Last month I skimmed the NaBloMoPo writers’ community on Ning.com. Creative types… chillin’ online… kickin’ it old school. As a seasoned online community band-wagoneer my trigger finger got to itching. What followed is unclear… first- the pretty lights… weeeee!!!! oo- soooo dizz-z-zeeee…

Next thing I remember I had regained consciousness to find a confirmation e-mail awaiting my attention. After reading the induction letter I realized – much to my horror – that implicit in my joining I had actually agreed to <gasp!> do something. Turns out that participation based online communities do exist outside of those urban legend-based Dateline NBC pieces designed to scare the crap out of middle Americans tragically conjoined to vinyl barcaloungers.

Here’s the deal: members pledged to publish one entry per day for the month of November, the idea being that on when the clock struck midnight on November 30th each person would have raw material for a book manuscript. Even if it only leads to me writing this one piece, that’s one more than I may done anyways, right? As for my own participation in this campaign, let me break it down with a simple equation used to calculate complex probability ratios:

Joining 11/15 + general uncertainty of life direction = 0%

Regardless, here I am – a month and a half later typing furiously so that I can lighten the load of “to-dos” brought into the New Year. That and I wanted to alleviate the guilt from not having responded to the bloggers who “tagged” me for a writing assignment. (They seem to be quite lovely – between the two of ‘em there wasn’t one threat of karmic reprisal for breaking the chain.) Considering the latency of my own response, tagging other folks would be a bit hypocritical. The buck stops here: I will be “it” for the rest of my days. The other requirements will be satisfied, so that’s gotta count for somethin’, no?

✓ Link to the person people** who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
✓ Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
❑ Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
❑ Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Without any further ado I present seven tidbits which expose me for the quirk-meister that I am.

1. There’s an involuntarily face I make when tearing up lettuce for salads. My nostrils flare, the soft palette** is raised and my lips purse ever so slightly. “Lettuce face” is especially pronounced with iceberg lettuce, though romaine is also a trigger. The inventor of the bag-o’-salad is my personal saviour.

2. When I was a teenager my mother told me the date I was conceived. My ears began to bleed and I now have a bonus reason to “Remember Pearl Harbor”. Seriously Mom- TMI.

3. I have a weakness for men with prominent noses. I’m not sure what it is. The resulting effect is equivalent to some sort of cryptonite/catnip alloy.

4. I have a hard time walking by someone with a tag sticking out of their shirt without fixing it. When appropriate, I usually tap them on the back to let them know.

5. I like folding laundry… and no: I will not come over to your house to fold yours. (OK- I might but only if you are clearly not doing it right.)

6. I frequently use three different words as prefixes or suffixes: ninjas, monkeys, and pants. Adding them to just about any word or scenario = insta-comedy.

7. I have the tendency to tidy up when I’m at a friend’s party. I don’t break out the vacuum or re-arrange the cabinets but I do try to help with recycling bottles, bringing dirty dishes to the sink and tossing discarded napkins/cups/paper plates. Having hosted a few parties myself I am all too familiar with how much it sucks to wake up the next morning and survey the wreckage.

*Credit for this witty colloquialism goes to my l’il brother and his turdy friend who, in days of yore, would follow me around the house chanting that phrase over and over and over and over…
**Thanks Girl Robot and Lily Potter Knits!
***For those who haven’t had vocal training, raising the soft palette opens up space in the nasal cavity and allows for greater resonance without putting additional strain on the vocal chords. The exercises used to teach this technique involve weird facial expressions (fake beauty pageant smiling, yawning and curling the upper lip while raising the nose) to create the effect until muscle memory kicks in.

Tags: ado, itching, Lily Potter Knits, New Year's Day, online communities, Remember Pearl Harbor, Robot, seasoned online community band-wagoneer

Growing up, everyone struggles with something. My teen years were no different. Concerns that ranked the highest on my barometer of importance are clearly superficial in retrospect. That’s kinda the point. Nothing was clear back then.

Marked with a special kind of awkward, I experienced the typical insecurities regarding body image that made it tough to feel comfortable in my oh-so-problematic combination skin. As if being flat-footed, flat-chested, knock-kneed and woefully uncoordinated weren’t enough, right?

