Bad at Time Management

If I learned anything from seeing the Chicago production of Hamilton this weekend, it's that I should be writing like I'm running out of time. Also, that I should look into bringing back colonial-era fashion. We own two tricornes in our house. Two. My wife and I would rock the heck out of the Winter's Ball.

THE BEAN. AKA, Cloud Gate. Which is a baller name. For Chicago's giant bean mirror.

OK, first, yes, my whole family spent the weekend in Chicago, trotting up and down the Magnificent Mile and eventually seeing a Sunday matinee of that revolutionary musical, Hamilton. I could rave about that for hours. In fact, I already have, mostly in the car ride back. It's a show I want to see over and over again, hunting for the nuances, charting the perfect usage of light and timing, melting at every spectacular segment of sound. It's the best kind of overwhelming.

I'm haunted by the character of Alexander Hamilton, and by his modern day vessel, Lin-Manuel Miranda. There is a dogged, ferocious ambition about them both. I'm jealous of their genius. I can't help but reflect on my own ambitions, and I question whether I have the smarts or the personality to exact the kind of change I'd like to bring to the world. Who will tell my story? More significantly, will I even leave a story worth telling?

"Why do you write like you're running out of time?" Aaron Burr asks of the bulldoggish postwar Hamilton, who churned out essays at a breakneck pace. The answer is obvious: Hamilton is running out of time. We all are. 

OK, I'll take my foot off the gas of the Existential Express. Still, the thought lingers. Am I doing enough? Is the quantity and quality of my writing sufficient? What about my other creative endeavors, like art and music? I could be doing so much more. Right?

It all comes down to time management. As you may have guessed from the title of this entry, it's not my forte. I can't seem to concentrate on one thing at a time, so my way of getting things done is this chaotic, round-robin method of jumping from one project to another, minutes, sometimes even seconds apart.

Here's how my system of time management tends to shake out:

• Read a paragraph of an article about women in the financial sector
• Leap over to my blog entry (on a completely unrelated topic) to insert a photo
• Back to the article for three minutes, the first minute of which is spent rereading the paragraph from my first attempt
• Switch to reading a section of CFP homework
• Read the same page of homework three times in a row without absorbing a single concept
• Get distracted by Pokemon Go, dump inventory of pinap berries
• Google "pokemon go what the hell do pinaps do"
• Realize I've just thrown away gold in digital fruit form
• Comfort myself with a snack (but not fruit, because the wound is too fresh)
• Gaze vacantly at the article I started reading an hour ago
• Abruptly hyperfixate on designing a cover for my next novel
• Stare at a list of stock photos until my contacts dry out and begin to fuse with my corneas
• Fail to complete any of the tasks I've started because my eyes are too blurry to see the screen anymore
• Somehow manage to play Breath of the Wild for two hours anyway

All that nincompoopery, and I didn't even accomplish anything. Yeah, a lot of the bouncing around has to do with my super-intense-focus-on-one-thing or inability-to-focus-on-anything duality. But it also has to do with my anxiety (it always comes back to anxiety, doesn't it?).

I have so much I want and need to do that I find myself overwhelmed at the prospect of prioritizing my actions. There's the matter of keeping the house in order, fixing the little quirks that pop up in it, preparing dinner, etc. Then there's classwork, which is partially scheduled, partially on my own. Then there's writing, both fiction and this blog, and all the marketing that goes with it (that I know I'm not devoting enough resources to as it is!). There's painting commissions, and my interest in writing/producing music with Kelsey, and maybe putting together a podcast. There's networking events for my job. There's exercising. There's puppies. Oh gawd, are there puppies.

I've decided there are two things that I need: a schedule and a kick in the pants. 

