the paper doll

Grad School Blues

Hello-lo-lo-lo,

Yes it's me Internet.  Are you still there?  Is anyone out there?  Testing.  One.  Two.  One.  Two.

Graduate school is a complete mind fuck.  Did you know that Internet?  And if you did why didn't you tell me?

I've been working full time and taking a full course load.  To say my brain looks similar to those don't do drugs PSAs that aired in the early 90's, the ones with the eggs, is an understatement. 

Here's one.  Enjoy.

In fact, now that I watch this video they could change the words heroin to grad school and it would pretty much sum up the past few months for me.

So, I'm sorry things have been incredibly slack around here.  I have oh about eight papers to write and case studies to do and I'm struggling.  Oh am I struggling.

Not to mention my mom's death date and the impending holidays.  Nor the cluster of zits that has broken out across my face and refuses to leave no matter what I do.  Nor the fat that has spread out around my thighs.

I'm a poor sight right now Internet. 

I just need to hobble across the December 3rd finish line.

And win the lottery.

The lottery would be good.

So what's up with you?  I've missed you.

XO,

The Paper Doll

Wild

 

Dear Internet,

I had a wildly magnificent day yesterday.  The kind of day where everything just clicked.  Like the universe was writing in big bold underlined letters.  And I got it, all for it, and it was good.

This morning as I was drying my hair and putting on my face.  I thought of this poem.  This wonderful poem that says all the things yesterday said to me.

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Do you hear that Internet?  You DO NOT HAVE to be GOOD!  You DO NOT have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting! 

Isn't that amazing? 

All you have to do is let your body love what it loves.

Just let your body love what it loves, Internet!

Sigh.

When I opened the book this morning there was a scrap of paper tucked behind that poem.  It was from when I was in Paris.  Sitting in the garden.  Having just made love.  Written on it was...

a little girl filling up a water bottle.  the pump overflowing.  the scent of summer.  something about the way he looks at me.  a dog.  applause.  i want to freeze this moment.  this is paris.  all of this.  running.  the hum of conversations in the grass.  belonging.  lazy days where everyone soaks up the sun.  forgetting all obligations.  just being in the moment.  laughter.  i can never recreate this.  nor do i want to.  it is a single moment.  all my own.  birds.  children.  the market.  his smile.  purple-his shirt.  eating grapes.  the taste of summer in my mouth.  a ball stuck in the tree.  a virgina wolfe kind of day.

-The Paper Doll wishes for more Virgina Wolfe kind of days

*Image is Maxfield Parrish's Wild Geese

The Writing Diet

Ok Internet,

I have a plan.  After sleeping on it, I've decided to do the Julia Cameron book.  I don't really want to, I'd much rather do the Extreme Self Care one.  But my resistance is precisely why I need to write myself thin. 

Over the past two and a half years I've packed on an extra (let's be brutally honest here) 50 pounds.  While the weight is a problem it's my relationship with food and exercise that needs to be remedied.  I also need to uncover why exactly I've stuffed myself so full I've started spilling out of my clothes.

If I never confront the why then I'll never be successful at losing the weight no matter what diet I try.  So Julia Cameron it is.

And my commitment to you that I will complete the book, all assignments, and keep a record of it here.  Or maybe somewhere else.  I haven't decided.

Now aren't you just thrilled Internet?

XO,

The Paper Doll

The Contenders

So Internet,

Did you know people have done all kinds of projects and written about them?  Like the couple who decided they'd have sex everyday.  Sex everyday, Internet.  And they wrote a book about it!

I don't think I'll be tackling that but I do have some ideas:

1. Complete all the projects in Seams to Me.

I've always wanted to learn how to sew more than a straight line and I love Anna Maria Horner's fabrics.  The only problem sewing makes me cuss a lot.  And sometimes it's more like a chore.  But I think if I knew how to do it better it wouldn't give me such a headache.  Such a catch 22. 

2.Read and follow Julia Cameron's advice in The Writing Diet.

Umm I have a weight problem.  I have a thinking about food problem.  I have a lack of exercise problem.  I just have problems.  This is kinda like a diet but more artsy.  And I do adore Ms. Cameron.  But can writing really change my fat ass?

3. Do all the projects in 52 Projects.

I think this could be really cool.  But it feels kinda like a cop out.  Like it may be too easy.  I mean what exactly is it challenging me to do?  I also feel like there's a possibility it might involve glitter and glue sticks.   

4. Follow The Art of Extreme Self Care guidelines.

I'm mainly interested in this one because my grad program really stresses the importance of self-care for counselors considering our job is to listen to people's crap all day (and I say that in the most loving way).  I think this would fit in nicely with my school but it feels a little like cheating too since it's month by month.

So whataya think Internet?  What would you like to hear me bitch about?

Mush

Dear Internet,

Things have been busy.  Juggling is not my forte and my brain has been zapped into a  jiggly bit of congealed salad.  I'm just keeping my eyes on June 1st.  Oh June 1st when I cut back my hours at work and start grad school.

GRAD SCHOOL INTERNET!!!

In lieu of that quickly approaching deadline I've been tidying up the Doll House.  I've gotten her in tip top shape and only  have a few lose ends to tie up which I hope to do this weekend.  Then I've scheduled a much needed mini-vacation.

Which all this is very boring to you I know but gosh what am I supposed to blog about?  Can't think.  And I was sick of that lamp being at the top of the page.

Oh I know.  Last weekend on two separate occasions I was told to have a good Mother's Day.  HAVE A GOOD MOTHER'S DAY INTERNET!  I'm not married.  I have no children.  Hell, I don't even have a mother.  And those people in Lowe's and Target are all, Have a good Mother's Day.

It made me down right hostile.  I wanted to say does it look like I'm a mother but I was afraid they'd pause and sort of stare at my belly. 

So I just glared and half opened my mouth and raised my eyebrows.  I'm sure I looked perfectly ridiculous.  But you just don't go and say, Have a good Mother's Day unless you know the person is in fact a MOTHER!

Now wasn't that worth your time?

Ok.  Let's see.

Oh how about checking out The Awkward Stage specifically their song, I Hurt the Ones That Love Me.  I know you people all have iTunes so don't get all testy about the not linking. 

And eat some bacon.  Bacon always helps.  Did I tell you I was once a vegetarian?  Yeah, not so much since I found meat candy.  I mean is there anything wrong with bacon?  I think it's perfect.

That's really all I have for you.  Check back soon.

-The Paper Doll has her head on her desk and is drooling

Freeing Myself from Shame

 

I started an Internet Read-Along for the book I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn't).

We're just one chapter in.  So far the Internet community and podcasts really haven't done anything for me but the book is great.  As a woman growing up in the South I'm well acquainted with shame and shaming.

We even have a special little phrase we use to judge, shame, and blame, Bless her heart.

If you say, "Bless her heart first," then you are free to shame, judge, gossip, bitch, moan, and anything you can think of.  You can even follow up a bad statement with, "Bless her heart" if you think you were particularly cruel.

And since playing nice and keeping up appearances are especially important to us tea swilling southerners I think shame is wide spread epidemic here.

I grew up in a very small town.  Shame was practically spread on bread and served with every meal.  There was an undercurrent of it in everything we were taught.  Don't pull on your dress.  Don't say that.  Don't wear that.  Don't drink that.  Don't get pregnant.  Don't do drugs.  All fine and dany if it weren't for, "the because of what people might think," that followed all those rules.  Whether it was said out loud or not you knew your mama didn't want you wearing that Nirvana shirt because what people might think.  And those people might talk.  And they might tell Nana.  And then what would Nana think.  Letting your child out in public dressed like that.  And then your momma would feel ashamed for not being a better mother.

Give me any situation and I guarantee I can get to shame in seven degrees or less.

As I've begun to peel back the onion of my self awareness I've discovered that way of thinking of teaching your children has poisoned me.  I'm a victim of shame.  I have pools of it from when I was a kid.

To this day I still feel ashamed about something that happened in the 4th grade.

THE 4TH GRADE PEOPLE.  I can recall exactly what I was wearing.  What the teacher said.  What the other kids did for their assignment.  Click my heels and I'm right back in the 4th grade standing up in front of the class lying about why I didn't have my homework.  And the teacher is shaming me.  Mrs. Davis.  Gah.

And that's only one of the things I feel shame for.  Let's not forget the hundreds of others.  And for mostly really minor stuff.  Stuff that shouldn't pack such a punch.

I mean it was one dumb homework assignment.  I still got all A's.  I still managed to graduate high school and go on to college.  Hell, I even have a good job. 

But can I focus on all that?  No.  Just that one time in 4th grade I screwed up.

Shame is a deadly thing.  It cuts you off from all your strengths.  It tells you how stupid and messed up you are.  It doesn't allow for growth or change.

And yet it's everywhere. 

I encourage anyone reading to check out the site and pick up a copy of the book. 

It feels really nice letting go of shame.

-The Paper Doll thinks y'all are beautiful

Depressing News Update

Dear Internet,

I'm sick of talking about my house.  Seriously, all I've done lately is put up poorly done photoshop pictures.  I haven't talked about anything. 

Like how it seems like Monet sneaked into town and painted all the flowers one nite so when I woke up my yard was full of color.  Things I didn't even know bloomed are bursting with pink and purple. 

This has only added to my desire to clean and neaten.

I've also gotten down to 80 on my list of 100 things (just 20 more to think of!).  Number 80 is go green.  If I let myself I would so become a hippy (although I don't think I could ever manage to listen to Phish regularly).  I'm talking hippy in the only eat free range and organic.  Only use natural products.  Buy less.  Hippy.

I don't want to just throw out what I'm using so as I run out of products I'm replacing them with natural ones.  Which has lead me to this discovery-nothing in nature can combat my underarm funk.  Seriously.

I've tried Tom's of Maine.  I've tried those magical deodorant stones.  They don't work.  And with the brutal Southern summer just around the corner I need help.  I need all natural sweat help.  I don't mind a little stink.  In fact I think a little stink is good.  It's who I am.  I just don't want to STINK.  Did you get that subtle difference?

I'm also very aware that "regular" deodorant may be the culprit for breast cancer and I'd like to keep my breasts thank you very much.

I'd also like to now talk about something more interesting.  I don't really post for days and all I come up with is a discussion about deodorant?  God, I've gotten lame at blogging.