Apparently not. Some people complain about bad hair days; I had bad hair years. This era spanned a decade and not unlike the dark ages from days of yore, there was much suffering. One well intentioned hairdresser in Braintree, MA (the bang capital of Boston’s South Shore suburbs) gave me what I dubbed “the mushroom cut”. This unfortunate hair condition now has a name and hopefully a U.N. resolution to ban it will follow. The trauma to which I refer is now called “the she-mullet” by beauty industry trend analysts. At the time of my affliction, there were no support groups for unsuspecting clientele stricken with the emerging social plague. I suffered alone, albeit not in silence. (I would provide a picture but I put media black-out into effect.)

Funny enough- the biggest missteps were of my own choosing. Crimpers, curling irons and hot rollers were like gateway drugs leading down the primrose path. All of the cool girls in junior high had permanents. It was “the thing” to do and yes- if all the girls at school were gonna to jump off a bridge, my knees woulda been knocking as I ran behind, breathless and squeeking: “Hey guys- wait for MEEEEEEE!!!!”

My mother gave up trying to protect me from myself on the heels of a Sun-in indiscretion which left uneven light orange streaks throughout once lovely chesnut locks. I was a pain-in-the-ass and she gave the stylist the go-ahead. What followed was the perfect storm of ugliness: the poodle perm joined with the straw-like streaks. I had spiral-curled to rock bottom before the tender age of thirteen. Served me right: I followed the herd and came out looking like a sheep.

Oh well. Learned that lesson. No biggie… even a perm grows out eventually, right? Usually, but nope – not this one. It was the most permanent of permanents. Twenty years later, my hair is still curly. There are two schools of thought regarding how this came to pass. Buckle up: both of ‘em drop some serious science.

EXPLANATION #1: Nurture
• Somewhere between the chemical and neutralizer phases, the solution leaked through my scalp to the root.
• Double-helix boo-yakasha – At that very moment the stars aligned: Mercury was in Uranus causing the ammonium thioglycolate to fuse to the follicle, thus altering the genetic material otherwise known as the hair chromosome.

EXPLANATION #2: Nature
• Dormant ringlet curls (from my short-haired-tater-tot phase) were reactivated after the hormone tsunami hit at age thirteen.
• The sheer force of angst unleashed scared my hair curly and permanently made “boy crazy” a default setting.

This debate has divided the scientific community, both sides equally entrenched in the validity of their argument. Will we ever ever have an answer to this query?

I dunno… I’m quite busy in the lab conducting cutting edge research on the whole chicken/egg thing.

I leave it for you, the reader, to decide. Good day and God’s speed.

***For the uninitiated, here’s a crash course in PRMT 101 to get you up to speed:
1. Tightly wrap hair on curling rods. When the client is unable to blink proceed to the Chemical Phase.
2. Apply ammonium thioglycolate lotion. Allow 30 minutes for the chemicals to break open the disulfide linkages between the polypeptide bonds in the keratin (the protein structure) in the hair. (The disulfide bonds give hair its elasticity and breaking this bond allows hair shape to be reset.)
3. Grab a seat and some popcorn and watch as the perm recipient’s wide-open eyes tear from the noxious chemicals permeating the air. (Good times.)
4. Apply the acid neutralizer to bring down the pH of the solution and close the disulfide bridge. Hair rebonds and is reformed to the shape of the rod. Voila!

Tags: Boston, Braintree, chemicals, curling, noxious chemicals, United Nations, well intentioned hairdresser

As a senior in college I was poised to be the first member of my family to graduate in fours years from the same institution matriculated as a freshman. Every now and then I like to surprise with the fam with a little razzle-dazzle. As proud as they were, I have to admit that I pulled it off by the skin of my teeth. I took two accelerated schedule courses (Micro & Macro Economics— at the same time) over the summer and added an extra credit during my final semester. But for the evil Chem 010 (the first zero in the course # stood for how much interest I had in the subject), I had a wide berth in making up the remainder of my schedule. There was a definite creative bent to my choices:

• With the guidance of a generous mentor, my work study job from the semester became into a credited internship. Post-graduation this morphed further into my first “real” job.

