Very bored and a little lonely

Work work work. I am a very busy bee. And I am bored out of my skull.

I want for this project to be finished, and yet here I sit, waiting for another batch of files to upload to the server.

It has been a very challenging and last minute project. Like most of them I guess, but in this case, there was definitely some customization to do. Two websites in one content manager. Twins, as it were.

Every turn has been fraught with annoyances, from copy that just doesn't sound right to DNS that, annoyingly, is hosted on Yahoo and, more annoyingly, the fact that I forgot about that.

That last thing I want to come to understand when solving a problem, particulary a DNS problem, is that I can't get there from here.

Anyway, I'm rambling, and none of this make any sense to you non-techies, so I'll just get back to work.

Where is everyone?

Kind of regret, but not really

So I'm feeling a little bad about my post two posts ago.

I don't regret discussing my disheartening parole news here, or even letting you all in on my backstory, but I am a little concerned about how I said it.

I just kind of put it out there like it wouldn't freak people out. Which, of course, it did. Some people who didn't know about this particular life event got very concerned about it and about me. Not because of the parole thing, I think, but because of the event itself, which is very much old news to me, hence my willingness to bat it around like a scuffed up old tetherball with casual disregard for how the people who love me might take this rather shocking piece of news.

I am a rape survivor.

I guess it seems like big news. Seems like something we should whisper about, rather than post on a blog for everyone to see. Seems like something that should be tucked away, buried in the closet like a skeleton. Bah, you know that's not true.

Why do I talk about it? Because I know that 1 in 5 women will be a victim of sexual assault in her lifetime. That includes childhood sex abuse. That's a pretty shocking statistic. Think of the five women you love most in the world: your mother, your sister, your daughter, your best friend. Now pick one. Odds are someone you know is a survivor and you don't even know it. Like me.

Why don't I talk about it? In other words, how could you not have known? Because being a rape survivor, while it's integral to who I am, is not central to who I am. I don't wear it like a badge because it's not really about me. It's about an angry man who's rotting in a jail cell somewhere, at least for a little while longer. There are lots of other things that I'd rather you know about me, like the way I laugh, or how much I love separated plates, or that I play the 'cello. So these things I tell you first. But I won't shrink away from it when the opportunity presents itself, and this is one of those times.

Why do I refuse to keep it to myself? Because every time I announce that I am a rape survivor, whether I'm doing a public reading of my work on the subject or posting in my blog, a woman comes to me and says, "It happened to me too. But I've never told anyone before." And to that woman, my courage means everything. Because of me, she knows she's not alone.

So let me say this: I will talk about what happened to me, in detail if you wish, anywhere and anytime. Nothing about this is a secret, and no question is off limits. If you want to know something about my experience, for whatever reason, just say so. It's not up to me to open the discussion. I just did. If you don't want to discuss it, don't feel obligated, because I'm fine. Really.

If you want to email me privately, do it here.

And another thing...

Yesterday, Dave and I went to the fertility clinic for an injection class. When you type fertility clinic, you have to make it tiny because that's the way people say it.

Anyway, the point of the class was for me to learn how to inject myself with every hormone my body is supposed to make on its own, but apparently isn't. Dave was there because - well, I don't know why Dave was there except that they told us the course was "designed for couples." Maybe he was there so he could learn how to finish the injection after I pass out.

There were four couples in the class, two of whom were Korean and didn’t understand anything that was happening. They nodded emphatically at all the right times, which must be something they teach in Korean school. The third couple we are calling “the big people.” We rode with them in the elevator which, frankly, was a frightening experience. The wife isn’t “big” as in “fat,” just very tall. The man is both. I felt claustrophobic.

So we all went in and learned how to inject ourselves. It was a bizarre situation. Dave kept saying, “Why are we sitting here for two hours when the nurse could have shown us this in 15 minutes?” I said, “Dude, we should totally get CEUs for this.” Aside: am I the only woman in the world who calls her husband "Dude?" There should be a support group for that.

