Travel, Food, and Life

I’ve been thinking about my bad habits and other things in my life that I would like to improve.  I want them to improve themselves without any input or work from me.  I realize this magical thinking means they won’t improve, but this is my blog, and I’m allowed to wish if I want to.

• I am a slob. Back in middle school science, I learned that objects in order have a tendency to move to disorder.  My teacher called it entropy; Wikipedia says not only is that wrong but that scientists don’t use the words “order” and “disorder” anymore.  In any event, I surround myself with explosions of paper and clothing.  I notice the piles; they don’t bother me.  Worse than that, it doesn’t bother me to have people see the chaos for short periods.  In this situation, “Sorry I’m not sorry” could not be more apt.
• I procrastinate. My mother has taken to calling me “lightning” in Korean.  When I have a task, I leave it until the last possible second.  It used to stress Mom out when the tasks were for her.  She’s seen me get what she thought was an impossible amount of work done in an impossible amount of time, and so now she does not worry.  In fact, now she laughs when my dad and sister get stressed out when I don’t do the things I’m supposed to do for them.  Here’s what’s funny:  while she is not stressed out anymore, I am.  Just because I’m not doing the task doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about the task and worrying about the task and berating myself for not getting the task done.  Also, it means that if I don’t have a deadline with consequences, I don’t get stuff done.  See: this blog, exercising, anything related to maintaining this house.
• I waste money. And I have the extraneous clothing and useless crap to prove it.  Also, the belongings I love most have been living in a storage unit in Houston for almost five years.  On the one hand, I could have bought new stuff I love with that money, but on the other hand, I know I wouldn’t have saved that money for that purpose.  I waste money when I do not have it to waste.
• I dislike writing. My whole career as a professional has been built on writing.  I didn’t realize it until earlier this year.  When I look back, a major component of every job I’ve held has been writing.  I dislike writing, but I love having written.  I can’t have written without writing, and I won’t write without a deadline with consequences.  I don’t recognize self-imposed consequences, so here I am, middle-aged, knowing I have at least one book in me, unable to get it out.

EXCEPT.  I’ve never been able to write a fictional story from start to finish, and because I couldn’t finish, I stopped starting.  Last month, I took a class on short stories at SMU from my favorite writing teacher there, and I made a miracle.  I started and finished a short story for the first time since elementary school.  And my teacher and my classmates liked it, and there is room in it to make it a medium story.  I don’t know whether it’ll be long enough to be a novel, but I FINISHED A SHORT STORY.

Back in August, I made an extravagant, optimistic promise to an acquaintance I admire that I would have a book manuscript for her to read by the end of the year.  That promise seems less extravagant and more realistic now.  If I buckle down and write every day, I will have something to show her by December 31.  And it means that I won’t have the brain space to update here as often as I would like.  I mean, that wasn’t happening anyway, so the only real change is that I’m absolving myself of the guilt I feel over that.  Actually, if #2 on this list kicks in, it might mean that while I avoid my story, I’ll update here a lot more.

All of that to let you know that I’ll be writing less here.  When I do, I’ll aim for Tuesdays.  I hope by the end of the year, absence will have made the heart grow fonder, and I’ll have a complete novella to show for it.  Wish me luck, because I am so totally going to need it.

I want to move.  I hate moving.  When I moved into my parents’ house in early 2010 to housesit, none of us thought it would be for five years, much less the at least six, possibly seven we’re facing now.  And it’s not so much that I’m unhappy in Dallas as much as it seems like I could be happier somewhere else.  And I know that happy isn’t something to pursue, that it’s a by-product of doing work that challenges and adds value to the world.  Living in this house, in this part of the country, feels like suspended animation.  The impermanence of living in someone else’s house makes my pursuit feel like it has an additional difficulty level.  Like if Sisyphus also had to contend with a couple of feet of sludge-y mud.

I can’t remember the last time I lived in one place for more than three or four years.  Before this, it was my apartment by the baseball park in Houston for three and a half years.  Before that, my perfect, 1920s one-bedroom in Arlington for three years.  Before that, my efficient efficiency on Capitol Hill for three years.  The shared apartment by the Supreme Court for two years.  The women’s dormitory by Union Station for a year.  The apartment on the worse side of the Astrodome for two years.  The apartment on the bad side of the Astrodome for a year.  Various dormitories.  Maybe the frequent moves in my childhood cut some grooves in my soul that make me antsy when I am still.  I think this is what made my road warrior job such a good fit for me.

A couple of things have exacerbated the itchiness of my feet.  I had a conversation with the matchmaker about how wrong Bachelor #1 was for me.  I told him that after three months of disqualifying men at a rate of about 80/week and then finding Bachelor #1, it seemed clear that my people are not in the eHarmony database.  Michael claimed that if he changed his approach and focused on particular cities, we’d have better luck.  Apparently, the nationwide search he’s been doing has only picked up men who are interested in dating people anywhere in the U.S.; he further claimed that while most people don’t select that option from the dropdown menu, they are also willing to date outside the 25 mile radius they claim.  So I’m going to give it another month and focus on the cities I love visiting the most.

As much as I love Texas, every year, it feels less and less like home.  I can’t figure out why.  We have the kind of restaurants I love, though not as many as in other cities.  The cocktails are ok, though I’ve been forced to learn how to make the ones I like best at home.  I have good, true friends here, though we are scattered hither, thither, and yon over the 9,000 square miles of the greater DFW metroplex and a few hundred miles away in Austin and Houston.  I hate that at Steinmart last week, some white woman assumed that my stylist (who is a beautiful, African-American woman) worked there; she asked Tricia where she could find something in the store.  Tricia responded with an inspiring amount of grace while I stood there trying to process what happened.  When I mentioned the incident in the car, Tricia said she wasn’t sure I had noticed.  How many oblivious people must she encounter every day that she thought a friend might not notice something like that?  How frequently does she encounter that kind of casual racism that she’s developed that effortless poise in responding?

