A Clever Title That Won't Make Me Wince Later

I dreamed about you last night.  I'm not sure what a heartstring is, exactly, but it's been ten years and I still feel a tug in the center of my chest.  We were sitting at a round cafeteria table, in a room full of the usual suspects, I guess, although I didn't see any of them.  As we sat there, opposite each other, I felt that old familiar magnetic current, the one born of friendship and shared experience and never being able to have an actual conversation (unless it was an emergency or my boy's hair needed buzzing) with a touch of lust, deeply repressed.  Or more than a touch.  Anway.
You are not the only one I dream about, but you are the only one I dream about specifically.  There are That Place dreams, involving unexpected return, confrontation, and, more recently, plotting mass escape, but the dreams about you particularly are different, if only in that they are more personal.  I vaguely recall a conversation about your children, maybe an interaction with them.  I heard you and your wife lost a baby recently, a few days after her birth.  Before that, I heard that you were depressed, always on the couch, and that your wife was so stressed her hair was falling out.  My heart throbs with impotent rage and sadness.  The young man I knew was full of puppyish enthusiasm and energy.  Now you sound broken.
I think about how our lives could be so different if things had been ... different.  I know that "if only" is a waste of time, and I know that the things lost would be at least equal to, and possibly greater than, the things gained.  Still, I wonder.
I cannot wish you well.  Not because I wish you otherwise, but because "well" is not a word I can realistically associate with that place, nor do I believe that it's a possibility for anyone remaining there.  I wish you ... awakening.  Freedom.  Bravery, heroism, escape.  The chance to breathe again.  That's what I wish.

So, this guy ...

Please a wee bit a thought (an annotated message - caution, explicit language below.  All errors in punctuation, spelling, and grammar are the work of the original author)

Hi My name is [name redacted]. I have never contacted a woman under 40 something [fair enough].You are very funny in a very enjoyable way for me [thanks ...].I write well if you care to look at my profile.I can not spell shine ola [nope, you're right, that's not how you spell it].Even 5&6 letter words I have looked up countless times I am sometimes stumped [it is fair to note here that my original profile blurb said something about how much I care about correct spelling.  If you can't spell for shinola, well, that's why God created spell-check].I am old in years only [congratulations].My body compared to most men closer to your age is-well a mans body not soft like a womans body should(for love making that is) [I actually am not sure what this means.  I think what he's saying is that he's in good shape for an old dude, but maybe he's comparing himself to a woman?  Maybe he's trying to say that he's gone a bit soft, but forgot where he was going mid-sentence]Also a large number of male humans in thier 20s,30s,40s are boys [possibly].Except for thier profesion or job they no little about anything and do not understand good humor nor how to make love (not fuck) a

good woman [I'm not sure how one would make love a good woman, either.  I do know that my male friends my age tend to think I'm hilarious, so maybe that makes my humor bad?].  You choose "man for dating".I belive that if we were to befriend eachother on several elements (sp) [ah, irony] of interaction-we would in all likely hood give a try at making love [really?  You're not the first old guy to wishfully think so, I'll give you that].If you are a truly sensual woman I am confident we will enjoy as many pleasent hours as you care to devote to this most wonderful of human sharing [yes, and clearly if I don't respond, it's because I'm not truly sensual, thus giving you the convenient out of damning me as a frigid bitch].It is all about timeing physical affection! and a special kind of

communication we will discover togeather [tempting ...].If you know of what I speak, but have been unable to discover knowledgable men that [that what, exactly?], or men with some ability but are not enjoyable to be aroundPlease atleast speak with me [so you can rescue me from what is clearly a wasteland of sexually incompetent men]..If you are not fully aware of this "place" that truly good love making can take "us" -Then I sujest: if you feel sexy,horny,full of desire in your ownself , I am confident we can have a great time.It is even possable that the age diference could enhanse stimulation [... for you, no doubt]. Well thats my story and I'm stickin to it. I think a pleasent, no doubt funny but serious phone call might end with a plan to meet-no?

