e.l.g. = t.l.a.

i've been having really vivid, mostly stressful dreams lately. but the one i think about almost everyday, despite it being months old, is this:

jeff and i are having some sort of text-based conversation (either e-mail or g-chatting) and he breaks it to me that everyone thinks i'm a nyrd (sic). he concedes that he is a nerd, but whatever. nerds aren't so bad. it's the nyrds that everyone hates.

this isn't a tough one to interpret: it is a blatant manifestation of my anxiety and self-doubt, even doubt of those i know i have solid relationships with.

mostly, i'm proud of inventing the word "nyrd". i pronounce it "nee-urd" in my brain.

the other night i had some solid SATC-esque time with eric, and discussed said self-doubt. then he told me to have faith, the opposite of doubt. at that moment, i did. it was easy. eric is awesome. ever since that conversation, my outlook on myself and my relationships with others has improved a billionfold.

i know it's kind of silly to deem that conversation an epiphany, but it was sort of a revolutionary moment for my psyche. when you're stuck in cycles of negative thoughts about yourself, hope is a distant object. having a trusted friend hand it to you in a crumpled paper napkin makes it comfortable and convenient. earlier that day, i had been lurking on a stranger's blog and relating to her posts about self-doubt; they reinforced my own. eric countered this at just the right moment and i haven't let go of his words yet.

so let this blogpost serve as inspiration and reassurance to all of you people out there: even if you are a nyrd, the people that love you will continue to love you unless you become a bad person (a nird?).

this is eric, ever the voice of reason and moderation:

dinner party, part II

here is the second installment of a short story i'm working on! click here to read the first installment! check back soon for more!

I dressed and painted myself with hours to spare. Staring at my reflection, with middle-of-Saturday sunlight forcing its way through scratched 1910's glass, I saw myself as a child. Playing dress-up in Mom's castaways. Nose nearly pressed to the bathroom mirror as I pulled down on the skin covering my right orbital cavity, I traced my lower lashes in kohl. I pulled back and gazed into my eyes. Again, a child: shame-stained cheeks, hoping Mom wouldn't notice I was splashing around in her old make-up.

Nervous and already ready already, I stood on my toilet and hung my head and arms out the window, smoking a cigarette. The whole scene felt pretty tawdry: me in my black dress and imperfect panty hose, naked lips and nighttime eyes in the middle of the day, costume jewelry and a lazy updo. Standing shoeless on my toilet, puffing nervously out the window, I quickly became light-headed and remembered how I'd rarely ever made it to the filter. I stepped carefully from my perch, extinguished the cherry in the sink and blew out my candle.

Then, heart racing, I commenced pacing and debating and self-doubting.

Should I get there early? Empty-handed, I could give the gift of last-minute help. Of course, this could also be the ultimate faux-pas, the perfect way to ruin the night. Should I get there promptly, as indicated on the invitation? Would I seem too eager? Too desperate? Out of it? Or should I stumble in a bit late? Just late enough to have them on edge that I might not show, then really make an entrance. Apologize, blame it on a chuck-full social calendar. Take a few nips from my flask while approaching their home and tell my hosts I've just left a benefit?

Jesus. Who did I think I was? Would anyone notice my absence if I decided to catch Jay's friend's band's show at whatever dive they were playing that night?

In this solitary struggle, and with no haute friends to consult, I lost track of time and nearly forgot my shawl as I tumbled out the door and into that of a fateful cab stopped at a red light in front of my building.

I arrived eleven minutes late. This was not my intention, but I had spent an hour and forty-one minutes pacing my apartment, deliberating the perfect time to show myself. Which brings me here, throwing a twenty at the cab driver and flinging myself from his backseat to the sidewalk before my hosts' high-rise.

"Hey, it's you!" A voice directed at me. I pulled my eyes from my toes to the cracked sidewalk to brown leather toes and up grey flannel legs to a smiling, smoke-exhaling face. A familiar face. Erik! Oh me, was I happy to know another guest!

"Ugh, am I late?" I pushed some hair out of my face, pulled another section into my face. I didn't even know what I was trying to look like anymore. I was just trying to look in one piece, I suppose.

"Only as late as I am. Shall we?" Erik offered his arm and I gladly latched on. He looked good, in a snug-fitting navy vest with matching buttons and a white button-up shirt with almost invisible pinstripes. Judging by his attire, I was neither under- nor over-dressed. I exhaled, walked forward.

He buzzed up and we rode the elevator to the 20th floor. Erik knocked, the door opened, and we relinquished obligatory hugs to our hosts. Entering the condo, I spied a room full of men, each handling a short glass of brown liquid. I did nothing to discourage the grin I felt creeping up on me.

dinner party, part I

here is the first installment of a short story i'm working on! check back soon for more!

There was a dinner party and I was invited.

I didn't have a date. I didn't have a gift. I didn't have a clue what goes on at a dinner party beyond, you know, dinner.

I had a little black dress and a strand of granny's pearls. They weren't real; that old hag was poor as they come, a waitress at Woolworth's. Her husband drank her paltry wages before a rainy day cent could sneak beneath the mattress. Most jewelry inherited from her came from a catalog or a door-to-door saleslady. But a few prized pieces, I liked to imagine, were pocketed on the sly at work.

I had pantyhose with a small -- hopefully imperceptible -- run, long ago patched with clear nail lacquer. Purchased a day before my last job interview, over two years ago, they were snagged about a minute after I rolled them up my legs.

I had a few pieces of makeup, and the application skill-set that blighted me in junior high. I had a homemade haircut and limp, tired tresses.

I had a three-month-old, mostly full pack of cigarettes in the freezer just waiting for a near-panic attack to flash its teeth in my direction.

I didn't know the hosts very well; considered them little more than acquaintances, friends of friends of friends. I always felt plain, uncultured and more or less schlubby around them. They seemed to stand so tall and sure, while I slouched, scratching my head.

They attached a personal note to the invitation (in perfect caligraphy, no less!):

We hope you'll grace us. There's someone who's dying to meet you.

Truly,

D & W

The whole thing was at once romantic and ridiculous. The invitation (sent United States Postal Service) was printed on the thickest cardstock I've ever held, with embossed crimson text. The watermark was eerie; a vuvlar lotus bloom before a crossed fork and steak knife, like some hungry-yet-pacific Jolly Roger.

road rash

i just got back from a boot-kickin', storm chasin', cheeseburger-eatin' road trip to our nation's glorious south. check it out!!

(photos courtesy stu marsh)

my guy stu and i:

stimulated the oil trade;

pulled over to look at golf ball-sized hail;

didn't see the alamo;

stayed with jeremiah at his mattress-factory-loft,
which was around the corner from this gem;

visited the legendary robert lovelett,
who gave stu a lovely drawing before inserting contact lenses;

had the best day of our lives;

ate breakfast at Whataburger (with the blues brothers);

had to look at antiques in a house in waldo, arkansas;

got to check out a bunch of awesome old cars
and rusting tools and parts in the yard of the house;

searched for tornadoes!;

found lots of lightning!;

also found true love, the only love that matters;

and a bunch of bison;

and stopped by the post office in gary, indiana.

a lot of writing and drawing and reading and driving and other stuff happened, too. it was fun.