Now I shall list some things that have been bothering me:

Our governor is being really silly and thinking about not taking the federal stimulus money.  This could mean that thousands of jobs will be lost.  This could mean my own pay could be seriously docked.  This could mean a lot of bad bad bad stuff for our state and with me going back to grad school I really need this job.  It's the first time in all this bad economy stuff that I've begun to sweat a little (aaaand we're back at deodorant).

There's also a proposal to start charging state employees an extra 25 dollars a month in health insurance premiums if they're overweight.  25 DOLLARS A MONTH!  This makes me sad for lots of reasons mostly because for the first time in my life I'd be considered overweight.

Which leads me to this f-ed up little tidbit.  Sometimes when I'm out I hope people think I'm pregnant instead of just fat.  Seriously, Internet I've had that thought.  Maybe people will just think you're pregnant.

What the hell?

Of course I haven't been to the gym this week and all I ate for dinner last nite were chocolate covered peanuts so I'm not really doing anything to help that situation.

Let's see, what else depressing news can I talk about?

My kitchen's a wreck.  I have to go to a co-worker's father's funeral.  My puppy has to have her who-ha taken out next week.  My registration for school's all messed up.  And I'm about to start my period.

Good times.  Good times.

I shall now go back to posting pictures of my house.

-The Paper Doll is just keeping it real

Rules of Blogging?

So Internet,

As you can see I'm sprucing things up around here.  New design.  Addition of a picture.  Some photo album links.

Which leads me to a problem.  I have no idea what picture to use for my about me thing.  One that shows my face?  An arty one?  One where my face is sort of hidden?  A goofy one?  A pretty one?  I have no idea.  I've been experimenting with several but so far I don't know.  I know everyone loves a picture of the blogger (it's one of the first things I look for on a blog) but I'm wondering if it some how ruins things if you know what I look like.

Like if you've been reading me and you kind of have an idea of what I look like and then bam you click on here and there I am.  Is that jarring?  Disappointing?

I remember the first time I saw what Ira Glass looked like I was sort of sad I didn't have my own made up image anymore.  It was quite bittersweet. 

Thoughts?

Also, I have no idea what the proper etiquette for responding to comments is.  Do I leave a comment on my blog?  Do I comment on the other person's blog?  What about sending email?  How far into the virtual relationship do you email?

There are comments I want to respond to I just have no idea how so I'm posting my responses here.

From forever ago, Antiplath the butterfly migration is in Mexico.  Check this out.

Keely if you are still reading I'm so sorry.  Please email me if you ever want to talk.  It will get better I promise.  You'll always miss her but the ache will dull over time.  Please know I'm thinking about you.

Michelle, I love your site.  Thanks for taking the time to stop by and comment. 

If you've commented and I never responded I'm sorry.  I do appreciate everyone who takes the time to respond.  It makes me feel really good when I see a new comment on my page.

Hopefully I'll get better about this.  I also need to start commenting on other people's pages more.  But alas.

Oh, and expect more photos in the future.  I really want to start using my camera more.  And now that I've revealed myself there may even be pictures of the Musician forthcoming.  Who knows?!?

And if there's anything you guys want to see let me know.

-The Paper Doll loves you all

To Everything There's a Season

Dear Internet,

It's Monday.  Regular back to routine Monday.  Things aren't all that different yet.

I got a new haircut, joined a gym, locked myself in my room and wrote about all the things I want to forget or "leave in 2008."  I even went so far as to write, "what I want to manifest in 2009."

I don't really believe in resolving.  Flaws are good.  Resolutions are for when you get arrested or knocked up.  When things in your life really need to change.  When it's life or death.

Right now it's just complacency and a mild dissatisfaction.

The Musician and I have been talking about marriage.  He brought it up.  It's what I've wanted for the past two years but now that it's here sometimes I look at him and wonder.  I say to myself this is all there is FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!

I look in the mirror and picture a white dress and shake my head.  I'd look like a circus tent if I had to wear that right now.

And I haven't built the circle of friends I want, and where would A live, who would we invite, and on the invitation whose names would request the honor of your presence at our wedding?

Sigh.

I like back to the grind Monday because it means I don't really have to think about any of those things.

I can pretend nothing's changed it's just the same ole year.

-The Paper Doll feels like 2009 is going to be all about change

End of the Year

Dear Internet,

It's December and although I haven't even started my Christmas shopping I have made my New Year's resolutions.

This past year has been all about my mental health.  I got my head on straight as my Nana would say.  Now that it's in place it's time to think about the fat white body on which it resides.

That's right along with everyone else in the country I'll be making the proverbial lose weight resolution.  It's not just about dropping three sizes it's about being well.  About not having a heart attack or developing diabetes.

I got one body and it needs to last.

So this coming year I'll be whipping myself into shape.  Too bad I can't do it with a box of Kleenex and a Xanax like I did my head.

-The Paper Doll wants you to wish her good luck

My Dream Life

I desperately want to build this house out in the country on my family's land.

 

I'd change the colors.  Maybe a yellow with green shutters.  And they'd be the European kind that actually work.  The same with the windows-the kind I had in my room in Paris that swing open.  I'd put a bay window where those three ones are on the front.  A tin roof.  Solar power and completely green living.

I'd hang a tire swing from that tree in front.  Plant a garden in the back. 

I'd be married and have a family.  I'd can and put things up for winter and wear aprons.

My studio would be upstairs in the loft until I could build a space out back. 

In the family room downstairs I'd have a bar and a big TV on the wall.  I'd host Oscar parties and Kentucky Derby luncheons.

I'd be happy.

Damn it NBC!

Dear Internet,

I'm sick of swimming and glad it's over (it is over, right?).  Swimming is the most boring spectator sport.  You can't see anything but white water and little plastic covered bobbing heads.  And don't even get me started on those unitards.  All this time we thought the Speedo was an abomination.  Those new get-ups are hideous and give everyone a camel-toe.

And Michael Phelps.  Oh Michael Phelps.  You bore me. 

Seriously, people actually spent evenings glued to their TVs watching him as if he wasn't going to win?  What's wrong with you people?  Of course he's going to win.  Why waste your time?  It's about as exciting as watching paint dry.  Yep, it's going to dry.  No need for me to sit there and watch it.

Whenever NBC did something douche baggy like cut from the freaking gymnastics to cover swimming I'd always get up and go pluck my eyebrows or stick my head in the oven.

How could you possibly cut from tiny people flinging their bodies around to giants splashing around in a pool?  Tiny cute people vs.  scary people with shoulders the size of trucks.  Tiny people, scary people?

Really people this should be no contest.

It basically boils down to, in which sport am I more likely to see someone get hurt-swimming or gymnastics?

Oh shut up you know you watch the Olympics for the screws up too.

Come on people you know when those girls fell off that balance beam you couldn't get enough.  Now I'm not wishing anyone get hurt.  Just fall.  Because that's what makes the Olympics.  When you screw up and come back.  Or you stick the landing even though your ankle is broken.  Hell gymnastics is even judged based on mistakes.  A deduction for this one for that. 

I just happen to enjoy major deductions like landing on your butt after a kick ass vault.

And with swimming there are no errors.  No one hits their head on the bottom when the dive in or drowns.  And for the love of god why no one smacks their head on the pool when they are doing flip turns I don't know.  But it just doesn't happen.

They dive in, swim to the other end, and that's it.

The only excitement is who hits the wall first and really that's not all that exciting because you knew that's what was going to happen.  It's predictable.  Especially when that oaf is in the pool.

I just like my Olympics with a dash of the unexpected that's all.

Plus Michael Phelps got a DUI once and has a horrible underbite.

-The Paper Doll is no athlete but she plays one on TV

A Spoon Full of Sugar

Dear Internet,

I just swallowed the first antidepressant of my life.  A half a pink tab with breakfast to see how I'd react.  A quick fix for a mere 10 dollar copay.

I already feel better even though I know I shouldn't.  Damn things take weeks to work.  But swallowing that thing was a sort of victory.  The first active decision I've made in months.

I'm finally taking control of my life.  One little pink football at the time.

I firmly believe in a mind body connection.  That stress makes you sick-causes cancer even.  I think it's why my pap smear came back abnormal.

My immune system just could fight the virus because it was too busy crying and wallowing in bed.  It also had been eating a lot of french fries and drinking plenty of wine.  And it never got out and exercised or did anything fun.

It just sort of gave up and let a nasty thing move in.

It's an incentive now to "pull out all the stops," as my therapist said.  To beat its ass with pills, yoga, fresh fruits and veggies, and 45 minutes a day on the treadmill.

To be well.  Not healthy.  Or on a diet.  Or just taking a drug.

But well.  Really, really, really well.  From the inside out.

-The Paper Doll is a-ok

I Got It All Right Up Here in My Head

Dear Internet,

I was out of town for more Scotland Wedding festivities.  This is quickly becoming the wedding that shall not die. 

Anyhoo, I was chatting with my grandfather's sister.  My great aunt?  The normal how are you what are you doing these days came up.  And I told her I was thinking about going back to school I just wasn't sure for what as there were several things I'm interested in. 

As I listed off the various things I could possibly grow up to be she stopped me looked me dead in the eye and said, "But what about your art?"

I blinked and stammered.  Oh yeah my art.

My art Internet.

She asked about my art.

My art.  My mystical nonexistent art.

I'm thinking this should be something I discuss with my therapist tomorrow, whattaya think?

XO,

The Paper Doll

Here's Looking at You Internet

Dear Internet,

I just want to give you a hug.  Seriously.  You're just the cutest, most wonderful, thing ever.

Thank you for all the nice encouraging emails and comments.  Here I was thinking you know that something was wrong with me and oh wrath and anger and how could I possibly go around being Depressed gah.  And it turns out a lot of you are Depressed.  In fact, this Depressed thing is like totally normal and really not all that scary and weird (wanna braid each other's hair and paint our toenails together and watch Breakfast Club?).

We've all been Depressed it turns out.  And IT WILL BE OK.

I love that about you Internet.  How when I'm feeling my crappiest, darkest, most low you are too.  Or either you have been before.  And you know.  You know that while I may ignore you, and write really dumb things to you, and become all hippie dippy love fest eventually I'll work it out.

Thanks for being so patient with me.  For letting me cry, and mess up, and try again.  I need that right now.  So you know you may want to advert your eyes for the next couple of weeks because I'm going deep into navel gazing.

Into the depths.  Further than any navel gazer has ever gone before.  I'll be uncovering the great mysterious of the navel.  This is one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. (Which can someone explain this to me because really aren't man and mankind sort of the same thing?  Oh, right...)

XO,

The Paper Doll

My Darkest Hour

Hi,

My name is The Paper Doll and I am depressed.