Why you ? I'm not sure.The idea struck me ,somehow you seemed just right.I would love to be with a younger woman [congratulations].In my late 20s I was with 2 diferent ladies in thier 50s [good for ... them? ...you?] One was a blind date that a former girlfriend set up with me and her mother [I flatter myself that I'm as accepting of sexual diversity as the next person, but ick].As it happend a very fun and sexy woman [again, congratulations, I guess]. [phone number redacted]

My very best regards [name redacted]

P.S. Sorry about the misspelling I just refuse to go to 
the dictionary 5 or 6 times in even a note as short as this [ignoring my specific mention of how much I care about spelling is an excellent way to show you care about what I have to say].xo [initial redacted]

Yep.  I wonder if he wonders why I never wrote back, or if he found some other nice young woman who was truly sensual and couldn't spell "shinola" either.

Much Brain Dumpage

So hi!  Surprise!  I'm still alive, or so it seems.  I just can't manage to muster the focus for an ENTIRE EXTRA PIECE OF WRITING these days, especially one that doesn't have a grade attached to it.  I'd offer to give back my Writer Card, but I'm not sure I was issued one in the first place.
Good news!  We found a place to live.  I've been looking since April, and then at the beginning of June it seemed like I didn't have to anymore, but only for a week, when, surprise!  We still had to move!  However, two days ago a wonderful place fell into our laps, although I find myself hesitant to speak of it, in case somebody might hear me and decide it's not quite time for this saga to be over.  However however, I've also been spending a lot of time telling my son about how things aren't as scary when you fling the door open and let the sun shine in, so ... it's lovely, and the boy wants to live in the front porch swing, and it's owned by a family we know, they brought their kids up there, so their history is everywhere, which is so nice, and the view is great, and a determined person could hike through the woods to Texas Falls, and there are oxen across the road, and even though we don't officially take possession until August, we've been given permission to start a garden ASAP, which is good, because ASAP is almost too late ...
I thought my brain had more to dump, but Stockard Channing's version of Ramona's World is interfering with the firing of my synapses, and I'm determined to hit publish tonight - do or die! - so I'll be back for more dumping tomorrow, or next week, or the next time the pressure reaches that critical point.

Sometimes, it would take more time than I have to untangle The Feelings and sort them into sentences with words.  Often, my brain looks like one of those little word clouds bloggers like to stick in their sidebars, only less "relevant" and with more feelings and images mixed in.  I think mind-reading is probably overrated.  We all think we want to do it, but really, it's not a person's thought-cloud we want to know about.  Reading minds would just be exhausting.  And pointless.  Nobody wants to know about the potato-chip-saw-a-bird-where's-my-other-earring-and-my-glasses-gotta-find-my-stats-notebook-and-a-new-apartment-and-why-do-all-my-pants-have-holes.  But sometimes sorting out the deep and interesting stuff with linear sentence structure possibilities is too much work.  So I don't write.  Unless I'm supposed to be heading out the door and literally every other possible use of my time is probably a better one.  Then I'll give you a peek inside my brain.  If you can see through the brain-cloud that's obscuring everything from both of us.  If you find anything, let me know.  I'll be off having pointless debates on Facebook to prove how smart and awesome I am.

PS ... Q?

So I came over here to procrastinate, and maybe write something pithy, but I was checking the blogs I subscribe to, and noticed that three posts written a week ago were nonexistent.  I'm peeved.  Is this a glitch, or are we having massive deletion of posts, here?  Unfair, dud(ettes)!  Unfair.

The Dumping of the Brain

It's sort of like the running of the bulls, only less dangerous.  Probably.

Why are office-type miniskirts now pencil skirts?  What happened to actual pencil skirts?  Glamorous librarians everywhere want to know.

My typing skills are all jacked up, because only about half the keys on my laptop keyboard are functional.  All the letters work, which is progress, but the shift key doesn't, which means that a) I reach for caps lock instead, which is annoying on a functional keyboard, and b) I have an impressive collection of punctuation marks, etc, on a desktop sticky note so I can copy/paste.  It makes things like im'ing a lot slower, and I refuse to use it to do any serious writing at all.

