#263: I NEED HELP, A LIST, AND SOME OTHER CRAP
I need some advice. I have created a list of links devoted to those sites that have linked to me, and I have a link to that list on my sidebar under "Good Online Reads". My problem is that I have called the list "Linkers", which I hate the sound of. It sounds like some sort of Australian porn slang. Does anyone out there have any suggestions for a better term than linkers? Please leave me a comment at the bottom of this entry if you do. Every day that I see that awful link on my sidebar is another day that I have been robbed of my bliss.
First, well, really second, but I'm calling this First, a list of the predominantly trivial, but it's my life, so be kind:
- The baby dreams continue. Have I mentioned that I have been having baby dreams on and off for weeks? Well, I have, and they suck. These dreams are not the kind in which my babies are all about love and sweetness and closeness and golden light and all the idealistic schlock that is the advertising industry's motherhood. No. These dreams are vivid and occasionally quite realistic and filled with real life stresses times thirty-two.
Take the one I had two nights ago. It started out with me giving birth in a delivery room. There I was with my legs splayed in a room full of strangers under ghastly fluorescent lights, my belly distended and pale, gritting my teeth and bearing down. A pale baby girl, wet with blood and amniotic fluid, was lifted and placed on my chest. She had a full head of dark hair and eyes so large that she was nearly like a Blythe doll.
This scene was followed by a swift change to me working as a waitress at night on an outdoor patio. I felt overworked and harried and was desperately trying to find someone to cover the last bit of my shift so that I could go home and feed my baby. My breasts were heavy and beginning to leak milk, and I was not entirely sure when she had last been fed. My friend, Hobbesley showed up and asked me why I was wearing such an ugly apron, and I had to confess that it was to cover the milk spots that were growing through my work shirt.
These dreams are awful to experience. In my subconscious, I seem to have this idea that I will be shouldering the whole responsibility of a child, that basic needs such as food and shelter and time will not be met, and that all my love and will to be a good mother will not stop me from falling short of being any kind of decent parent. Of course, these are all worries that young parents I have known face, but I don't know why I have to spend my nights busy fussing over anxieties revolving around a child we haven't even produced yet.
- Spring has done nasty things to my complexion. In my late teens and early twenties, the skin around my eyes would dry out and peel off for about two weeks every spring, and no amount of moisturizer would stop the endless sloughing. That reaction to spring stopped about eight or nine years ago, but this year it has made an ugly and much more severe return. Not only has the skin around my eyes dried out like parchment, but the rest of my face is dry as well, so that I can feel parts of my face crinkle and pull with each new expression.
What doesn't make a lot of sense, considering the dryness, is that I have been breaking out in these pot-boiler pimples that take days to mature into their full glory, and these are surrounded by a smattering of little zits that don't seem to do much other than hang around being very red. The pimples seem intent on sticking around for the long haul, too, because I've had a small colony of them above my right temple for two weeks that simply will not fade into that good night.
- The tip of my tongue keeps going numb at some point every day. Is this a symptom of anything I should know about?
- I have been seriously tired lately. I have the urge to crawl into bed by 8:30 every night, my afternoons at work are brutal forays into the land of cubicle-workers that time forgot with time stretching out in this endless purgatory-esque fashion, and anything I do after work is partially an anti-sleep effort. Everything makes me want my pillow, quilt, and the soothing golden light of my bedside lamp. Eating food makes me sleepy, strong emotions make me sleepy, taking a shower makes me sleepy, being awake past noon makes me sleepy. It is stupid and not good for me as far as getting stuff done that I want to get done, like that short story I'm working on. My concentration's been all shot to shit.
- But on a happier note, I've started to work on a short story. I haven't been this ambitiious in a very long time. It all started in the wee hours of Saturday morning when I couldn't sleep past 6:00 am. I was struck with an image of a hot and dusty suburban crescent road complete with the body of a whole character that didn't bore me to tears. It was brilliant. I wrote madly. I researched walk-behind lawn mower parts. I remembered how crappy it was to have your carefully feathered hair fall and stick to your forehead in summer heat. It felt awesome. Like I could be famous after I'm dead.
I think I've written just over a page. I'm on a roll. I could show it to you when I'm done, but that would require some kind of fortitude that I do not yet possess. Also, if I can't force myself to read through fiction-centric weblogs, why should I foist such a thing upon my own lurvly readers?
- I'm trying to weed out the -ing verbs from my writing, but I'm sucking sucking sucking at it. I don't even like them much. They always remind me of the two females in a family who lived next door to my parents. They always pronounced -ing as -een. "We were going to go walkeen," they would say. "Would you like to go swimmeen?" they would ask. It was terrible. They reminded me of sour cheese.*
Secondly, or thirdly, whatever you like**, I just found out that I have five vacation days to use up before the end of April! This is so fucking fantastic. It's like I'm five years old and just found out that there's an extra Christmas I didn't know about.
(Which reminds me, although obliquely, about an incident in high school. Some kid I knew wore a t-shirt that had a picture of a frog on a lily pad with a caption that read "I'm so happy I could shit". He was sent home for having an obscenity on his t-shirt. I have always hated that saying, and I was appalled to find myself nearly typing it out as a description of how happy I am to have discovered my leftover vacation days. I feel like apologizing profusely for even having had the urge to do such a thing).
* That sour cheese comment, looking back, may seem a little odd. My brain makes strange cross-sense associations, so that sounds can remind me of flavours and tastes can be associated with colours and touch will bring up smells. The sound of "-een" in the wrong place brings up the smell of sour cheese with a hint of underlying sweetness. If you're not at all synesthetic, then this footnote probably has not enlightened you at all, and you likely still think that I'm some kind of whack-job. So be it.
** You may wonder why this last bit is suddenly not on the list I started and was separated out as its own whole thing. To be honest, there was no rhyme or reason for this decision. I just felt like it.