Instead of facing that fact I've been eating copious amounts of fatty foods (particularly of the fried carb version), not exercising, not going to yoga, and generally just wallowing around in bed watching bad prime time TV (I'm looking at you Wife Swap and Super Nanny).  This has been going on for about oh 9 months or so, when did posts start getting scarce around here?

I was forced to admit this in a very Jerry Springer like fashion on Monday when a strange man emailed me to say my boyfriend, yes the Musician, was having an affair with his wife.  HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH HIS WIFE.  Scream that about four million times, throw things, and cry until your face is swollen and you've got a pretty accurate reenactment of my Monday and Tuesday.

His allegations proved not entirely true, for those of you playing along at home.  But neither was the Musician a downy innocent either.

Hence, we had to begin dissecting the why and how could you and I was forced to admit that I haven't been the best mate in a long long time.

It's sort of hard to be sexy when you haven't shaved in ages and are gulp twenty pounds heavier than you use to be.  It's even harder when you slap your boyfriend's hand away because oh my god I must know how this rerun of House that I've already seen ends. 

Harder still when you tell yourself every day how crappy you look but you don't do anything about it.  You also don't acknowledge that your house has an very distinct funk. 

In fact everything is a distinct funk.

A big pot of swirling, black, funk.

One that I hope to tidy up in the next few weeks.  Calls have been made, blood drawn, appointments set.

For the first time in my life I'm admitting I can't do this alone.

Wish me luck.

-The Paper Doll is getting help and maybe some meds

Housekeeping

Dear Internet,

Let's get some stuff done, ok? 

First off that post about the gay marriage and stuff was aimed at a very specific slice of the Christian pie.  Namely the ONE man that I referred to over and over again in my post and in a larger sense the Christians who make gays feel worthless and unwelcome but have no problem sitting beside the sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, thieves, the greedy, drunkards, and slanderers in church.  All of whom are mentioned right along side the homosexual in that lovely passage in 1 Corinthians that's so often used to persecute the gays.

And there are lots of lovely Christians people out there.  Christian people who-shock-are open minded and have gay friends.  Not all Christians are the hell fire and brimstone kind of people. 

Also, it's not the being against gay marriage that makes you an asshole it's the way you are against gay marriage that makes you an asshole.  Anyone who screams and puts down people on national television is an asshole.  You don't agree that's fine just respectfully disagree.  And that goes for people on both side of the issue thank you very much.

So are we clear about all that Internet?  I didn't mean to launch a full frontal on all Christians.  Just the ones who are particularly hateful because I think that's sort of contrary to their core beliefs about love, and unity, and treating your neighbor like yourself.

Ok now that we got that out of the way could you people stop bombarding (I love that episode of the Simpsons) my in box with I'm so offended emails?  Ok, thanks.

On to another topic.

I need a niche.  Well first, Hi my name is The Paper Doll and I like self help books.  Not just any self help book but new agey yoga finding the way you are awesome and full of potential ones.  I know.  It's a dirty dirty dirty addiction.  They just make me feel so good.  I can't stop.

So yesterday I go to the bookstore in search of The Anti 9 to 5.  A self help book about ditching the cubicle life because I'm ready to ditch.  Of course they are all sold out. 

I also happen to be a sucker for Books-a-Million's 3 for 2 deal.  You get a book for free!  For free!  The first two were no brainers.  What is the What because everyone and their mama is reading this, or has read this, or is recommending that you read this.  So up on the bandwagon I go.  The other was The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night because I've been meaning to read this for how many years now? 

Now the third book is always a crap shoot.  Which is why they have this deal in the first place-to sucker people into buying books no one really wants.  After passing over a huge selection of chick-let and other mysterious things I landed on Finding Your North Star.

I know.  I know.  But I had read the Joy Diet by the same author and it was good and I sure could use a North Star whatever the hell that is and I came in to get a self help book so I might as well leave with one.

And I did!  And I spent the right of the nite reading and filling in short answer questions.  It made me feel so productive.

I also learned I need a niche for this site.  A topic I blog about.  Cooking, crafting, arting, politicking.  Something I'm an expert on.

Got any ideas, Internet?

That's all.  Housekeeping over back to your regularly programed bull shit.

Love,

The Paper Doll

Oh I Know She Did'ent

Dear Internet,

I like to watch CBS Sunday Morning.  It's like NPR but with pictures!  And that Charles Osgood is just so cute I want to squeeze his little cheeks and drink iced tea with him.  They also cover really awesome off the beaten path stories and I appreciate that way more than my local who shot who where news.

Anyhoo, yesterday one of their stories was about the pivotal California Supreme Court ruling on same sex marriage.  Now I know I'm not suppose to talk about politics on my blog least you guys take up arms and beat me with them.  BUT there was this one part of the story I just didn't get and I really need y'all's help.

Like all good journalists do, they of course interviewed someone who was completely outraged by the court's decision.  He kept going on and on and on about the definition of marriage and blah blah blah god and wrath and Jesus is going to eat your first born.

Now if your religious views prevent you from being a tolerant person I get that.  I don't agree but I understand.  And you can ban same sex marriage in your church, or temple, or roadside stand.  Those places are more private than say THE FREAKING GOVERNMENT.  Which you know is suppose to be for everyone, and give us all equal rights, and let us pursue happiness and stuff (damn that Declaration of Independence).  So if you and your party don't like Adam and Steve tying the knot well then don't let them IN YOUR CHURCH.  It's perfectly within your right.  Just like if you don't want redheads gracing the door, or purple people, or people who think farting is funny.  By all means keep us out.  We are a heathen bunch.

But we are talking about THE GOVERNMENT.  The government recognizing same sex marriages.  This has nothing to do with your sacred religious beliefs.  And side note: if those beliefs are because you are a Christian I really need you to ask yourself-What Would Jesus Do?  Because I think Jesus was a pretty tolerant loving guy.  In fact, I think Jesus would be inviting the gays over to his house for wine and snacks.  I think he'd love them just like he loved everyone else.  The man hung out with lepers for Christ-sake.  Not to mention he believed in turning the other cheek, and not judging people, and you know the damn golden rule.  So really I think all your, your kind isn't welcome here, is a bunch of hypocritical crap.

But whatever, you want to hate the gays hate on.  It's what I love about America.  It's your right to be an asshole if you so desire and it's my right to make fun of you for doing so.

In addition to the religious thing this man on CBS Sunday Morning kept mentioning how the definition of marriage was the union of a man and a woman.  Umm who cares?  That Merriam-Webster is constantly changing the dictionary.  Hello, "Crunk" is now a recognized word.  I think the dictionary would be just fine with updating itself to allow for same sex marriages because you know it's flexible and hip.  It's always staying on top of the latest developments in language.  And haven't you read Shakespeare, A rose by another other name.  It's just a word.  A definition decided on by some little man in a back office.  Don't make me bring out the Plato's Cave Allegory.

Plus men and woman have had marriage since the beginning of time and look what we've done to it.  Isn't the divorce rate somewhere between don't get married and it all ends with alimony?  At least the gays have long term staying power. 

I just don't understand what the fuss is about.  And frankly I think it's a bit ridiculous the government has any say in the matter at all.  I say if you got love and the money to pay for a license marry on.

-The Paper Doll just needed to deposit her two cents

My Jerry Seinfeld post: I mean what is up with lettuce?

Dear Internet,

 

Now that we got that drink post out of the way I can tell you this.  I hate lettuce.  Yes lettuce.  Yet, I eat it almost daily.  Which has me thinking about the lettuce paradigm.

 

Who decided that lettuce would be the base for most salads?  Would be the filler in all sandwiches?  Have you tasted lettuce?  It’s like crunchy, dirty water.  And please before you tell me how I haven't had the right lettuce and radicchio and bib and butter lettuce all have wonderful distinctive tastes, let me tell you, ugh no they don’t.  You just think they do because you smoother them with your fancy vinaigrettes and candied pecans.

 

Lettuce isn’t good.  No one says, umm I can’t wait to get home and have a nice big bowl of lettuce.  Why then can one barely escape lettuce at lunchtime?

 

Sure you could order your sandwich without lettuce.  Unless you are a vegetarian, which I am.  Before you can even think no lettuce they’ve sprinkled it all over the bread.  It is assumed that you want it.  After all, you already requested a sandwich without meat.  No lettuce too?  This defies the very definition of sandwich.  What are you going to have if not lettuce and condiments?  If you do ask them to take it off then you have to stand there and be that asshole who’s holding up the line because you don’t like lettuce.  Because you prefer spinach instead.  And good lord how long does it take to pick lettuce off bread?

 

And a salad.  No one orders a salad for the lettuce.  Most of the time lettuce isn’t even listed as an ingredient.  You order a salad because of all the other stuff and the dressing.  You order a salad because you like blue cheese and cranberries.  The very nature of a salad is to hide the taste of lettuce.  You have to dress it, cover it up.  Because without dressing it’s naked.  And like most people, a naked salad is not a sight you want to behold.  Unless that salad is Brad Pitt or Ethan Hawke.

 

And it has virtually no nutritional value.  Paper would be a better source of vitamins and minerals.

 

Maybe I'll create a Facebook group or website.  PAL: People Against Lettuce.

 

-The Paper Doll thinks it has to be a pyramid scheme

Under Pressure

Dear Internet,

I've been thinking a lot about marriage lately.  The Musician and I will have been together two years in October.  He's a great guy, we have a wonderful time together, and for the first time in my life I can see myself walking down the aisle with him.

But why?

Why do we feel the need, the desire, the pull to get married?  Why is it so important?  Why is it what we are always working towards or searching for? 

Isn't it enough to have him in this moment?  Why is the big white dress and marriage certificate necessary?  And why is it, in this day and age, that my worth as a woman is tied to whether or not I'm married?

No sooner than had I gotten my college diploma did the questions started coming.  Are you seeing anyone?  Do you think he's the one?  Are you married?

Never how's your job?  That's so great you bought a house at 23.  Congrats on that promotion.

It doesn't matter what I do.  How successful I am.  What I give back to my community.  All people care about is whether or not I'm married or in the process of getting there.

Sure I'd like to have the party.  Wear the dress.  Get married.  Often when I'm bored I find myself flipping through bridal pages on the net.

But aren't I so much more than that?

Can't I be fabulous and single?  Or fabulous and in a serious long term committed relationship but not married? 

I don't get it.

A and I had a long conversation last nite about whether it's nature or nurture that make us yearn for that life long commitment.

I think it's fear (among other things).