I was yanked back to the original timeline by the terrifying notion that it was time to give ourselves ACTUAL injections. I wasn’t prepared for that. I kept thinking, "Why on earth would we practice this? Isn't it dangerous to just randomly inject yourself in the belly?" Apparently not. One by one, couples were led out of the room to certain doom.

We went third, so we had lots of time to stew about it. Or I did. Dave was unfazed, which is not really that surprising given that he wasn’t the one who was about to stick a needle in his belly. Well, and given that he's, you know, Dave. When the nurse came back in to get us, she made a pit stop and retrieved about 47 band-aids from her little medical supply cart. This did not build my confidence.

We were seated in a small conference room with four chairs. The nurse prepared the needle, then told me to pull up my shirt and unzip my pants. (What!? No dinner first?). I was sitting a weird angle, and with my shirt tucked into my bra and my jeans and panties pulled down an tucked inward, I looked like the Buddha.

Instructions: "Okay, you want to go here or here," she said, indicating the sides of my belly, below the belly button. "Not here," she said, pointing to the center of my belly. Then the final indignity: "So, if you have a lot of injections, you can go here and here and here and here and here and here." She poked me once for each "here," and I thought, "I really should go on a diet."

She continued: "Take the syringe like you're holding a pencil, now place the needle very close to your skin, and..."

I hesitated.

The nurse says, impatiently, "You can jam it right in there, whenever you're ready."

I say, "What if I don't want to?"

She says, "Well, you don't really have that option."

Sigh. So I did it. As the needle slides in, out of the corner of my eye, I see Dave jumping up with a kind of nervous, anticipatory look on his face. I think there was a gleam in his eye. He was enjoying this way too much.

Oh, did it hurt? Not really. But it was creepy as hell having this syringe sticking out of my belly. Later, Dave confessed that it wasn't saline - it was a mind control drug - and that we would be seeing the Koreans and the Big People real soon in our new home in Stepford.

All of this was followed by a celebratory lunch at Mamma Lucia's and doughnuts at Krispy Kreme, belly fat all but forgotten. Yay drugs!

Like I needed something else to worry about

Earlier this month, I received a letter from the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services, Maryland Parole Commission. The purpose of this letter was to inform me that a certain inmate of the Eastern Correctional Institution is now eligible for parole.

This isn't supposed to happen. At least, not yet.

Backstory: I had a run in with a very angry man when I was 19 years old. He raped and very nearly murdered me (not in that order). Fortunately, I knew the man and where he lived, and the police picked him up without incident one week later. He confessed and has been in jail ever since.

The State's Attorney who was prosecuting the case gave me an option. Guidelines say "Life in prison, all suspended but 40 years." Defendant says, "Give me 'life all suspended but 30 years,' and I'll plead guilty." Which means: no trial.

I say, "What about parole?" The State's Attorney says, "He will not be eligible for parole until after 17 years in either case." (She was very clear about this).

I ponder this. An entire year had passed. I'd been in therapy. I was feeling better. I know what they do to rape victims on the stand. I said, "Take the plea."

Well, now it turns out that none of that was true.

When I made the call to the Parole Commission, ranting about 17 years, nobody knew what I was talking about. The Victim Services Coordinator is "out...indefinitely." (Charming, Governor Erlich). I finally get an actual hearing officer on the phone who tells me that he's actually eligible after 15 years, and that the fact that he's now eligible (after 10) is probably based on credits awarded for good behavior and working while in prison.

I say, "You're telling me he gets 5 extra years of eligibility because he was a good boy? He must have been a very good boy."

The hearing officer says, "For him to get this much credit, that's most likely indicative of a very positive adjustment to incarceration."

Great.

So now it's decision time.

1. Do I go to the hearing? Only I (as the victim) can request a public hearing. But if I do that, not only will I get to go, but so will his family. And I don't like that one bit. I have options. I can skip the open hearing and submit an impact statement. I can also meet privately with the commissioner before the hearing. But there's something to be said for seeing the man, seeing how he is. Is he really better? Or is he just as crazy as he was then, and still working the system? I don't know how I can find that out any other way.