• A directed reading on the subject of gender and discourse with one of my favorite professors
• Intro to Photography (where I learned a great many things… not the least of which was that I am, in fact, allergic to fixer)
• Visual Design (or something like that) – A painting course held at the school of continuing education focused on exploring how line, form and color are used to express and evoke distinct concepts or moods.

The last of which was the biggest stretch. Prior to this, experience with creating anything using own hands (as opposed to???) was limited to the following:

• Coloring books – consistently straying outside of the lines
• Watercolor books – I was the Gutenberg of this particular medium. I filled the bathtub with a shallow pool of water, briefly submerged the pre-colored sheets and hung them to dry on the towel rack. This is likely more indicative of an emerging talent for streamlining workflow than creative prowess.
• Doodling – I have the God-given ability to draw a squirrel holding an acorn. It is a special kind of cute. I also sometimes sign notes with a curly-haired smiley face.
• Mrs. Murphy’s art lessons in grade school. Once a week she entered homeroom, wheeling a cart stocked with paints, markers, glue, construction paper and bottomless supply of critical comments for the less promising students in the class. Let’s put it this way: I was never sent home with a note to my parents about how she was concerned that my ear wasn’t gonna stay attached to my head.

You may be able to infer from negative experiences in your own formative years that this made taking a painting class more than a little challenging. (I’ll save the trauma of gym class for now. One day that book will jump up straight out of my chest and write itself.) Showing others bits of my creative expression soemthing I am very tentative about. Still working on that… but back then? Forget about it.

I’m not sure how came to to see that for the limitation it was at age 21. Allowing myself to be uncomfortable was the master plan in selecting planning that semester’s studies. Most weeks it was pure torture having two classes based entirely on creating things on assignment instead waiting for divine inspiration.  The next step was equally taxing: suppressing the temptation to shove the damned whatever-it-was into the back of a drawer instead of bringing it to class and <gasp> SHOWING it.

That’s actually why I did it: to push myself into pursuing something I found compelling yet simultaneously scared me shitless. It’s the same thing that drives me to write here instead of the privacy of my own journal. When I’m not writing or completing pieces, it’s that same rationale applied in reverse. Instead of being a catalyst for action and expression fear serves to paralyze any and all forward motion.

On towards my point… the instructor of the painting course I took in college was of similar mind as Mrs. Murphy about my artistic potential. Granted, she didn’t sneak up behind me spook me with an un-enthused “Hmmmph” like her predecessor. Each one of the assignments was handed back with a paragraph or two of notes skirting around the crux of the message, “This sucks.”

It’s not that I didn’t see her points. However, I don’t have aspirations of being a painter. Both ears are firmly attached and that’s how they shall stay. (Though I would be able to wear mateless earrings again if I went down that road…)

Chances are that I took the comments more to heart than I should’ve. I do that with lots of things so it’s entirely likely. When I can remember where I stashed the original of the above painting, it’d be interesting to see if those words were what I remember them to be.

Now that I’m further down the road of sorting out my own professional ambitions, I can empathize with those two teachers. I’m sure that they had/have their own ambitions and disappointments that would make teaching anyone other than a prodigy feel tedious. I am going to further increase my range and demonstrate that I can switch my default setting from ‘cynical’ to ‘unicorns, rainbows and warm woolen kittens’.

In closing, I’d like to share the following points from my ‘one to grow on’ file. Ultimately, what these two women thought is irrelevant. The point here is putting oneself out there without apology. Believing that anything I express has intrinsic value as a part of my own experience, regardless of interpretation, is the essence of freedom. Most days I’m pretty far off the mark, but I am hopeful that I’ll get there someday. Preferrably soon.

In the vein of half-full glasses:
• I really had fun with Mrs. Murphy’s apple-head doll project in 3rd grade. It was cool to see those carved, peeled fresh apples turned into smushy old man faces after sitting in the janitors closet for a few weeks. To my recollection, she did not say anything bad about my moldy apple masterpiece.