In an article I just happened to read this morning Lisa Gabriele writes:

Bertrand Russell wrote, "Religion is based, I think, primarily and mainly upon fear. It is partly the terror of the unknown . . . the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes." Today, most couples I know have turned their backs on God and religion. In fact, the last time they saw the inside of a church was probably the day they got married. But when you have no religion, no god, no spiritual practice to turn to for comfort, it's easy to turn your relationship into your altar, to give it the power to heal you, transform you and save you. That's why most relationships crack under pressure, I think — they're not built to fix us. We're supposed to fix them. If Russell is right that religion is the last place to go to if you're looking for God, then perhaps marriage is the last place to go to if you're looking for love.  n°

I think it's wise to say that until I fix myself I have no business donning that white dress.  And that's ok.   I can be happy AND in love without a wedding band.  And it doesn't cheapen me or what the Musician and I have.

Now if someone would just tell my biological clock that.

-The Paper Doll wants to learn how to live in the present

PS-Internet how do you feel about marriage?  Are you for it?  Again it? Why do you want or not want to get married?  Thoughts?  Feelings?  Ideas?

To NOT Do List

Dear Internet,

Well I'm 25.  Twenty-fucking-five. 

Yeah, it's so not a big deal at all.

In fact I'd rather just go ahead and turn 30.  I'm ready to be an adult-whatever the hell that means.  Mid-twenties is so confusing.  WHO AM I?

I'm ready for things to just calm down and gel.

Which leads me to this thought-I feel like this is the time you are deciding who exactly you are going to be.  You're creating habits, picking jobs, choosing partners.  You're getting down to brass tacks.  And frankly there are some tacks I wished I hadn't gotten down to.

There are habits that if I don't break now they never stand a chance of being broken.  Rituals that need to be kaboshed.  Teeth that need to be flossed. 

While I don't really have a list of Things I Must Do Before I Turn Thirty!!!!!!!!!!!!

I do have a list of things I should probably stop doing before I turn thirty like:

Not exercising.  I need to stop not exercising.  This is bad.  I need to take a damn walk already.  I'm waaaaay too young to be siting around getting fat and clogging my arteries.  And it's only going to get harder.  So get up.

Eating so many damn carbs.  Seriously there are other vegetables besides the potatoe.  I need to eat them before I get diabetes like every other person in my family.  My eating habits are the product of someone who's lazy and doesn't plan well.  For instance the only thing I have in the house to eat right now is graham crackers and marshmallows.  I should probably get on that.

Not really saving.  Tomorrow is going to come and I am going to get old and I need some money for that.  My job has a retirement plan but really I need to be matching that each month.  Here here to being a millionaire in my old age.  Plus if something catastrophic happens I'm so screwed. 

Biting my lips.  It's not hot.  It hurts.  It looks gross.  Just stop it.  Get some other fixation.

Throwing my clothes on the floor, letting the dishes pile up, not dusting, ignoring the yard that surrounds my house.  I'm not in college anymore.  My parents aren't ponying up the money for my clothes or my house or my yard.  I need to stop being such a terrible housekeep.  I'll never be Martha Stewart but a little respect for the stuff I have is in order.  And I do feel so much better when things are neat and tidy.

-The Paper Doll is breaking habits and taking names

At the Bottom of the Hill

Dear Internet,

People suck.  No really.  They do.

Why is everyone so afraid to man up?  No one takes responsibility for anything any more.  I just don't get it.

I see it when A spills wine on my pillowcases, when The Musician tries to back peddle out of an argument, when someone at work passes the buck.

The shit really does flow down hill.

But why?

Seriously? 

We are human.  We are flawed.  We mess up.

Why can't we just admit that?

I don't care about the wine just own up to it and don't make excuses.  Take care of it. 

I've had a terrible day at that place you don't talk about on your blog and it's all because of this.  Because people will not take responsibility.

And it blows my mind because my mama raised me better than that.

I'm not saying I haven't done it too.  We all do it sometimes.  But it shouldn't be as much.  And when it's really important we should have the backbone to stand up and proudly say I fucked up and I'm sorry and it's not the end of the world.

Because that's the thing about messes eventually they get cleaned up and go away. 

It's just not fair to make someone else wipe up your shit.

-The Paper Doll advises everyone to wear gloves and carry toilet paper

What I Want This Year

Dear Internet,

I want a bike.  A big ole honking bike with a basket on the front.  None of these pansy skinny wheeled bikes.  I want a BIKE.  If the bike I wanted were a person she'd be a fat girl.  A big, sturdy, fat, girl. 

I don't wanna go fast on this bike.  I don't wanna ride in the middle of the street with a tight yellow jersey and bike shorts stuck up my crotch.  I want to coast on this bike.  And to pedal without touching the handlebars.  And to ride the Musician on the front.

But it's more than just the bike.  Because if I got that bike now I'd have no where to ride it.  I live in the city.  Big girl bikes aren't for city driving.  I'd get run over. 

No what I want is more about lifestyle.  I want slow.  I want country.  I want dirt road with lots of sky.

That's where you ride a big girl bike.  Somewhere you can throw your hands up, tilt your head back, and just coast.

I want a childhood do over. 

Where worlds were created in trees and fairy tale lands reached by pedaling faster.

I also want cupcakes.  Little yellow cakes with white icing.  Sprinkles confettied over the tops.  The kind that stain.  The kind on the cover of A Million Little Pieces.

And a green rain coat worn with hot pink rubber boots.

A quilt folded up.  A baguette.  Some cheese.  A glass of champagne.  All tucked into the basket of my big girl bike.

Flowers wrapped in butcher paper.

Polka dots, hats and feathers, vintage shoes with t-straps. 

Cotton dresses, lacy socks, fresh fruit, spilled paint.

Pancakes.

A year of lazy Sundays. 

-The Paper Doll is under the table and dreaming

 

Oh Magic Eight Ball What Do You See?

Dear Internet,

When in doubt make a list.

I had a bit of a nervous break down at work on Friday.  It seems I'm in the throes of a "What the hell am I doing with my life?" crisis.

Hence my list making this morning.

When I imagine my perfect life it looks like...

Not having to worry about money.

Being able to fix up my house and nest with pretty little things.

Having a fabulous wardrobe with lots of Anthropologie.

Time spent creating most days.

Walks with the dog.

Wine and dinner with friends.

Sleeping in.

Having my own business to tend (and be late to without anyone fussing).

Freedom.

Flexibility.

Traveling to distant lands.

I know I'm ready for a change.  But what I'm not sure.  Half the time I think law school is a good idea.  The money would certainly allow me a comfort I'm not use to.  But how flexible and creative would it be?

A lawyer who paints at night and can afford a great art collection.

Or a painter who sleeps in, works when she wants, and can't afford much of anything.

I hate that money is an issue.

That I even have to work.

I wish my mom were here so I could talk to her.

She'd say I was putting the cart before the horse.  I haven't even taken the LSAT.  That I'll know the right thing when it comes along.

It's just so much easier to believe when someone else sings you that song.

-The Paper Doll is a bit frantic

What a Woman Wants

Dear Internet,

If it were up to me I'd have an old house.  Big.  But not excessive.  A cottage with more than one story so I could disappear upstairs.  A claw foot tub.  Wainscoting.  A big kitchen with a fire place.  And a dinner table full of friends and wild mushroom galette. 

And land.  Not a yard.  But land on either side.  Bales of hay in the summertime.  And no power bills.  Or water.  Completely off grid.  And a more environmentally friendly car.  A station wagon with stickers on the back.

Vegetable garden.  Cutting garden.  Gardenias.  A white picket fence made of moldy wood.

An old barn in the back as my studio.  Hot in the summer and cold in the winter.  A life without nine to five.  Full of painting.  Writing.  Making.  Doing. 

Cute shoes and a vintage dress.  Hats and feathers in my hair.

And a man.  A man who'd never get tired of me.  And always worked to keep it new.  Who'd buy me my favorite painting on the sly and tell my I was beautiful while brushing my teeth.  And mean it.  Really mean that his life is better with me.

That's what I'd have.

Just in case the universe is putting out.

-The Paper Doll wants the world on a string

Ps-Go out and buy Devon Sproule's Keep Your Silver Shined and listen to the title track on repeat while you cook.  Drink wine.  Dance.  That's "Fall is the Perfect Time to Fall in Love."

Food for Thought

You know what Internet?

I like to cook.

And I'm pretty good at it I might add.

Why don't I ever tell you about that?

Or about how many books I read?  Or the pictures I take?  Or the things I make?

I'm a very crafty girl and have the coolest studio and house I might add.

It's time I get some pictures up of those things.

I have so much to show you.

How do you feel about that alphabet thing?  You know when each post is dedicated to a letter?

Think about it.  Okay?

It might be a good way to keep me posting.

-The Paper Doll is working on her next project

So Long Farewell (For a Little While)

Dear Internet,

I feel like I'm going through a big change right now.

I started Weight Watchers and have lost 7.6 of the 35 pounds I need to take off. 

Thanks to the slight slim down I now have a renewed interest in leaving the house.  Also, in buying clothes and having sex.

I've cleaned out my closets and thrown away fat clothes and shirts I've had since the 7th grade.  So, I can make room for the new girl I'm slowly putting together from Anthropologie sales.

November will mark the two year anniversary of my mom's death and things in that department seem to be on an upward swing.

All the grieving literature says it's at that mark that your life finally feels back to normal.  Or as normal as it can get without a mom.

The Musician and I just celebrated our one year anniversary and while we have kinks to work out I couldn't possibly be any happier.  As cliche as it is, he makes me want to be a better person.

Which is what I think being in your early 20's is all about.  It's the most chaotic period I've ever lived through.  And the most stressful.

But I feel like I'm finally getting the hang of it.

Making myself into the girl I truly am.

And I'm not sure that girl has a blog like this one.

It just isn't serving me right now.

I finally have art project ideas spewing out of me and I feel the real need to change things around here.

To stop typing and start painting.  Something I've been missing in my life for a long time.

I'm not sure how this site will change, but it's time it did.

For now I'm keeping it up, my posts just many be few and far between.

I'm also working on creating a whole other site I'm really excited about.

Thanks for all the encouragement and comments.

I'll keep you posted on how I turn out.

-The Paper Doll will miss her faithful pen pal

Decisions Decisions

Dear Internet,

I graduated college a semester early because my mom was dying. I needed a job. An easy job close to home. A nine to five that would allow hospital visits and personal days when things got tough. So when my internship offered to hire me full time I accepted. No interviews. No resumes. Just a bigger paycheck and benefits.