In terms of a schedule, I'll have to go against my wacky-inflatable-arm-flailing-tubeman nature and box out my hours. A few things I have in mind for weekdays:

• Use my lunch break at work for reading homework
• Get in my daily PoGo on my way home from work (of course I'm still playing, even after the pinap mishap)
• Either walk the pups or spend some more time reading once I'm home
• Attend my online class when it's scheduled. When it's not, use that time to study or write
• Prepare dinner. If someone else prepares dinner, do some writing or housework

After dinner, it's pretty much a crapshoot. It's generally either bedtime or watch-some-shows-as-a-family time, both of which I'm down for. 

Or...

I could write like I'm running out of time. 

Maybe the Hamiltonian kick-in-the-pants is too much for me to feasibly maintain. Still, I'd like to try. I want to make a mark. I want to produce stories about people who don't get to see themselves in stories very often. I want to bring sunshine to the lives of my family, friends, and readers. I want to give animals good lives. I want to take action against social and political evil. I want to succeed as a financial planner so I can make the future a little safer, a little less scary for other families. 

I want to be good.

Also, I want to hear your suggestions. Organized people: how do you schedule your days? Do you have any tips? I'M IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE.

Alrighty, my scheduled writing time is running out. Until next time!

(P.S.: If you need a kick in the pants, I challenge you to participate in the July Camp NaNoWriMo! Let's get writing!)

Happy Birthday, You Potatoes with Eyes

A simple fact of life: when you get pets, you get weird. Sometimes, you get sharing-licks-of-candy weird, or dress-the-dog-in-a-sailor-suit weird, or talk-in-a-specific-voice-to-denote-you're-speaking-on-behalf-of-your-animal weird. Often, it's all those variations of weird and more.

It's no surprise, then, that Kelsey and I threw a party for our puppies, Billie and Binx, on their first birthday last Sunday, complete with hand-decorated doggy cookies.

They are obviously having a wonderful time and Binx is definitely not crying in my arms.

Look, I never expected to be this kind of pet owner. I love animals, of course. Anyone who knew me growing up can attest to that. But the birthday-cookie-decorating, the puppy-sized "I heart my mummy" Halloween shirts, the way we pack our girls a "diaper bag" for every outing? Yup, we're in deep.

Kelsey and I aren't the only ones guilty of babying our two chihuahua-maltese mixes (malchis, if you're in the know). It all started with Kelsey's mother, Laura. That's right, folks, I'm blaming the mother-in-law, who shares her birthday with the dogs, and for whom I did NOT make birthday cookies. 

Billie and Binx are the only two pups from a litter belonging to Laura's dogs. Around the time of their birth, Kelsey and I had been not-too-seriously looking at shelter pups. In true lesbian fashion, we had our eyes on a sweet pitbull girl named Tulip (if you're out there, Tulip, we still love you and hope you're doing well). But two pups in the hand are worth one in the pound, right? So we agreed we'd take the puppies once they'd been weaned.

And so began the messages, sent on behalf of the puppies to their "parents." Little "good morning, Mommies!" texts with pictures of the hairy potatoes cupped in Laura's hands, that kind of thing. We took it one step further and essentially did a pregnancy-reveal photo shoot with our dogs-to-be's tiny, girlish collars.   

The gay agenda.

My parents aren't absolved either. I've caught both Mom and Dad holding Binx to their shoulders like an infant, bobbing in that soothing, parental way, and stroking her mess of wiry fur. A couple weekends back, my parents, our newly-wed friends Luke and Alé, Kelsey, and I were hanging out at the lake, having a gay old time. We four millennials lounged on the docked deckboat, not quite ready for the chill of the early summer water. On the deck of the cabin up the hill from us, my mother paced with Binxie cradled in her arms.

"She needs grandbabies," Alé observed.

Grandbabies are going to have to wait. In fact, I wonder if the degree of our dog-doting is related to how long we're going to wait for actual babies. When I say "we," I'm also sweeping in the rest of our age bracket, who have a lower birthrate than any previous generation. 