• That college instructor broadened my horizons and exposed me to artists that I would not have otherwise seen. The Worcester Art Museum mounted one of those a wack-a-doo esoteric post modern exhibitions using food stuffs and we took a field trip that week to attend. It was a room full of trunk freezers. One was filled with fish eggs, another had some sort of horror movie sized fish. My favorite was the freezer filled with Kool-aid. The block of punch leaked across the floor though I’m pretty sure that was an unforseen equipment malfunction and not a part of the gimmick. I seriously doubted her judgement as to what should qualify as an ‘educational experience’.

After viewing the exhibit, there was a lecture given by Sandy Skoglund – an off-beat installation artist whose pieces use mass quantities of items found in your pantry. The slides shown as part of the presentation had such a striking visual impact that I remember them to this day, 11 years later. I look forward to seeing her work in person when there is museum exhibit in my area.

Tags: first member, instructor, Misty Watercolor Memories As, Murphy, off-beat installation artist, painter, Sandy Skoglund, That college instructor, wack-a-doo esoteric post modern exhibitions using food stuffs, Worcester Art Museum

Woke up in MA. Drove to RI and then flew to BWI. Changed planes and flew into Louisville. (Note: I did not fly into Loo-we-ville. I flew into Lou-a-vul.) Mom made the two hour drive to pick me up without complaint. She was thankful it wasn’t the 4 hour drive to Indianapolis where my father had booked my original ticket.

Meeting up was the usual drill: Mom describing every detail around her except the minor stuff, like the fact she was in front of the baggage claim. You know: the big area with a crapload of signage. It’s a wonder that she has spent so much time with me and has yet to figure out that my brain short circuits when I’m asked to visualize the layout of a place I haven’t been. I also hate getting driving directions verbally. Each new factoid pushes the previous one out of my head. Next thing I know, I’m trying to turn around in the loading dock of a slaughter house with the knowledge that at some point I was supposed to go right/left/straight at the big tree/rotary/supermarket. Remembering this puts any annoyance felt in the moment into perspective. Running up and down the escalator with two bags digging into my shoulder was uncomfortable: yes. When compared with the alternative (impatient truckers honking and inhaling that special scent indicating that I am, in fact, too up close and personal with the food chain), it’s a winning lottery ticket.

The drive back was standard: I-64 to the Grayville exit were we stopped at the Dairy Queen and then Super Walmart. Of course, we drove by the little brick house that, coincidentally, used to be home to the Brickm*ns. Going to Walmart is always a part of any visit here since it’s the only place where there’s a reliable cell signal.

While I was in the dairy section of Walmart, I paused for a second while I pondered several matters of moderate philosophical importance:
—I was currently 4 hours away from the nearest Trader Joe’s. Mind you, I haven’t been to Trader Joe’s in at least a month or two, but the fact that I can stop by any one of several convenient locations is comforting.
—Trader Joe’s Vanana yogurt is super yum. Despite having survived many a fortnight without any, I wanted it and I wanted it right then. Why? You guessed it: cause I couldn’t have it.
—This made me think of how good it was that I no longer applied this flawed thought process to selecting potential dates. Pining for lowfat yogurt is much more compatible with emotional well-being.
—If Edy’s Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie is available in the boon docks of southern Illinois, then there’s no good reason for it not to be stocked in Boston metro area grocery stores. Note to self: make request to supermarket management upon return.
—20 minutes of sleep isn’t nearly enough before a day of travel. I paced between the dairy cooler and detergent aisle at least 5 times. The nice woman stocking shelves asked me if I needed any help. From the expression on her face, it was clear that I must’ve busted out my “I’m-an-open-mouth-breather” look as I was trying to remember what I was searching for in the first place. Clearly, I needed help but how do you ask a stranger to go back in time 24 hours, sing you a lullaby and tuck you into bed before 10pm?