Since then I’ve gotten promoted. Changed offices. Moved up.

But none of this I decided. It all just happened to me.

It wasn’t my choice.

My yoga teacher started our practice last night with the Yiddish children’s story, The Dead Town. A place inhabited by those not living yet not dead. People who never made choices. Because they didn’t fully live they couldn’t fully die.

That’s how I feel. Not fully alive but not dead.

The past two years have had little to do with my decisions and more to with--what now.

What now that things have fallen apart?

I haven’t been active just reactive.

And that’s not living.

But what now?

What choice do I make now?

-The Paper Doll is at a loss considering all the possibilities

Old Adage

Dear Internet,

The Best Friend's text message on Sunday read, "Fall's the perfect time to fall in love."  And I knew exactly what she meant.

For years we've been repeating that.  Once a silly drunken message left on the house's answering machine.  Now a yearly tradition.

Something to be traded when the weather merits sleeves.

But it's so much more than that.

Each year I'm struck by it's authenticity.

Fall really is the perfect time to fall in love. 

And when we say it to each other I know she loves me even though we're busy and can't talk over cheesecake and coffee.  Loves wherever is she is right then.  Is happy.  And it makes me smile.

To know so much from so little.

It was almost a year ago I wrote those words down.  Fall's the perfect time to fall in love.  And I wanted him to fall in love with me again.

To see regret in the leaves.  To be cold without me in his bed.

And now, that couldn't be further from how I feel.

Every year it's something different I'm chasing.  Falling in love with.  Wanting.

Next year it will be different too. 

But for a moment the first day of fall makes me lust after what I already have.  To smile knowing Fall's the perfect time to fall in love and I already have with so many things.

Mums on front porches.  Carving pumpkins and toasted their seeds.  Squash soup and cheese bread.  The first frost.  My green coat and scarf.  Pretending my breath is the exhale of a drag off a cigarette.  Drawing turkeys using the outline of my hand.  Halloween.  Historically inaccurate Thanksgiving plays.  Russian tea.  Mulled cider.  The witch attached to the pecan tree in the front yard.  Carnivals and fairs.  Rubber ducks with numbers on the bottom floating in a tub and bobbing for apples.  Real wood fires in my fireplace.  Soon to be broken spines of dusty books.  Football games.  Red noses.  Folding sweaters and listeing to Feist.  Knee boots and velvet jackets.

The possibility that always comes after hibernation.

-The Paper Doll loves her best friend as big as the sky

Come to Jesus meeting (with myself)

Dear Internet,

I'm tired of all this whining bullshit.  All I ever do here is navel gaze, period brain, wah wah wah.

I wish someone would just kick my ass already. 

You couldn't get away with this in high school.  You'd be sitting with the smelly tuba player during lunch.  And people would mistake you for one of those girls who cuts herself.  And is that really how you want people to think of you?

Whiny emo girl who cuts herself and wears black because the world is just too much.

Gah.

Just shut up and live already.  Stop analyzing every.  freaking.  thing.

It doesn't mean anything when he only sends you one text instead of twenty or when they are out of milk or when you get caught by a train and the wind blows and that song comes on the radio.

IT.  DOESN'T.  MEAN. ANYTHING.

Sometimes things just happen.  There's no reason.  They just do.

Sometimes he's busy.  Sometimes you are running late.

Enough with the finding meaning in everything living deeply crap. 

You're so concerned with having a meaningful experience you forget to have the experience.

Just shut up and fucking do it already.

Gah.

-The Paper Doll needed a stern talking to

*If you don't know what a "Come to Jesus Meeting" is then you are a far less scarred individual than I.  You also probably didn't have the pleasure of growing up in the South. 

**Image is from here and it makes me laugh.

Good Riddance

Dear Internet,

We all have baggage.  Ex-Decorators as Carrie Bradshaw says.  Or useless crap if you're Marin Frist and volunteering at the Elmo rummage sale.

Meredith Grey even had an insightful thing to say or two, "The expected is what keeps us steady-standing.  The unexpected is what changes our lives."

And while I realize these moments of clarity are from prime time TV I can't help but take note when they align with things the universe has brought up in my real world too.

For instance...

My horoscope this week reads, "Pisceans must love their oceanic emotions unconditionally; must see their endless inundation as a privilege and a blessing; must learn to surf the endless tidal wave with exhilarated gratitude..."

My past two yoga classes have been about grounding one part of your body in order to let go and be free in another.

And when I had dinner with one of my older sage friends she reminded me that if I am happy then I need to let go of all the suppose to's because there's nothing more to do. 

All I have to be by 25 is content.

It's dropping the bags of expectation.  Of past wounds.  Of insecurity.  And getting on the train bag-less that none of these people told me how to do.

I suspect because while a grand idea in theory letting go-surrendering to the unexpected-experiencing freedom-is something no one really knows how to do gracefully.  Not to mention it's scary as hell.

I'm a pack rat by nature and try as I might there are just some feelings I can't let go of even though I know dropping them would make room for newer better things.  I might need them for something one day.

Plus my baggage is what I stand on sometimes.  What keeps me company when I am alone.  What I have to keep me afloat when there isn't an extra headboard to cling to.   

Then other times it's what drags me down to the bottom.  What keeps me shouting and crying.  When I should be shutting the fcuk up.

But who would I be without all that stuff?

Isn't what's packed in my bags who I am?

And then we come back to prime time TV, to my yoga, to my horoscope.  Sometimes you need to let it go.  To sell it for 50 cents.  Because it's old and broken and covered in dust.  Because it doesn't serve you anymore.  Because a record isn't good without a player.  Because moth eaten and holey isn't nearly as comfortable as shiny and new.

So I ask you what are you going to let go of? 

I will if you do too.

-The Paper Doll thinks there's strength in numbers

*Above image is from http://www.alonzo.org/

i was told there'd be no math

dear internet,

when i was in college i hooked up with this babysitting company to make extra cash on the side (in addition to the allowance my dad doled out-which i now understand to have been rather large.  but when you are doing jello shots and staying out all night no amount of money will do).

so i found myself in multi million dollar houses watching bratty kids while their parents went to "the club" for dinner or out to the latest fund raiser.

the houses were all the same.  the kids were all the same.  the damn stainless steal refrigerator was the same.

for the most part it was an easy way to make a couple hundred bucks for what amounted to 8 hours of my time each week.  and if the parents were really drunk when they got home and the kids were all ready in bed i could count on a large tip in addition to the 10 bucks an hour, plus gas, plus extra for additional kids, special circumstances, or cleaning that my agency required.

then there was "nancy."

nancy and bif were going to the local college football game and needed a sitter all day and all night.  that'd be lunch and dinner.  plus the gas money because they lived in the suburbs.  and she promised a good tip for my trouble.

while i was a little less than thrilled about being stuck with someone else's kid for the whole day i did have a paper i needed to finish and the money would be good.

off i go to nancy and bif's mid saturday morning.

i should have turned around when she opened the door.  too matchy.  too polished.  too clipped and groomed.  and the house behind her was in immaculate order.  sterile.

i should have run even faster when she announced her kid had special needs.

luckily they weren't of the mental variety (something i admit to not being very good with.  some have the gift i don't.  sorry.).

the little boy was deaf (and precious and the most well behaved child i have ever sat with).

i just wish i could say the same for his mother.

after informing me on site of her child's situation which required a training session for the special device he wore implanted in his brain.  she also informed me they had changed their minds and were not staying out late and had arranged for her mother to come get the child later in the afternoon.  they were nervous about leaving him with a stranger for so long.  it's just we thought my mother was going to be out of town which is why we called you.  but then we found out she's not and we hated to cancel on such sort notice (there's was monetary penalty for this).  i hope you understand.

suddenly my all day and night check was cut into fourths AND her kid was deaf.

fine.

i had already driven the 45 minutes to her house.

after a long spiel about what was acceptable and what was not and when i was to check in with her she asked if she could go ahead and pay me now because she wouldn't be seeing me again.

she wrote her name in tight curlicues.  30 dollars. 

i think this is very generous don't you-she said as she handed the sterile bank issued check to me.

30 dollars.  i couldn't believe it.

generous.

i was expecting at least 150.

my eyes must have shown my surprise because she immediately said-well you know because you won't be staying as long as we had first planned.  my mother's coming.

it wasn't even worth the drive.

but it would buy a round of drinks and the gas it took me to get there.  what could i say?

the time i spent with the child was great and i managed to get through all 5 of my hourly check ins.

then as i'm about to heat the mother approve snack a woman came walking into the kitchen.  an older woman in keds and white capris.

she says she's the grandmother.  here to pick him up.  she knows she's early.  she just thought she'd take him to her house for dinner.  she didn't want to him have to eat frozen food when she's got a fresh home-cooked meal.  i could come too.  then she'd bring him back for a bath and bed.

and that's when i decided to run away.  to politely decline.  take my 30 dollars and head home albeit even earlier than the earlier time.

the next morning i was awakened by an irritate mother berating me for not calling her.  she came home and her child was gone.  he was not in his bed where he was suppose to be-he was at his grandmother's!

i nicely said i left him with your mother who told me she was taking him to her house for dinner then bringing him back for bed.  have you called and yelled at her for not following the plan?

she went silent.  then-well i did tell her what she did wasn't nice.  but you should have let me know.  you should give me that check back.  i don't think it's right.  my mom told me she came early.  you didn't stay until the time we agreed.

after several minutes of back and forth and ridiculousness i said-i'll have to call my boss.  and i did.

i also kept the check and requested i never be assigned to her again.

the point is-sometimes you find yourself in a situation you didn't sign up for.

you find yourself trying to communicate with a deaf child and an even deafer mother.  you find yourself getting something you didn't expect.  having to deal with things you don't want to. 

you find yourself being stepped on.

and either you take it and do your time.

or you say sorry this isn't what i asked for.

some situations require a little suffering--a little putting up with undesirable conditions.  others require you to walk out and say nope.  not happening.

i'm figuring out which checks to cash and which to return to sender.

-the paper doll is having fun

the failing of #64

dear internet,

i've never been good at doing without a boy. that's what #64 was about. going out alone and sitting in the dark by myself. without a boy.

i went to the indie theatre tonite so i could cross it off my list. but the last ticket for paris je t'aime went to the woman in front of me and i was left there all dressed up with no where to go.

i sat in my car and wondered what i was suppose to do. i've along ago lost most of my girlfriends and the musician works late on saturdays. i had no one to call. and you don't wear heels and a bolero at home.

so i came here. to this coffee shop to talk to you. because you're the only one who's always there.

maybe you can tell me how to make myself happy. how to be alone. how to spend my hours without a boy.

because it seems i've forgotten.