2. Do I tell my parents? My mother has had a very hard time with all of this, and she has her own set of daunting problems. But, they're the ones who are in danger first if he's let out. They live in the same house, and I'm scared for them. Do I tell them this is happening? Do I wait until he's released, if he's released? I just don't know.

So this is my unhappy parole commission news.

But all of that is legal wrangling. How am I? Mostly fine, except when crap like this happens, or when I see a movie with a woman being strangled (they never get that right), or on certain spring nights when the window's open and I smell dogwoods.

If you're still reading this, I hope I didn't muss up your day.

While searching for "funfetti"

...I found this blog:

The Daily Dump

Very funny. Check it.

Arg!

You guys, I seriously have so much to do I might die!!

Say a little prayer, k?

My name is Ann, and I'm a book-a-holic

They say the first step is to admit you have a problem.

I love to read. Love it love it love it. It is my weakness.

There's something about reading that makes me feel smarter. Whether I'm working on Stephen King or William Faulkner, my synapses seem to fire faster when I'm on a reading kick. This is particularly true when I'm reading fiction, although anything that consists primarily of words on paper is okay with me.

Except for the newspaper. The newspaper is just dumb. I'll get my news from Miles O'Brien, thanks. Because my theory is this: if somebody's got to tell me the world's going to shit, he might as well be cute.

Anyway, as a recovering English major, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I can enjoy reading and that I don't have to apply one of six critical methods to a book to consider it worthwhile. I don't have to write a paper about it, although I could certainly post a thing or two.

And my favs? Well, many of the names you might think of when reading the post of a former English major: Vonnugut, Twain, Faulkner. But my true addictions? I will walk on water to get to a new Michael Crichton book. I'm pretty sure I've read everything he's ever written. Dan Brown - goes without saying. Michael Connelly is a fun suspense writer. Stephen King, even though the endings to his novels are often disappointing and his short-stories usually keep me up for several nights in a row (see Everything's Eventual, esp. "The Road Virus Heads North"). And now, Christopher Moore.

Jen has mentioned Christopher Moore on her blog, I think. Dave discovered him a few months ago and promptly bought every book he could get his hands on. Dave is a relatively slow reader, so it took him a while to get through all the books. He raved. I resisted.

Two nights ago, I was wandering around the house, bored out of my skull, and I picked up Blood Sucking Fiends. I finished it at 12:30 this morning.

Oh crap. Now I'm hooked.

I would love for someone to tell me how to quit my reading habit if it weren't so damn fun.

Caffeine Crash

Wow, I'm a barely coherent. Must be coming down from all the caffeine I had today.

First I went to Panera Bread and had coffee with Molly. (Andrew called in the middle of our visit and reported that he was also having coffee with Molly. Weird!) I paid for my Panera Bread coffee with dimes because that's how broke I am.

Then I went to Andrew & Jen's house because I was already in Hunt Valley. Andrew brewed a whole pot of his awesome coffee, then sneered at me while I fixed it up with some milk and sugar. *sneer* Dogs are awesome. Jen, I almost left you a note in your tea cup, but I was too lazy to ask Andrew for a piece of paper and a pen. So HI! I was in your house today! Creepy! Except it's really not.

After that I drove down to Michael's house and made him buy me a mocha. He also put $6 of gas in my car because that's the kind of friend he is. Also, he isn't walking too well these days and probably didn't think he could make it home if we ran out of gas near Starbucks, which is about 15 minutes from his house by car, or 3 1/2 hours by foot when you can't feel your legs. Good thinking, partner.

On the way home, I got to listen to Big Ben Kennedy's new comedy album, courtesy of Mike. It was hella funny.

After Mike kicked me to the curb, I drove to the office to pick up mail (dashed in and out before my landlord saw me - no checks from my bitch clients), picked up Dave from the metro, then went to the grocery and the post office. I forced Dave to put the groceries away so I could lay down. I was already feeling the caffeine withdrawal.

Got up in time for dinner, and now I'm here. I am totally exhausted, but I'm not sure I'm going to be able to sleep. I think I'll head up and try to read a little Chris Moore before nodding off. Tomorrow, back to the grind.