Post Walmart, we drove from White County, IL to Posey County, IN. The best part of this particular stretch is passing the former international headquarters of Bula Records. Long before Indie bands discovered pomade and enrolled in ‘MySpace Marketing 101′ there was an eccentric woman-of-a-certain-age who recorded and released a vinyl single on her own dime. If my Dad were recounting the story he’d sing the song’s refrain in a warbly falsetto twang: “It Hurts to be Hurt”. Truer words have yet to be spoken. Close your eyes and recall the last time you were hurt……. Okay- you can open them now. Try and tell me Bula wasn’t on to something.

Should you want to pilgrim to this Americana landmark just keep your eyes peeled for the un-lit yellow flourescent sign reading “Bula Records” in boldfaced type in the front yard of a pink delapidated house. Seriously, you cant miss it: it’s between the road and corn field. I wonder if her kinfolk have kept the sign standing as a sentimental tribute to a wacky relative or if the new occupant(s) was bequeathed this strange sign by default. Once past Bula’s, the single lane bridge over the Wabash marks that my 10 hour vision quest to New Harmony is almost complete. As entertaining as the journey was, this is bar by far the best sign I’d deciphered all day.

Tags: Boston, Dairy Queen, food chain, Grayville, headquarters of Bula Records, Illinois, Indianapolis, Joe, Louisville, Massachusetts, Posey County, Rhode Island, Trader, Wabash, White County

My dad and brother had ritual called “Super Sunday”. Every Wednesday (just seeing if you’re paying attention) they’d go to the jobsite and Richard would be his helper. Afterwards they’d go to the Union Chowder House in Weymouth for fried clams. Apparently, this particular house had a nintendo for when the homeowners grandkids visited and Richard jumped at the homeowner’s offer of a cold beverage and a few rounds of video games.

As they were leaving Mrs. So-and-so told my dad how lovely Richard was and said, “Next time bring his brother too.” My dad was puzzled, “Uh- he where’d you get that? I don’t have another son.” She went on to explain that Richard had told her about his identical twin brother. Apparently, this fib came fully loaded with a background story, perhaps even a few adventure stories thrown in for good measure.

In the car on the way home my dad asked my brother why he had lied. The little peanut said matter-of-factly, “I dunno. There was a lull in the conversation and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

Tags: cold beverage, Super Sunday

I write this here because it needs to be recorded. Despite my repeated and insistent suggestion, my brother will not do so ’cause he doesn’t play well with others and hoards ‘the funny’.

“Kara, women are emotional creatures. They have feelings… sometimes as many as 5 a day.”

And we do. A smart woman moderates those emotions so that she has enough points remaining at 4pm EST to participate in the transformational goodness of the Oprah Winfrey Show.

A-men.

Looking through my old diaries, it would be hard to tell that I would some point use it as an outlet for all that energy bouncing around inside me. The handwritten words are awkward as I remember feeling. Expressing angst insecurity and the occasional victory. “Dear Diary, You’re never going to believe what happened today…” The voice I wrote in was soooo contrived and forced that my involuntary reaction to some entries is to cringe… as much because of what I DIDN’T write than what I did. Between the lines of “I don’t like so-and-so anymore” and “today was so boring” I was transforming from a girl to a woman, kicking and screaming through all of those confusing changes. Still am, come to think of it.

After college, I started a gratitude journal as per Oprah’s suggestion. It was rarely opened without tears staining my face. (I know, I TOTALLY missed the point.) It was where I dumped emotional turmoil from my first 6 months as a single girl in New York. Later, it was where I wrote down things that came up in my 4 year relationship. They belonged as much to him as they did to me so I confided in my diary instead of friends because I so fiercely wanted to protect and respect his privacy. The emotions were more raw and honest.

Still, much like it’s juvenile and adolescent predecessors, there’s a big piece missing. The good parts. The happy memories, the lessons learned, the strength that comes from dusting yourself off and chuckling rather than licking wounds and cowering in the corner.

Tags: energy bouncing, New York

When I was five I wanted to be a trapeze artist. It was the outfit that sold me. They were frilly, girly and sparkled like the costumes Miss Elyse picked out for dance recitals. As it was, waking hours were spent coming up with (mostly unsuccessful) excuses to get my mom to release the sequined orange jazz-baby costume from it’s hiding place. She didn’t want me to ruin it, which I probably would have. I was even less coordinated then than I am now (if you can imagine) and it is hard to get stains out of white fringe. (Don’t even act like you didn’t learn that lesson the hard way too.)