The cottage that the Viking and I rented in the Willamette Valley came with a bookshelf full of books.  I was tired, so instead of picking up a novel, I grabbed a book from the bottom shelf, where the children’s books are, and I discovered Little Bear.  It’s a series, and I can’t remember the title, but in the book I picked up, Little Bear’s grandmother told a story about Little Bear’s mother rescuing a baby robin and keeping it in the house.  After some time, the robin grows sadder and sadder flying around the house, and at one point, thinking about flying outdoors, the robin says, “My heart is sad.”

My heart is not sad, exactly, but I feel restless and a little trapped.  I’m still trying to figure out where I should go and whether I can swing it and whose fresh air my lungs are craving.  My eyes keep looking west, though.  I’ll keep you posted.

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess who may or may not have had all the blessings and safety and comfort that princesses should have.  She grew up and met a handsome prince, who was the strongest and the fastest in all the land.  And maybe he was good to her, told her how beautiful she was, said how much he loved her, and sprinkled in a few hurtful things about how lucky she was to be with him that gave her pause but didn’t stop her from falling in love with him and wanting to build her life with him.

As time went by, the prince’s reputation as the strongest and fastest spread to other kingdoms, and his fortune grew by leaps and bounds.  One day, perhaps the prince was frustrated because of mistakes he made at work or because the king yelled at him for no reason or because she burned his dinner or because she didn’t tell him she loved him with enough enthusiasm, he turned around and used his strength and speed on her.  Maybe she couldn’t believe what was happening when it happened, maybe he apologized and cried in her arms for causing her pain, maybe he told her he couldn’t live without her and that’s why he took his frustration out on her, maybe she thought she deserved it when the prince she loved hit her.

To protect him and to mask her embarrassment, maybe she hid the bruises, maybe she told her other princess friends that she tripped in her new shoes, maybe she said she fell off her bicycle.  Maybe she saw her friends less because it was easier than lying, maybe she didn’t think she deserved to be in the company of her friends, maybe she was afraid of what would happen if the prince found out people were asking questions about her injuries or her newfound timidity or her newfound belligerence.

Then one day, the prince and the princess went on a vacation to a playground for grown-ups, and maybe she said the wrong thing, maybe he’d had the worst day of all.  He said something punishing in the elevator, she snapped, and then he snapped harder, punching her in the face so she fell and hit her head and passed out.

When the elevator doors opened, someone rushed to her aid as the prince stood idly by, someone else called the police, and the people in charge of the playground watched the video from the security camera in the elevator where they saw the biggest, strongest, fastest prince beat the princess he claimed to love.

The police arrested the prince on the spot, despite his fame and fortune, because the police understood that it’s always against the law to hit someone to the point of unconsciousness, especially when both parties are not in a boxing ring.  Minutes later, the king fired the prince, and the prime minister passed a law that said nobody else could hire the prince to take advantage of his size and strength and speed, which he used for evil ends.  The other big, strong, fast princes shunned the princess-beater and banned him from the land, warning him never to return or even think about using his gifts against another person again.  And the world crowded around to take care of the princess, to remind her gently that when the man she loved hit her it was not her fault, and that she had many, many friends who would make sure she was safe.  And nobody told her she was a gold-digger, and nobody asked her what she did to provoke a man twice her size who claimed to love her into beating her into unconsciousness, and nobody asked her why she didn’t stop the abuse through strength of character, and nobody implied that because she didn’t stop the abuse that she lacked character.  And after a while, the princess got herself back, felt safe in the world, and understood that she was an amazing treasure to be valued not abused, and she lived happily ever after.

Apologies for the absences – Mama Cooper has been extending her stay, and the longer she stays, the less she can resist interrupting me during the day.  I can’t write in 15-20 minute chunks; more importantly, I can’t think in 15-20 minute chunks.  I am behind on EVERYTHING.

The matchmaker has finally located a couple of matches, one within a 20 mile radius of me and one further away.  He’s given my contact information to both, so please keep your fingers crossed that things go well.

While I was chatting with the matchmaker, I asked him what kinds of questions he asked men to determine whether they are flexible when it comes to male/female roles in relationships (e.g., women can make more than their partners and it’s not weird or wrong) and not just paying lip service.  My friend M, who lives in the DC area, pointed out that if you asked 100 men in the 202/703/301 area codes that question outright, 99 of them would say, “Of course that’s ok,” even if deep down they didn’t believe it, because that’s the socially acceptable answer.

The matchmaker said that M is correct – you can’t ask the question outright.  You have to ask other, neutral questions that allow people to reveal themselves.  He said starting a neutral conversation about the Ray Rice situation is an excellent way to find out what people think.  Finding out what a man truly thinks about Ray McDonald in San Francisco is another opportunity.  Does he realize that Barney Stinson’s “hot/crazy” scale is funny because Barney is gross, or does he think that the “hot/crazy” scale is funny because it’s true?

He said that one of the easiest ways to weed these men out, though, is to look at their ages and compare them against the age ranges of the women they’re looking for.  Be wary of men not willing to date women their own age.  Sure, some of that comes down to fertility if the man wants kids, but according to the matchmaker, a man not willing to date someone his age or even a little older is a big, red flag.  They’re specifically looking for someone who won’t challenge them.

I’m supposed to talk to the local guy tonight.  I’ll keep you posted.  In the meantime, you can help me decide whether to be encouraged by Roger Goodell’s pledge to be tougher on domestic violence in light of the video that’s come out of Rice full on socking his fiancée in the face.