-the paper doll has lost herself

the simple life: or a really long intro for a site i've been loving

dear internet,

it's a right of passage for all children born into the paper doll's clan to have their very own horse.

no sooner have you sprung forth from the womb than someone knows someone who has a horse that's a good price.  or that they are looking to get rid of.  or that is good for children.

i have a picture of me, i must have been about six months old, sitting atop a rather large horse with the help of my aunt and grandmother.  both of whom are desperately trying to hide behind the horse's neck in order to make it look like i'm gripping the reins all on my own.  my mother could have easily cropped them out of the picture, but i like to think she caught them stooped over and grimacing on purpose.  the picture's better that way.

after that there are a series of prints of me.  riding in a cart.  clinging to the neck of a high strung pony my grandmother bought for me then quickly sold when the thing couldn't be tamed.  my hair in braids holding a blue ribbon.  my arm in a pink cast when i fell off a bucking mare and tried to stop myself with my arm bone.  my father raising a barn so i could have a place to keep my very own horse.

then there's me swearing off farm life, dying my hair purple, dating boys, and driving a car around the pasture instead of my pure bred show horse.

i didn't know it then but the life they were trying to instill in me (the one i rejected around the time i got my period and boobs) was one of simplicity.  no gadgets.  no tv.  just the buzz of barn lights and the smell of murphy's oil soap.  i could entertain myself for hours cleaning leather and rearranging my tack room.  manure became fascinating as i wheeled loads of the stuff from stall to compost pile.

the older i get the more i long for that.  of days when all i was responsible for was getting up and heading to the barn. 

as much as i try to be metropolitan i'm really a country girl at heart.  i miss the smell of baled hay.  the color of green only rye grass can turn after it rains.  the way dirt, and sweat, and the smell of horses seeps out of your pores.  dried red mud cracking on the heels of your knee high boots.  the dark cognac of a horse's winter coat.

there's so much beauty i miss living the life i've made for myself.  sitting all day behind a computer typing words i don't agree with.  eating food wrapped in plastic that was grown in california.

i want to get dirty the way i did as a kid.  to grow so many vegetables i have to share them with the neighbors else they liquefy on the vine.  to be in touch with what makes us human and fallible.  to see that in the seasons.  in the barn animals.  in myself as i grow older. 

i want what i've tried so hard to push away.  what my parents tried to give me.  i want a simple life rich in beauty and love.

i want to live on a farm.

-the paper doll is really enjoying living vicariously through this

on wisdom (teeth) and religion

dear internet,

i was raised by very pious grandparents and less pious parents.  that's not to say my parents aren't/weren't believers.

my mom was holy,  she just also liked to drink and voted democrat.  and while my dad does go to church he believes in evolution and the legalization of marijuana too.

my grandparents on the other hand pray over every meal, go to church twice a week, don't drink, and have elephant themed throw pillows.

this was hard for me (and still is) when i was growing up.  i wanted to please everyone.  my youth group leader who said premarital sex and rock and roll was evil.  my grandparents who gave god the glory for everything.  and my parents who were somewhere in between championing independent thinking between beers and cover dish sundays.

i've done everything from swallowing conservative christian rhetoric to not believing in god.

which leads me to my problem internet.

i'm having my wisdom teeth taken out on friday and i'm afraid i'll die and go to hell.

because i'm only 24 i've yet to figure this whole religion thing out.  i'm not yet done rebelling against all the crap that was espoused in my small southern church.  and i can't get over some of the things churches do and say that are so very hurtful to other people and religions and different ways of thinking.

and i've yet to figure out how to reconcile my very liberal beliefs with ye ole bible because as far as i was taught being anything other than dance hating conservative was a sin that damned you straight to hell.

BUT.

i can't completely walk away from god.  even when i was busy not believing in god and dying my hair purple and listening to my dad's rock and roll i still prayed when i was afraid.  which clearly says to me-thou cannot be an atheist considering the first and most important tenant of atheism is you know, not believing in god.  and i'm pretty sure praying is totally against all the atheist's rules.  but whatever i was 16. 

i don't feel comfortable sitting with the bible thumping christians or the birkenstock wearing atheists.

so where does that leave me internet?  where will i eat my brown bag lunch and play fortune teller?

i don't know and i always thought i'd just figure it out when i had kids because then i'd be responsible for someone else's soul and their spiritual education.  and clearly you don't mess that up with your own contradictory ideas.  you pick a team and you mess your kids up with that-ONE.

BUT I'M BEING PUT TO SLEEP ON FRIDAY AND WHAT IF I NEVER WAKE UP AND I GO TOWARDS THE TUNNEL EXCEPT IT ISN'T A GREAT BIG WHITE LIGHT IT'S BRITNEY SPEARS AND SHE'S SHOWING ME MY SPECIAL PLACE IN HELL WITH SNAKES AND PEOPLE WHO SHOP AT WAL-MART WHILE WEARING BEDROOM SLIPPERS.

it feels cheap to become devoutly pious for a week but it also scares the bejesus out of me not to make things right with the lord before i count backwards from 100.

i know this doesn't have to be an all or nothing decision.  that i can believe in gay marriage and jesus christ.  but i've never been good at in-between (and plus with the rising from the dead?  really?  what about science?  i have a brain.  a god given brain.  it tells me this is not possible).

and here's where my god fearing YET hippie father would tell me about faith.

how you just gotta have faith.

which is really hard considering having faith and traditional religion is as about as hip as wearing head gear and a lisa frank t-shirt on a first date.  and even though i was (ok am dorky) i'm certainly not THAT dorky.

god just isn't getting any lately.

and when you want to be the valedictorian of everything it's hard to pick which lunch table to alienate.

-the paper doll sometimes feels like life will always imitate high school

all i need to know i learn in preschool

dear internet,

a coworker just told me about what his son said last night when they asked him what he had done at school that day.

their kid goes to a church affiliated preschool hence the religion.

anyway-the kid said.  we had bible class.  we learned about the desert.  god lives in the desert.

now regardless of your religious beliefs i couldn't have uttered a truer statement.

when you are in the middle of the desert and things suck and you're tired and you don't have any water and there's no one you can count on-there's often a still small voice that leads you to an oasis.

that's what i'll be looking for this weekend as the proverbial camel's back has been broken by the last straw.

-the paper doll says children are smarter than adults

ulla tidy up!

dear internet,

this weekend i used a whole box of swiffer sheets and two vacuum cleaner bags on my floor.  the mass of dog hair collected could be used to build nests for less fortunate birds all over the world.

tonite i will tackle cleaning out my car, as the mound of crap in the back seat has gotten so high i have to ask its opinion before backing down the driveway.

and if i really get adventurous i might just cut the grass sometime this week (but don't hold your breath).

as i spent my whole saturday with a bandanna tied around my face while dusting with a cut up shirt that once read seniors 2001 down its arm i wondered how my life had gotten this way.

wtf do i do with my time?

i basically have a 9-5 job.  i don't bring work home and i don't have kids.

i sure as hell don't exercise and i'm not on any committees or boards.

so wtf am i so busy doing that i can't bother to take the trash out or wipe the toilet seat lid?

nothing internet.

that's the problem.

i don't do anything.

and when you don't do anything a fine layer of dust collects on you and you don't bother moving least you disturb the small spider that has taken up residency in the many folds of your fat.

it's not just my house that has been suffering internet my mind has too.  it's grown so fuzzy the only thing i'm capable of doing is siting on the couch and watching reruns on snowy tv.

yoga use to be my mind's mr. clean but i'm lucky if i bother rinsing her out once a week.

it's why i've been worrying i know.  and why martha would faint least she put one foot inside my door.

when things are good inside my head the rest falls into place. 

so i'm making the pledge to get back into a regular practice.

else it won't be my dog that eats my face off when i die but the dust bunnies underneath my bed.

-the paper doll is spring cleaning more than just her house

throwing perfect to the wind

dear internet,

my life is a study in delayed gratification.  on any given day i must have at least 4,557 thoughts pertaining to the exact specifications i must achieve if i'm ever going to be happy.

thou shalt not achieve bliss until x has been accomplished.  but in order to accomplish x, y must be done.  but before y, z.  and before z...

the whole list of things i must do in order to be happy looks eerily similar to the list of things i worry about.

so i'm stopping internet.

the past has never been my down fall.  i don't linger over regrets and try and work out what i should have of done.

no no. i muse about things even further beyond the grasp of my control-the future.

the future where my thighs will be the size of twigs and my gut a sunken crater.  where money flows like rivers and debt a thing of the past.  where sugar plum fairies dance around my bed and happiness springs eternal.  and we all don't work or care how we look.

fcuk that internet.

seriously. 

what if i never lose a single pound for the rest of my life?  or if i don't pay off my mortgage?  or cut my grass? or ever change jobs?

what then?

i spend my life hating myself?  lusting after what i don't have?

not enjoying the beautiful moments i'm given.

the sun.  the symphony.  the look of the musician.  the way i feel in a beautiful dress.  the laughter of friends.

are those moments not good enough just because things aren't perfect?

it's just not natural internet.  i'm southern after all.  it's what we do.

we let the good times roll and we drink and we curse and we make love.  and by god there's nothing a little casserole or cake can't fix.

why do you think we're the fattest people in the country?  because we are all about the here and now (and fat back).

it's not bad to be happy.

i can have a shabby yard and chipped nails.  i can be ten pounds over weight.

i can be happy right now and not wait for perfect.

because perfect is a bus that never comes. 

there will always be something. 

so i'm not dieting.  and i'm not making a list of all the things i "have to do."  and i'll cut my grass when i get around to it. 

right now i'm drinking more champagne and eating cake and walking barefoot.

and i don't care what you think.

if you roll your eyes at my size or my obnoxious laughter.

because that's another thing us southerns are good at-charming our way out of anything.