The circus left town (as it does) and took with it my desire to hurl my body from great heights in fabulous clothing. Next, I wanted to be an astronomer. Not sure how that came up but it had something to do with the concept of infinity. Thinking about it made me dizzy. What was after the stars? I needed to understand infinity even though, by definition, it would always be beyond my grasp. My dad talked about cutting out a portion of the attic to build an observatory. (You can stop wondering if I come by my impractical-starry-eyed-dreamer streak honestly.) Now I had an answer to what I was going to do “when I grew up”. Everyone ooo-ed and ahh-ed over my new path. Folks take scientists a lot more seriously than circus performers. (Who was the last clown to receive a Nobel Prize?…I rest my case.)

Fast forward a few years: our class completed a unit on Astronomy and I learned that it involved math, math, math. My ambition level went from “driven” to “pumping the brakes”. Without a replacement calling, it was just easier to write a gracious thank you note for the telescope or astronomy book than to explain my waning interest. I needed to get back to helping Barbie take inventory at the Dream Store or flip burgers at her McDonald’s franchise. (People give Barbie a hard time, but that girl is a go-getter.)

Decades have passed and so has my childhood, but the questions remain the same. My need to have an answer: gone. My rounded edges don’t fit well into boxes and confinement would make answering my “calling” when it calls too complicated. As soon as it registers louder than a whisper, I’ll make a recording and Podcast it here for your listening pleasure.

Tags: astronomer, Dream Store, Elyse, forward, McDonald's, trapeze artist

It’s 8 AM on Sunday. There’s no godly reason for me to be awake, no pastor waiting to see me fill that empty spot in my usual pew. No usual pew to speak of.

These days the only time I’m in church is in my dreams… drifting through bouts of lucidity. Reduced to backdrops generated by my imagination, retro fitting places I’ve actually been and creating a stage for my deepest fears, loves and fantasies to play out for this one woman audience.

The last dream before waking was odd. It was my Aunt Beth’s funeral and strangers, figments of my imagination or perhaps people I had passed on the street yesterday, were talking about Beth, as if they knew her and criticizing my father’s awkward eulogy where he spoke about wood and quoted what I can only imagine to be obscure and unrelated scripture passages. I know, weird.

When I wake, those tears that had patiently been waiting for release gently flow down my cheek. Warm, dynamic, tragic… possessing all of the qualities of their muse: the passing of a woman who had more life to live. More parties to attend… more dance floors to play on… more stories to re-tell… more beaches to walk down… just more.

My grief is hollow and empty, complete with echo. In my head, there’s a photo album of the wedding I’ll have once my mystery groom sees fit to introduce himself. There are sound bites and images I’ve set aside in the recesses of my brain: my dad wells up with tears as we dance to some sappy song, my brother sings ‘Ave Maria’ in a church with lovely stained glass windows, a brass quintet plays…

…and Aunt Beth is dancing at the reception. Heating the place up… breathing life into the party. Lending her spirit to relatives and friends who might otherwise be sitting at their table, contemplating the cleanliness of the leftover cutlery in front of them. Instead, in my vision they are on the dance floor with that vibrant woman. Time goes by quickly ‘cause that’s how it is when you’re having fun.

I mourn that the loss of a moment that never had the chance to happen. Each time I tell someone of my aunt’s recent death I am asked, “Were you close?”, I feel a lump in my throat. In a practical-every-day-life type of way… no. And I regret that, but can’t quite figure out how to explain that her existence was important to me nonetheless.

The thought that she was in my future brought me unexamined comfort. Comfort that I took for granted until shocked to my senses, staring helplessly into the void left by this cosmic injury. The girth around my waist (10 pounds, thank you) is the only memorial I’ve been able to erect and sublimating grief through food consumption falls short of being a fitting tribute. Now for the real challenge… moving on and making peace with the aftermath of abrupt changes and unjust circumstances that are part of everyday life.

Tags: food consumption