What the hell happened to today?

I'm still trying to figure out what the hell happened to today.

Got up.
Took Dave and Max to the metro.
Did a few dishes
Practiced guitar.
Took a shower.
Ate breakfast.
Read emails.
Talked to Enrique about the proposal.
DAMMIT! Late for a meeting.
Picked up mail from office.
Picked up mail from PO Box.
Deposited check at bank.
Revised Enrique's proposal.
Chatted with Mike.
Picked Dave up from Metro.
Had snack at Dunkin Donuts.
Picked up food for dinner from Gigante.
Read emails.

And here I am.

God, I sure did a lot. But I didn't get anything done. I hate days like today.

Have you ever noticed that the day after you get a LOT of crap done, basically you get nothing done? It's like the universe is compensating. Makes you not even want to try. How depressing.

Server's up!

Oh, thank goodness.

On Saturday, after guitar, Dave and I stopped by the office to check on the perennially churning big server, which has been working to replicate itself onto the little server pretty much non-stop for 3 weeks. It was a little like watching a golden retriever trying to schtup a dachshund. Only less gross.

Anyway, it hasn't exactly been non-stop. In fact, the process seemed to get stuck constantly - whenever I wasn't there to watch it. "Are you sure you want to move the read-only file 'screw_you_you_aint_here_to_watch_me.gif?'" Um, YES! That's why I clicked MOVE.

Anyway, we stopped by on Saturday and it was finally DONE! Yippee! I took everything apart, made Dave carry it to the car, made Dave carry it in the house, directed him to a spot on the floor where he could put everything down, then promptly forgot about it.

Hey, I had a RECITAL.

Sunday, I played in my recital, then came home and recorded my songs, which I plan to post online shortly, and otherwise avoided work.

Finally, today I had to get some things done. But why work when there's a server to set up? Ah ha! That's procrastination in action.

Turns out it was the best thing I could have done. As the network came online and I started to move files off my desktop (where my Dave Matthews hottie background was completely obscured by icons - the horror!) and onto the server, my mind cleared as well. It was literally like a weight had been lifted.

Ah, the little, unexpected triumphs.

It's 11 pm. I'm done for the night. Almost time to get up and do it all again.

Recital

Well, today was the big recital!

Our guitar teacher insists that we play recitals twice a year. It's an all-day affair for him - all of his students play one or two songs each. He has it broken down into four or five different recitals, plus his wife has her piano recital the same day. Each recital takes about a hour and half.

I'm a huge fan of the recital. I think it's so important to get out and play in front of people. I mean, that's the point, right? Everybody's nervous, but the only way to get used to playing in front of people is to play in front of people. That's just the way it is.

Still, every time, we get a few new people who never come back. That always makes me sad.

And there's the guy who backed out at the last minute because he injured himself at work the other day. After the recital was over, he was hanging around hoping somebody might want to listen to him play. He admited to me that he really didn't like playing in front of a bunch of people, which I suspect had more to do with his backing out than his carpentry accident.

This was probably our fifth or sixth recital, and every one's an adventure. Once, I wasn't that freaked out. Just once. Recital three. Today - freaksville. I was overcome, as I waited for my turn, by the notion that I could not remember my song. I had it memorized, and I left the music at home. Sure enough, I got up to play, and I couldn't remember it.

Two false starts later, I finally got through it. Then on to the second song, which went fine.

Maybe the greatest lesson one learns from these recitals is that it's not the end of the world when you screw up. Everybody screws up. It's part of the process.

So no worries...I'm not going to pull a Barbra Streisand and never play in public again. Today I learned that I can forget my song and still be fine. I'm sure that lesson will come in handy at another recital - probably very soon.

PS: Missed Andrew's bunny ears and his fist fight with Steve.

Nothing

“We can’t be dead, we have cable!”

I watched an amusing movie last night called Nothing. It is, as you might guess, an existential film. What you might not guess is that it was made by Canadians. These are the same Canadians, in fact, who made Cube, which I find an engaging, although occasionally gross, low budget sci fi flick.