-the paper doll is living out loud and there's nothing you can do about it

to be (someone else) or not to be

dear internet,

when i'm not worrying i'm lusting over the life i don't have.

clotilde's, dooce's, the made up one of ana pascal.

my mother always told me to do what makes my heart happy and the money will come.  i always believed her while i was on my parents pay roll because a check was just one phone call away should the money decide not to come.

i now have a mortgage.  car insurance.  utilities. 

agencies run by people who will not accept, i'm waiting for the money to come, as a valid form of payment.

so i do what most unhappy americans do, i suck it up and work 9 to 5.  pay my bills.  and rhapsodize about that great day i shall finally throw off my shackles and proclaim thou shalt take this job and shove it.

the great secret is that day will never come unless i make it.

i may keep a notebook full of ideas about how to run my bed and breakfast.  the color and brand of bed linens.  the recipe for wisteria muffins.  the silver pattern.

but those items are not going to leap off the page, start a revolt, and drag me into fighting for their side.

they will simple lay there and collect dust like they have for the past year.

if i got paid for having good ideas i'd be a rich girl.

i own pages of recipes for a new life.  shop owner.  art teacher.  lawyer.  baker. 

i've done all the research.

i just haven't taken the next step.

because when so many things make your heart happy how do you know which one the money will follow?

-the paper doll spends a lot of her time dreaming

worry walrus*

dear internet,

yesterday i made a list of all the things i'm worried about.  i made myself stop at 73 because that's as many as i could fit on one sheet of paper without having to use a magnifying glass to read it.

if i let myself i could probably fill a whole notebook.  one worry begetting another who begot another who was the father of another so the whole thing would wind up reading like an excerpt from the old testament (the only part of the bible the southern holy are allowed to skip-bless their hearts).

that's the thing about worry-once you let the walrus in he takes over.

suddenly the musician getting called into work is him cheating on me.  the pain in my breast-cancer.  the noise outside my window-a crazed woman raping madman.

the walrus grows and grows and suddenly you have a better relationship with him than anyone else because you spend most of your time nursing him.  and he's the only one you can trust.

the musician and i have been going through a very natural seven month slump.

but if you ask the walrus he'd tell you something different.

the musician is a cheater.  a liar.  someone not to be trusted.

instead of writing it out or calling the girls for clarity i handed the reins over to the walrus and let him drive me right into the ground.

seeing it all on paper yesterday made me realize it's time to bid him adieu.

i know he'll try to come back.  he'll sneak in during the lulls in our conversations.  with the moodiness that comes from being tired.  he'll do everything to turn nothing into something.

but this time i'll be ready.

because the best way to make him leave is to put him down on paper in black and white. 

not even i can argue with the absurd.

-the paper doll needs to remember to write even when she doesn't want to

*the worry walrus is a childhood creation of the best friend.

the southern rule

dear internet,

i just made a list that said:

things that are currently bothering me

*the weather

*the waistband of my pants

*life

i know writing is the very thing that will pull me out of this funk, however, the haze prevents me from hammering out a post least it deteriorate into whiny self hating dribble.  and really-who wants to read about that?

but wait.  isn't this a blog internet?  can't i write about whatever i damn well please?

no. 

i am southern.  i must put out sweet tea and crackers and properly entertain you.  all while smiling and wearing a perfectly matched outfit.

but i don't wanna my inner child screams.

and that's why us southerns take a shot of bourbon in our afternoon tea.

as a woman i'm constantly battling the "because that's the right thing to do" and the "but i don't want to."  throw in the accompanied guilt and you've got yourself a regular cocktail party.  wanna come it's fun.  wallowing self pity.  a shot of anger.  a dose of sugar to help it go down.  anyone?

my desire to please is why i smile at the musician's parents' house instead of politely riping his head off.  why i keep my mouth shut when abortion or gay rights comes up.  why i go along when my aunt suggests a dress i find hideous would look good on me.

it's just much easier to be the silently suffering one and you can always take it back if you keep the receipt.

i'm assertive when i need to be.  but mostly i stew over why i have to be the one.  why my parents taught me to just grin and let it go.

sometimes i want the world to revolve around me.  to be the one to have the last cracker and word.  what would it hurt?

with the musician i am simply because it's only in the comfort of your own home that you can drop the pretense.

fake smiles are reserved only for the neighbor and the couple you invite over for dinner.  agreement is only necessary with the checkout girl in public.

claws come out when you're alone with the one you love.

i've always thought that particular southern way to be some what odd.

be nice to the people you hate but mean to those you love.  charming and dashing in public but hell at home.

a funny perversion of the golden rule.

and one i'm very good at.

i get it from my mother i know.  who got it from her mother i'm sure.

i've watched at holiday parties as my mother poured on the charm just to sit tight lipped and arms crossed when we got home.

i blame it on my red hair.  my fiery disposition.  but i can't help but wonder if after all that faking if you just run out of gas?

if you use up your allotment of niceness where it really doesn't count?

why does it matter if the waitress likes me?  if the lady at church finds me funny?

if the one i love has had it with me?

i don't know.

which is why i'll just pour myself another vodka tonic and try my best to fake it until i make it all while hoping for the best.

cheers.

-the paper doll says it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks

making peace with the girl i'll never be

dear internet,

i wish love really did make you blind.  or at least turned testosterone down to a slow drip.

i fantasize about quiting my job and going to law school.  about moving back home and opening a bed and breakfast.  about becoming an elected official and living on a farm.  about painting and taking a long bath.

what it would be like if i were his wife.

i get off on good food and well written novels. 

i spend my time alone surfing the net for half priced designer shoes.

he checks out other girls' asses when we're having lunch and leaves his porn in the dvd player.  his mind lingers over sex every 7 seconds.  and he tells me he's cleaning his house but his internet history says otherwise.

his actions may be chaste but his thoughts never will. 

as someone who doesn't do halfway i'll never be able to understand why i can't have everything.  why there are places that love can't even touch.

hormones.  pheromones.  years of evolution.

boys will be boys.

yet i still dont' understand.

he claims it wouldn't bother him if i had a fantasy world without him.  if i got off on boys who were bigger and better and airbrushed.  if i didn't have a sex drive because i spent the afternoon satisfying myself without him.

sometimes i wish i had the balls to leave a copy of playgirl open on the night stand.  a big red circle on the model's abnormal bits.  to flirt with the cute bartender.  to stare and wonder and drool in front of him.

but my chromosomes aren't interested in that.

they don't want fake and unobtainable.  but stability and provision.

i guess i should just be thankful his fantasies don't get out of his dreams and into his car, because some boys aren't even good at that.

i should measure the man not by his thoughts but his actions.

i just don't appreciate when those actions stain my sheets when i'm not there.

that there's a whole part of him i'll never trump. 

that no matter what i'll never win valedictorian of sex.

because let's face it fantasies don't bitch and whine and nag.  they're always in the mood and wearing the right outfit.

they're perfect and i'm not.

and his indulgence supports that.

i know i'll never be able to undo the cards nature dealt each sex. so, there's nothing to do but decide it's the fight i'm not going to pick.

it's sticking with that that's often hard to do.

-the paper doll hates that there are somethings she just can't change

*this isn't about the musician per se but about my experience with all men.  ask any of my friends-i'm the girl who doesn't like her boyfriend watching porn. 

semantics

dear internet,

the best friend recently had an all night encounter with a mutual friend and my use to be za za zoo.

he girlfriended you-she said over the phone as i was pumping her for details.  because us girls, even when over boys, always want the details.

he girlfriended me?

yeah.

i would never boyfriend him.

i know that's why it caught my ear.

i might say back when we were hanging out but never boyfriend.

and there it was-the semantics of love.  to one you're hanging out.  to another dating.  it's a wonder we ever understand each other due to the flexibility of the english language.

i'll call you.  i've just been really busy.  it was only a kiss.  i didn't mean it i was drunk.  we should get together sometime.  i'm fine. 

how often do we actually say what it is we really mean?

when do words have the same meaning for you as they do me?

most of the fights the musician and i have can be blamed on words.  the ill choice of them.  the misunderstanding.  the slight difference in connotation between lie and fib.

but you said, i've often screamed in protest.

and it always would have turned out so different had he just picked another word.

i pour over them.  reading around them.  between them.  through them. 

he stumbles over them.  they're a hindrance to what he really means.

i should be good at this by now.  interpreting.

after all i've lived long enough to know men and women use two different vocabularies. 

i say wash the dishes he hears watch tv.

i mean now.  he understands later.

he tells me he loves me i hear the lie he told me last week.

i wish there were some words we never used.  that way there'd be no confusion over meaning.

the eskimos having over 200 words for snow is smart.  i bet they never argue about the conditions.  never take a shovel when what they really need is a plow.

but i do it too. 

say to her standing on the sidewalk-i will.  i promise.  i've just been busy.  when what i want to say is i'm the kid you call me.

i tell him it doesn't matter i didn't have any plans it's no big deal when what i mean is it's my birthday.

i say i'm fine when i'm not.  apologize because it's the right thing to do not because i mean it.

how do you do this-be in relationships-and find the right words?  the words that mean no stay.  or i love it when.  or stop.  or i'm not putting up with that.

words that you can both agree on.

words that don't throw their meaning at you but whisper it quietly. 

words that won't get you fired or broken up with.

because that's what it's all about-being able to say what you mean without undue consequence.

-the paper doll guesses that's why they say actions speak louder than words

it's my party and i'll cry if i want to

dear internet,

this is the seventh time i've written this post.

eloquence eludes me. 

it's my birthday week.  i'll be 24 on the 26th.

much too young to be having a crisis i know but here we are.

i've gained weight.  i have no idea what i want to do with my life.  my girl friends are few and far between.  and up until this point my life has turned out not at all how i planned. 

birthdays are not only your day but one to be shared with your mother.  who BIRTHED you. 

and because i no longer have her it makes my day especially hard.

i shouldn't have to tell the people that love me this.  they should know i need them an extra amount right now.

but because people are often forgetful, or wrapped up in their own lives, or don't know what to say, or how to act-they do nothing.  pretending i'm just like everyone else.  when really i'm not.

walter was so good at letting me cry.  and he would know without me having to tell him the real reason why.

i like surprises.  and intuition and thought.

i like not having to say: could you just be there for me.  all me.  because this week is the hardest one out of the year.  i would do it for you and you wouldn't even have to ask.

which is why nothing smarts the most because it would never be something i'd consider.