The thing is, I can't see financial stability or affordable healthcare in my future. A huge chunk of my peers are staring toward the same grim horizon of high debt, low wages, and a hostile political climate. Young people who can naturally have children could incur financial ruin with a surprise pregnancy. Queer couples and folks facing fertility-related obstacles can't afford to try for kids even if they could maybe afford to raise them. 

Besides that, I wonder if it's even ethical to bring other human beings onto a planet that's hurtling toward an environmental meltdown. 

But I could be wrong. Maybe it's too early to assume we'll never afford a family. Maybe things on the world stage will turn back around. Before I get too gloom-and-doomy, I have to remind myself that Kelsey and I are just getting started. Even if finances and biology weren't considerations, I don't think we're emotionally prepared for actual baby-rearing. Right now, we have the freedom to work on our own creative projects, to wander off on weekend adventures without weeks of preparation, and to simply waste time on the couch playing video games. 

This is a special window of time in our lives, and my professional-grade fretting about the future isn't doing us any good. I hope someday we'll have the resources, health, and all-around stability for the mostly hairless kind of kiddo, but for now, I'm satisfied with coddling our doggos. 

Happy birthday to the ambulatory cheese curds.

Update and Bonus Fiction: "Air Hunger"

I've been a little quiet lately, huh? There are a number of reasons, I promise, and though many of those reasons are related to the newest title in the Legend of Zelda series of video games, there are a few more legit reasons, too. The biggest thing standing between me and putting out my desired quantity of writing, both on this blog and in my current LGBT romance novel endeavor, is my quest to become a Certified Financial Planner. I've been cramming for my intro course exam, and unfortunately, I'm worried the test is going to go a little like this:

Here lie Abi's hopes and dreams. (Source)

I'm a weird kid with a bachelor's in psychology, a minor in studio art, and a tendency to become emotionally attached to horses in video games. My primary media are the written word and acrylic paint, so the often abstract and number-based world of finance feels especially foreign to me. Don't get me wrong: I love a good puzzle, and I like the idea of helping people plan for their futures, but I'm studying philosophy in a language I never learned. Plus, I'm 88% sure Kelsey and I will never afford things like a house or children or maybe even lunch tomorrow, so what gives me the right to manage someone else's wealth?

But, before I knock myself down too far into the Pit of Unworthiness, I must remind myself that this is an introductory course. This is dipping my toe into the water and exposing myself to the chill of it. Haha. Exposing myself. AHEM. As I've been told, there always must be a first experience, and so much of financial planning seems beyond me right now, I am picking up on things as they're repeated to me, and it's OK that I still have a long way to go.

Alrighty, there you have it, the personal update, AKA: Why Abi Has 30 Half-Written Entries Saved in Her Drafts That She May Never Get to Complete. 

For the sake of sharing at least some content while I work on bigger things, I thought I'd include a rough piece I wrote a few years ago, after my grandmother died. This is half fiction, gathered from several surreal and casually existential conversations with my dad with a healthy dollop of artistic license. It's a bit grim, and I describe my wonderful father in perhaps an unfairly unflattering way for the sake of the visceral mood of the essay. I definitely put my own words into his mouth as well. Sorry, Dad. Like I said: little fact, little fiction. Lotta drama, to be honest.

Without further ado:

Air Hunger

The glass case in the front of the China Inn restaurant contains a mint-in-box Elvis doll in his white bejeweled suit, a series of McDonald’s toys from around 2007, and a set of Star Trek Pez dispensers. It’s easier to look at these American souvenirs than to look at my dad as he spoons the stringy, salty slime of egg-drop soup into his mouth between sentences.

“We call it air hunger,” he says and washes the soup down with Japanese beer served in a Bud Lite glass. “When she was gasping for air right at the end. She made that gurgle-hiccup sound in her throat for a few minutes, remember? Like uururggh-aah… uurrrrghhh-aah.”

When he tilts his head back to imitate death he reveals an impressive forest of nose hair creeping from his nostrils. I nod to signify that yes, I remember. He slides his hand over his smooth head and the harsh lights reflect on the sheen of grease there.