I liked this movie. It’s about two friends who enjoy a kind of symbiotic relationship. Andrew is utterly neurotic, in every sense of the word. Dave takes care of him, but is otherwise a complete loser. One day, their fragile little world comes crashing down, and they find themselves cowering in the corner of their kitchen, with policemen and construction workers swarming the house, wishing it would all go away.

It does.

Interesting concept for a movie. A good start, as it were. And the movie continues to be good, in a Waiting for Godot kind of way. Since I’m a huge fan of both existentialists and Canadians, I liked it immensely.

Incidentally, I was talking with one of my clients yesterday. She is a new client, and we don’t know each other very well. She was talking about how her business isn’t really going the way she expected and she’s kind of in a holding pattern. She concluded by saying, “So here I am, waiting for Godot.”

Me: “Oh. Well, that isn’t very good, is it?”

Her: “What do you mean?”

Me (tentatively, a little pedantically): “Well, um, Godot never actually shows up, does he?”

Her: “Well, in my world-view he does.”

I had no idea what to say next. Is this what the world is coming to? Can we have a world-view that flies in the face of the plot? Isn’t the plot a fact that can’t be cast aside in favor of a world-view that tells us otherwise? I mean, it’s the plot. I remain aghast.

Needless to say, I changed the subject.

There are more stories I could use to bolster the following point, but I won’t because this post has already gone on way too long. So, without further do, my most recent conclusion:

There is immense power in faith. You really can believe yourself into things. You can shape your world. In truth, you can achieve anything you decide to achieve.

However, (and this is the part that’s missing from most of today’s feel-good self help stuff), you have to start with where you are now. Those are the facts of your situation. FACT: Godot never shows up.

Cheer up. You can get there from here, but there are three steps to the process. 1. Know where you want to go. 2. Know where you are now. 3. Plot a course. You can’t just skip number 2 because it makes you uncomfortable. It’s called reality, folks. It doesn’t have to limit your path, but it is part of your path, and you have to accept it. I suggest that that’s your best defense against circling around to where you started.

And that happens to be an excellent, albeit unintentional, segue back to Nothing. Here’s to a world where the fact that we have cable is no longer the best available evidence of living.

On Kindess (sort of)

"Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love." -- Lao-tzu

I like this quote. I started to write a big long post about being kind to ourselves in trying times, but I just don't have it in me today. If you would like to read a diatribe on kindness, you can visit this previous post.

Done Deal

Well, it's a done deal.

I sent out my newsletter today announcing that I'm moving my office back to the house.

For those of you who are new, I own a marketing and web development company called the Bevans Group. The past year has been a series of ups and downs, culminating in my decision to move back to my home office and regroup.

It's the right decision. It makes complete sense. I'm relieved.

So why am I so bummed out?

I guess I'm just having one of those times. We all have them, don't we? Those times where everything is changing all at once and, while none of it is exactly bad, we can't help but feel unsteady somehow? Yeah, unsteady. That's the right word.

I feel a bit like a lump of soggy potatoes.

Sigh. Back to work.

I'm HERE!

Okay world, I'm here.

[pause for reaction]

Jen said I needed to get a real blog, so here I am. Suddenly I'm overcome with shyness. That's what happens when you're a highly sensitive person and you find yourself in a new environment. Like Blogger.

I know! I'll make a reading recommendation! The Highly Sensitive Person by Elaine Aron. It's all about people like me who tend to feel shy in new situations and need to warm up before they can deal with it. Like now. Do noise and confusion quickly overwhelm you? Do you need time alone each day? Then you might be highly sensitive, and you should read this book!

(Warning: if you are in fact highly sensitive and you read this book, you will feel the urge to proclaim that you are highly sensitive every time you start to feel overwhelmed, which is pretty much all the time, right? And then your kids will make fun of you for claiming to be highly sensitive, which will send you on a downward spiral of self-loathing, most likely culminating in a three-day Ben and Jerry's binge).

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Wow. I like Jen and Andrew. They're awesome. Just thought I'd point that out.

Okay, it's almost 11, which means I may already be a pumpkin. Yep, it's already happened. More tomorrow.