-the paper doll says people rarely reciprocate the golden rule

snapshot: packrat

dear internet,

when i was in college there was a boy i thought i was going to marry.  back when white picket fences and little girls with braids were high on my list.

he was 21 and could buy me beer.  although, i only drank wine with him-red-because he read william burroughs and wore turtlenecks.  i fingered the volumes of poetry and prose stacked along his dresser feeling inadequate because his collection was bigger than mine.  every time my finger grazed the spine of a book i also owned i'd pause and say, oh i love this book.  even the ones i hated got a glowing review when he was around.  i wanted him to know i was smart too.  that we had things in common.

that he could love me.

i purposely wore my studio pants smeared with paint and always carried a volume of poetry in my bag.  right alongside my moleskin and black pilot pen.  greeks aren't the only ones with a uniform.

i waited for him to call and pretended to be mid artistic creation when i picked up the phone.

when i hung up i made sure to smudge my face just so before making the night walk across campus to his dorm where we could stay together longer undisturbed.

we'd talk until dawn over cheap wine that stained my chewed on lips.  having those pompous college debates.  the meaning of ulysses.  bob dylan's greatest album.  the kind of argument who's point is not winning but showing how much you know.  nerd's foreplay.

i had these really great red feather earrings i wore then.  one night when our drunken ramblings turn into making out on his tiny university issued bed i lost the left one.  i didn't notice until the next day when i was inspecting my face in my communal bathroom's mirror.

i never asked for it back (its mate still sits at the bottom of my jewelry case alone). 

i wanted him to have it.  to keep it in some drawer.  i imagined him pulling it out and running his finger over it when i wasn't there.  or using it to mark his place in howl.

after he shaved his head and told me our timing was all wrong (in the most cryptic speech i've ever been given to date) i'd hope he'd open his sock drawer and realize what a mistake he made.  my earring a talisman to bring our love back.

but it never did.  he never did.

it just became something someone left behind.  a forgotten thing to look at and say where did this come from?

my house is full of such stuff.  bits of paper that once held significant meaning.  trinkets.  journals.

records of the girls i use to be.

items that have long ago lost their meaning.

magic traded for dust.

-the paper doll wonders what else she's left behind and what the hell some of the stuff is that she's kept

an ode to manual labor

dear internet,

these past few weeks i've watched out my office window as men have poured concrete, then chipped up that concrete, then poured it again.  this would be immensely funny to you if you knew where i worked.

it also took a crew of three to accomplish this job.  one to work.  one to instruct.  and one to drink pepsi.

the metaphors i could conjure up using this scene are limitless.  after all, i just composed a similar post using a 5000 year old philosophy.

the point is, internet, my horoscope for this week mentioned some crap about me being done with the fiery pits of hell.  and that i'd only be depressed 49% of the time starting now.

which let me tell you i'm really looking forward to that one percent increase in happiness.  that extra five minutes a day is really going to be put to good use.

i jest.

i'm actually a lot happier now than i've ever been. 

something about getting rid of a life sucking parasite does wonders for your mood.

and while i'm disappointed in myself for letting my housekeeping go to hell.  and my art making taking a back seat to my social life.  i've realized, like that pepsi drinking concrete layer, we all need a break sometimes.

after walter and i broke up i threw myself into being alone.  i devoured books, i made art, i went to yoga an insane amount.  i overdosed on the saccharin of life.

instead of railing against myself for letting those habits fall by the wayside i'm going to let myself rip them up. 

after all, you gotta have a clean place lay new ground.

just ask the man outside my window who's jackhammering up the sidewalk for the second time.

-the paper doll says she kicked her samskara's ass

st. pain in my ass and a few of my favorite things

dear internet,

my mother thought cupid shot his arrow straight through your butt.  she may have been closer to how it really feels to be in love than the commonly accepted arrow through the heart.  which i'm sure doesn't feel that great either, but the image of an arrow in my backside pretty accurately describes how being in a relationship feels sometimes.  a great big pain in my ass.

a relationship calls for compromise.  and going out of your way to do things for your lover.  which seriously, internet, is there anyone out there who can honestly say, why yes i like driving out in the pouring down rain to buy ice cream at 9 o'clock at night?  i think not.  but you do it anyway because of love.  also, because it's a bigger pain in your ass if you don't because then you have to listen to my whining.  god help us the day i get pregnant.

and those are only my demands and vices.  let's not even get started with the musician's.  on how when you spend a great deal of time with someone that arrow thing sounds pretty good at times.

somehow though, amidst all the sucking being in love is apparently life's greatest prize.  hell, we created a whole day to celebrate it's goodness for christ's sake (which i don't particularly believe in for a myriad of reasons that i will not list here because there are far more eloquent things that have already been written about that).

while romantic love does bring joy it also brings fights, and annoyances, and that thing he does when we are in restaurants and he can't decide what he wants. 

the love i have for other more material things, however, doesn't require me to deal with any crap.  it's also always there whereas i've found myself alone with a carton of ice cream more times than i can count when my boyfriend was suppose to come through.  which is why on this great st. valentine's day i shall tell you about those things instead of carnal love. 

i'm reclaiming this holiday, internet.  making it one that does not boast relationships but flaunts those things that make you in love with life.  your secret behaviors, your vices, the things that you'll love no matter what even when they don't bring you flowers and candy.  those things, as my mother would say, that make your heart happy.

no more hearts and candy.  no sweaters with beads and cupid appliques.  this day will be about why i'm in love with being me. 

things i love that don't talk back:

1-that there's an expert on heart iconography

2-story people

3-that this always falls on my birthday weekend

4-the words this man finds to write on pages

5-the infinite wisdom found in my yoga class

6-down comforters and pink sheets

7-brie and cranberry sandwiches on lazy saturday afternoons

8-pomegranate izzes and miss stella jane in my backyard

9-the letters of the ex parisian redhead and the love of the best friend

10-this american life while lying in bed on sunday afternoon

11-reading my horoscope first

12-the fortunes i find while satisfying my sweet tooth

13-drinking a glass of wine and watching a good film

14-thursday nights alone

15-that i have the freedom to be goggle-eyed over such silly luxuries

-the paper doll wants to know not who you love but what you love

doctor of good times

dear internet,

holy crap i've been busy.  after i had the most kick ass weekend ever i've then had the most ass kicking work week.  and it's only tuesday. 

gah.

i really have no news except to say: dude running into an old friend, and then eating pizza because like you are so hungry, and dude peanut butter is a funny word, is way awesome.  especially if one of your most beloved english professors is there.  and he happens to be a little tipsy and is no longer bound by the ethical guidelines of the student teacher relationship because you are no longer his student, in fact, you are no longer a student at all, so ethical guidelines of any sort don't really apply.   and because such restrictions are no longer applicable he can say fuck in front of you liberally without fearing the ruin of your innocent college girl ears.  he can also tell you great deep secrets about the department and other professors and you can totally laugh and not worry about your future grades.

and it's awesome.  i totally recommend it.

i wish i would have had a tape recorder because lord jesus at the funny.  i shall write a roman a clef.  or make a documentary because really stories about literary scholars who drink too much you have no idea.

really.

i know this doesn't make much sense to you.  but imagine.  good times, good food, good company.

it was one of those nights i'll treasure.  the light perfect.  the conversation impressionable.

the kind of night you can never orchestrate but one that falls into your lap unexpectedly.

one that you know afterwards you'll be different because of.

and those are worth recording so in years to come i'll know exactly how i got wherever i am.

-the paper doll is full of joy

the further tying up of loose ends

dear internet,

i got a myspace message from the writer.  an exboyfriend i've long had a love hate relationship with.

who the best friend says you couldn't pay her enough to stand in the same room with.

contact from him has at once delighted me and made my stomach boil.  unlike the southern gentleman, i never know what the writer might say.  much less if he even means a word of it or not.

but this time was different as i read his words.  i didn't hang on them like i had before.  didn't read between the lines looking for love.  for once i just accepted them for what they were and didn't care whether he meant them or not.  it didn't matter.

i legitimately complimented him back.  knowing that those keystrokes closed the chapter on us. 

no longer was it a game of cat and mouse.  i'd already been caught (and not by him). 

no longer a pursuit but an honest admission.  and our relationship was never based on that.

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i sent out a mass email noting the big change around here.  i didn't much think about it until some of them bounced back.  out of curiosity i opened the failure to deliver messages just to see who else i'd lost contact with.

walter's address appeared.

i've long since deleted his numbers from my phone.  and while he remains one of my myspace friends he hasn't logged on since september.

i use to worry this city was too small for the both of us, aside from a handful of sightings he's not someone i often bump into.

it's almost as if he doesn't exist.  like i never even knew him at all.

those three long years fuzzy and gone.

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so, internet, let it be noted:  my three most important men have been wiped away.

i've never subscribed to the motto the opposite of love is hate.  i've always thought indifference was better fitting.

if you were to ask me how i feel about those three i'd tell you i don't really care.

and you'd know what i really meant was that i'd found true love somewhere.

-the paper doll has had a blinding insight

the end of an era

dear internet-

you know how there are some numbers you have in your phone or scratched out on a leaf of paper that you rarely use but you just feel better having them.  knowing that if you ever needed them they'd be there-somewhere.

the southern gentleman was my high school sweetheart.  and probably the only person whom i've ever had such a palpable chemistry with it could peel the paper off walls. 

the best friend said if she were my current boyfriend you couldn't pay her enough to stand in the same room with him and me.

after we broke up my senior year in high school we stayed in touch.  doing the we're in college drunk sex thing a time or five (there's a story in there about purposefully burning my neck with a curling iron once but that's for another time).

point is-over the years we've fallen out of weekly touch.  he's got a girlfriend i'm sure he'll marry and i my own pursuits.

however, we do occasionally shower each other with a phone call and keep in touch via our small town gossip mill (mostly my nana tells me what she's heard about him and asks me if i've talked to him recently-i don't think my family's yet realized we broke up).

most of the time i'm calling to say i'll be in his town and doesn't he want to meet me for a drink with his girlfriend in tow. 

before he even answers i know what he'll say.  yet we still make the effort once in a blue moon because it's comforting to know some things really don't ever change.

i reached for my phone on friday to give him the call, as i was to make the two hour drive to his town, but while scrolling i realized i wouldn't find it there.  my old phone taking all my numbers with her to her grave.

and since the one i have scribbled out in my address book is long gone and the email one from college the southern gentleman and i are officially over.  a mere eight years after we began.

it's probably the longest break up in history i know.  and one that never would have happened had i not gotten drunk and broken my phone.

i wish i could say i know he'll call but i know him well enough to know he won't.  his manners and our chemistry prevent him from rightly doing so.

*so i'll have to be content knowing that ship has sailed and maybe one day when we're old and gray it will make one last call for port.  and if i'm lucky i'll be there to answer its call.

no matter what i'll always know i'm better for having him even if it wasn't always on speed dial.

-the paper doll feels a little sad

*just in case the southern gentleman is reading this--i'm holding you to your word.