My friend for whom I occasionally edit skyped me last night, asking if I still gave "unflattering criticism of others' content."  Why yes, yes I do.

Yesterday in my art therapy class we presented timeline projects, which means that I spent almost a month making myself crazy about the execution of a particular (really good) idea, only to change the entire concept at almost literally the last minute.  No, really, it was the night before.  I'm working on breaking that habit, but really, how can I, when all my most brilliant ideas come three seconds before a deadline?  The project wasn't completed, but it also wasn't late.  This is progress.  I got several compliments, which, in the big picture, is probably not helpful.

In related news, my living room floor is now strewn with sewing and craft supplies.  Also, there are no acrylic craft paints to be had in the Montpelier area.  This may or may not have had something to do with the last-minute change.

I killed five or six flies on my window just two days ago.  Ok, maybe three.  Now there are three more, the little bastards.  Oh, and two more hiding behind the curtain.  The plus side is, they've gotten so slow over the winter, I've started killing them with my bare hands when I don't have a fly swatter handy.  Go me.  Maybe I'll start using chopsticks.

My little guy spent the week in Maine with his uncle.  He's coming home today.  I woke up this morning contemplating what I would do if he died in a car crash on the way home.  I honestly can't decide if this was or was not a healthy thought process.  Natural, certainly, given the events that have made up my life over the past few years (and possibly given the amount of Buffy-watching I've been doing this week - you know your life is effed when you watch Buffy therapeutically).  I am not an anxious parent.  These are not usually things I worry about, and even now it feels more like a really twisted thought exercise, running over the practical details of who I would call to go with me and what I would do after that.  I should have been a Boy Scout.

I ate breakfast on the back porch today, with a cup of tea and a book.  The book was Tom Robbins' Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, which I was enjoying until he started talking about the Amazonian Indians innate inability for levity, which I found to be totally condescending and irritating.  I'm not going to tell you what I ate for breakfast, except to say that my eating habits have gone all to hell in this week that I've been alone, and it may or may not have involved Nutella.  And fluff.  I know, disgusting.

I have to do a load of laundry today, but I'm sitting here not wanting to, and coming up with really good reasons for the lack of wanting.  It's Sunday.  There won't be any washers.  I'll have to put shoes on.  Ok, I just ran out of excuses.

   

File this one under "Awkward"

I had a thing that I wanted to write about, but now I can't remember.  It didn't have anything to do with my oatmeal being watery, or the fact that I'm out of raisins, or all the baking that I need to do today for the school raffle ... Wait a minute!  Got it!
So this state is pretty small, both in area and population, and my facebook account is quickly becoming a web of mutual acquaintances that makes me relieved I'm not big on internet trash-talking, at least about specific people.  Evidently, the same can now be said for the dating sites I frequent.  This one guy, in particular, ends up on my suggestions page all the time, and while he lives in a town about ten minutes away, a minor miracle given how remote I am from basically everything, including eligible dudes, I am uninterested in someone whose screenname is sexallthetime* - his match rating would have to be at least ten points higher to even consider it.  Nonetheless, as I said, I see his face quite frequently.  Frequently enough, in fact, to recognize him when I see him in real life.  At my son's school.  A school, by the way, with fewer than fifty students.  No chance of getting lost in the crowd over there.
So far, so good.  He's not one of the parents I see every day, he doesn't stick around, and he seems happy to pretend he has no idea who I am, and I'm happy doing the same.  After all, he's got more to lose by outing either of us than I do.  My single status is no secret, if the subject of online dating comes up in conversation (not a frequent occurrence at an elementary school) I have nothing to hide, and hello! my screenname says nothing about how often I need it, although saying that might get me more than I'm currently getting (hint: none).  Not the kind of attention I'm looking for, sadly.
I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story, but maybe it could be: if you live in TinyAssCommunity in TinyAssState, you should practice discretion when choosing a screenname that actually connects you to your actual face, especially if your child goes to a school that is so small, they publish a school list with your name and address right there for anybody to see.  Or maybe you shouldn't care.  It's up to you.

*Not actually his screenname, but it captures the spirit of the thing.