“The body doesn’t want to die, even if you think you’ve psychologically resigned to death. All this afterlife stuff you may tell yourself over the years doesn’t mean shit when you’re lying there about to die in a stiff hospital bed. I think she saw that. Suddenly, it’s not Jesus and glowing gates in your future. It’s nothing. It’s curtains. The end of your narrative. Not even darkness, just void. There’s no peace there, and however much you may be suffering, it must be horrifying to face that sudden stop to everything you could ever comprehend. People don’t want to end.”

The kung pao chicken arrives and we silently scoop our portions onto our rice. My chopsticks fail to snap completely apart but I pretend not to notice. My dad continues with his speech.

“We evolved to sense something bigger out there, some reason for existing. We’re complex organisms with a hyperactive frontal lobe that constantly reminds us: ‘hey, you’re going to die, and there is nothing that you can do about it.’ And so our brain forms a mysterious, wondrous perception of a world beyond our own that explains what we don’t understand and provides a continuation of ourselves once our meat rots away. Religion. Extremely important to psychological well-being and social cohesion. Divisive too, sure. That would have been an adaptive characteristic for a group of people thousands of years ago. Shared beliefs created camaraderie and distrust of other groups with different beliefs was a trait that could save your family.

"She believed in the Christian afterlife, or heaven and hell. Maybe God exists,” says my dad the Sunday school teacher. “But if an actual god exists, why would he need to give a reward to 'good’ people? Or punish 'not good’ people? For eternity? After our tiny blip of existence? That makes no sense. Being good for the sake of an eternal reward is cheap, fake. We must be good for the sake of being good and contributing to the health and happiness of other humans. If you know you’ve done that while on your deathbed, that must be heaven.”

The vegetables are savory but a little tough. A few dark, dry pods are strewn through the meal and when I bite into them they burst with a fiery, flavorless burn on my tongue. My dad collects a few of them in one bite, which he chews languidly as if he were numb to their shock. I can’t think of anything to contribute to the conversation. Much of Christianity has labeled me as inferior because of my gender and damned because of my sexuality. It’s a relief to hear my dad discount that belief system. It means I’m spared and that those rules are as stupid as I always hoped they were. But for some reason I feel hollow.

“Now Hell,” says dad gravely as the fortune cookies and check are placed before him by a white woman in athletic shorts, “I know that exists too. Hell is when you’re lying in the certainty of death and you realize you’ve failed completely at the human mission. You’ve done nothing of significance to anyone. You are ending forever and you’ve left no act of kindness, no great thoughts, and no legacy behind. You’ve made no impact in all your years. As you die, you remember the stories you didn’t tell, the helpful impulses you ignored, all the days you spent doing nothing. You amount to nothing. You are a carcass still hungry for a little oxygen, but what does it matter? You are void. And that is Hell.”

My dad reads his fortune to himself as he chews the cookie. He then tucks the paper into his breast pocket and pulls out his wallet to pay. There is no fortune in my crushed shell. 

Imaginary Therapist

I'm really into this thing where I shrink myself. No, not in the fetishy way. Yes, there is a fetishy way.

No, the kind of shrinking I'm into is the kind in which I go to great lengths to imagine an in-depth conversation with a therapist that I don't actually have. 

There are a few good reasons to employ an imaginary therapist:

1. They are very cost-effective

2. I'm out of good reasons

A photo of my imaginary therapist between clients

OK, so it's not that great of a coping method, but damn if it ain't affordable. I find myself visiting my imaginary therapist at least once a day, and I don't even have to consult my health insurer about it. A number of things can trigger a visit. Sometimes, I go to them (my imaginary therapist is non-binary, of course) to vent about other real people. These sessions are very "woe is me," and I like to think I.T. (you know, Imaginary Therapist) reassures me that yes, those real people are placing a lot of pressure on me, and no, not everything is my responsibility.

