used to try to convince us to fast so that we could understand what a dependency on something material felt like. It never worked on hungry college students, but again I see the point.
I want to try an experiment, though not to the lengths of fasting (how do they DO it during Ramadan?) I’m not sure if I’ve written about this on here, but I’m lactose intolerant and gluten intolerant. Which, when combined with vegetarianism, leads to a well-rounded diet. And being intolerant? Makes me crave it a thousand times more (I have that personality- If it’s bad for me, I want it more). And I’ve started to realize just how much I rely on bread products, rather than being balanced with all of the food groups (sans meat).
That being said, I want to see how long I can last without bread or bread products. No Cheerios for breakfast, no pasta for dinners. My own little non-religion version of Lent (is that sacrilegious?) I actually talked about this with my grandmother on the phone today (who, by the way, is a stoic Episcopalian, pearls and all), and her response? “Maybe it will help you see the light on God.”
I’ll bet she’s voting for Huckabee.
“I was thinking about you all day yesterday, i don’t know why, i just was. you in my shower, you and me walking, you’re part of most memories.”
He said those things yesterday and I felt sick. That aching, nauseated feeling was back and I knew it was going to be another few weeks before it would go away. I haven’t written directly about PK in weeks for two purposes. The first being that he loves when things are about him- including this site. He’s terribly (and admittedly) self-absorbed, and I was hoping it would be more hurtful that I hadn’t been mentioning him. The second reason being that it’s not always a one-way street between the brain and the blog. I may write about what’s on my mind, but I’m also going to end up thinking and reprocessing everything I’d written. I’d decided on tabula rasa, to clear both the brain and the blog of him.
And you see how far that’s gotten me.
I shouldn’t be surprised though, because this is how our pestilential and cyclic relationship goes. After a few of his whimpers of missing me I give in. I convince myself that this is the time he will change. It’s a rotten thought, and I usually know I’m wrong even as I’m confessing to missing him as well. But we hardly last a few hours before it’s too much for him.
“We’re like Kate and Sawyer and you want us to be Jack and Kate” he writes to me later that evening. Our relationships has always been defined by terrible metaphors and comparisons. We’re like Daisy and Gatsby. We’re Eliot and J.D. We’re every quirky couple that should be together that isn’t for various reasons. His words aren’t exactly poignant, but to me they make sense. It’s our language.
And maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not him that I want; maybe it’s just the idea. Today a friend of mine got engaged. Last week another friend got engaged. I have friends that are married, friends with babies. Even here in blogland, friends are getting married. I read about Clink picking out bridesmaids gowns, Molly figuring out churches, and KLC picking a date.
And it’s not that I want marriage. It’s that I have friends that are in relationships and are madly in love. So much so that they want to spend the rest of their lives together. I went looking at rings last week with a guy friend, as he was getting a start on looking at some for his girlfriend. “You’re the perfect age to be settling in!” the saleswoman crooned. I may have seizured a bit when she said that, because I’m not at that phase.
I admit: it scares the hell out of me that I have friends that are there. But it scares me even more that I’m still not even ready for the dating life. I have years ahead of me before I’ll be at the stage where they are. It hurts that they have boyfriends sending flowers at work, that they have pictures of them on beaches or at family dinners. They’re reading bits of their stories to each other in bed, or going running together. I have a guy that I love who simply says “you want us to be Jack and Kate”, who occasionally feels a vague sense of missing me. Who is unable to tell me that he loves me to my face (because I really doubt that he does anyway).
I didn’t need any of this today. I have an interview early tomorrow morning for exactly the job that I want. I’m already stressed because the dry cleaners closed 15 minutes early, and my favorite J. Crew suit is sitting behind their counter. I’m stressed because we have a hard basketball game tomorrow, and because the girls couldn’t stop arguing today. I’m stressed because all I want to do is fall asleep without thinking of him tonight, and I know it won’t be happening.