Other times, I swing by I.T.'s office because I've noticed myself engaging in some neuro-atypical behaviors or thought patterns. I've mentioned these to you before, actually, so I suppose you are in league with I.T. to some extent as well. Here's how a typical session like that plays out:

Me: Hi, I.T. I hope that you don't mind that I'm consulting you in the shower, while I shave my legs for the first time in three weeks.

I.T.: Actually, I'm not-

Me: So anyway, here's the thing. The other day, I was supposed to go to this networking event, right? And yeah, nobody really likes networking events, but I'd been to this particular event several times in the past, and they aren't that bad. I even have a little fun at them. Anyway. I'm running late to the event, right? I used to be punctual. Neurotically punctual. Do you think I've lost the energy to be on time? Is that depression? Or am I late these days because I married someone who is allergic to being on time? Was that mean? 

I.T.: I don't-

Me: OK, so I'm late, but it's because I was cleaning up dog poop. Dog diarrhea, actually. With some mucus and blood in it, which was pretty alarming. Is my dog dying? Do you think it's my fault? Am I stressing my puppies out? Oh my gawd, what are my kids going to be like? Not that I'll ever afford them. Also, it's probably inhumane to pass on my genes to a new generation. The planet is dying, after all, and I want to pop some children into that world with DNA that will almost guarantee that they'll be mentally ill, near-sighted, and at least some variation of queer? Not that it's wrong to be queer, or mentally ill, or near-sighted, for that matter. I mean, HELLO. But it's hard, you know? 

I.T.: ?

Me: Back to the poop, which the dog is now on meds for, so it's fine. Anyway, I was sick too, so I puked on the poop as I cleaned it up. Quelle horreur! Then I had to clean feces out of the dog's fur. Yippee. Maybe I'll make a Facebook post about that. Historically, my friends have enjoyed posts that feature my dogs and their bowel movements. Is it bad that I get a rush when people like my stuff and say that I'm funny? Am I a narcissist? Should I be making more posts about how our government is imploding and everyone who isn't a rich, straight, white, cis-gender, Christian man has a guillotine hanging over their necks?

I.T.: I think you nicked your toe...

Me: Yeah, I have Hobbit-level hairy toes. I think it's the PCOS. But I'm not sure I really have PCOS, except that I haven't been... uh, you know... visited by Mother Nature since Christmas. I have this joke with my wife that my body just keeps re-wallpapering my uterus in this manic, child-hungry desperation and is refusing to throw anything out. Anyway, as I was saying, dog poop, human puke, running late. But I did make it to the event, even though I had to park a block away and walk to it through the rain. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I have prosopagnosia. Face-blindness. I have an impaired ability to recognize and remember faces, even faces within my own family sometimes.

I.T.: You mention it frequently.

Me: It makes networking hard. But, hallelujah, there were name tags at the event. The meeting place was in this tiny boutique, and about three bajillion people were crammed inside, so I was fighting like a salmon during mating season to make it upstream to the name tags. All the while, I keep thinking about how I need to be here because I missed a couple days of work because of the dogs and my own health and our flooded basement because it's been raining for the past eternity. I finally get up there, and this guy, let's call him "Kevin," steps in front of me. I don't know a Kevin, but it's on his name tag. Kevin just eyeballs me. Just stares right into my garbage-fire soul. So I introduce myself, but I'm kind of thrown, and I know I look like I'm a child, not somebody who belongs at this networking event. He still doesn't speak. I start to panic. I can feel the hot, embarrassed tears in my eyes. And I straight up run away. I run away! What adult businesswoman does that?

I.T.: I-

Me: My immediate thought is social anxiety, right? But I know some of these people, and I like a lot of them! I like being around people. I'm a performer, an extrovert. Well, more of an ambivert. Sometimes being around people is draining, but sometimes being alone is, too. People or no people, I'm just drained. Is that mental illness or physical illness? Maybe I'm making all of this up.

I.T.: Maybe you should-

Me: Point is, I don't know that it was social anxiety. Probably more of a guilt complex thing. 95% of my personality is shame-based. Sometimes I wonder if all of my shame is really just a method of garnering sympathy and attention. Ick, that's kind of sad, huh? I really don't like to think about that. That's giving me some cognitive dissonance. Why did you bring that up?

I.T.: But I never-

Me: Oooh, brrrr! There goes the hot water. I'd better wrap this up. Thanks, I.T. See you in about 10 minutes when I'm nervously picking at all the acne on my jawline!

My poor therapist never really gets more than a word or two in edgewise. That's a shortcoming of the system. It's free, sure, but it's really easy to overpower someone who isn't actually there. It's also easy to get them to agree with you, and they rarely have an opinion that truly differs from yours. 

Earlier this week, a coworker and I were talking about jury duty. I said that I'd been summoned three times in the past two years, but had only shown up for the first one, which got me out of the subsequent ones. She asked if I was selected, and I told her that I wasn't, and made a joke that it was probably because I straight up wrote this in the section for reasons I shouldn't be chosen: "I considered jumping off of a building a week ago, and may consider it again during the course of the trial."

My coworker didn't find the joke as funny as I did. She asked if I had a therapist. I told her that I didn't, that it seemed like a hassle, and a potentially costly one at that. I laughed it off and assured her that I'm fine now. You know, fine enough to get by. 

But maybe it is something I should consider someday. It can't hurt to shop for a therapist. The worst that can happen is that I'll not find anyone covered by my insurance, or that they'll be too expensive even with my health plan. 

I've heard several people say that everyone could benefit from a therapist, from an unbiased outsider's voice and ear. I agree with that. Hey, I majored in psychology, didn't I? So it's odd that I'm such a stick in the mud when it comes to considering therapy for myself.

You know what? I think I'll look into it. If not for my own sake, then for I.T.'s. The poor soul is overdue for a vacation.

Psalm of the Kitchen

Every meal is a prayer. I've learned the meditation of a pot of water not yet boiling. I frame the altar of my stove with talismans of spice and oil. The touch of the steam is like the touch of a spirit, warm but fleeting, anointing my palm with moisture that evaporates as I pull away.

The concept of the kitchen as a cathedral is not a new one. We've sensed the spirituality inherent to eating and preparing to eat since our ancestors first stood on two legs and wandered the tall grass, gathering shared resources with evolutionarily repurposed arms. Food unites. Food restores. We are all members of its congregation.

It's as a congregation that my family stands around me in our most ancient sanctuary. I sizzle onions and garlic in a dark pan, and we call out songs to play, a tap away on our phones. The water shushes over plates in the sink as we wash them, and they clink and scrape together, and it's music, too. My sister chops vegetables, shuck, shuck on the cutting board. My love reads instructions to me from that holy tome, the cookbook, and the dogs click claws across the tile. We exist in this moment more than we've existed anytime else in the day. Right now, we are participating in the universe.

Most sacred to me are the times I worship alone. Some of those days, I hear my family in the next room, their voices indistinct and tumbling over each other, lifting in laughter, quieting, continuing. I don't need to know their words. I am satisfied knowing their presence.

Some days, the next room is silent and empty, and I cherish that as well. I whisper invented hymns as the burner tick tick ticks. I rub salt between my fingertips. There is a powdery smell to pasta when it hits the bubbling water, even when it's the cheap macaroni I buy in bulk because I'm afraid of the day that my family will be hungry and our cupboards will be empty. 

But it's not this day. Today, I can fold stringy, melting cheddar into the noodles and add a dash of cayenne, just because I can, just because it's there. Though the meal is cheap, it will taste like a miracle, because my loves will wake up to hot food from their cold sleep.

I pray that I can always do this. I pray that I can protect us with a stirring spoon. I pray that I will always hear voices in the other room. 

We cup warm bowls in our hands and bow our heads. 

The truest god I know dwells in this communion.