Not For Nothin'

"This week has been a bad massage, I need a happy ending." - Kanye West, "Gorgeous"

It’s only Wednesday, but this week has been a fight. Easily the hardest week I’ve had all year – and I’ve had some tough weeks, so that’s saying something.

Sunday someone cut me off on my way to church. There I was, minding my business, singing along to old school Kirk Franklin – Silver and Gold’ing it all up and through the parkway, and before I know it I’m spinning out across three lanes and slamming into the guardrail facing oncoming traffic. I hit no one. No one hit me. I could have been killed. I should have been. But for grace and mercy, I wouldn’t be around to tell this story. (I'm obviously here for a reason, but that's a post for another day.) Aside from a banged up truck, a coffee-stained and potentially ruined pair of pants, back pain and two broken nails, I’m just fine.

Yesterday I realized that someone I know is hopeless…dangerously set in their ways, leaving little to no room for growth or maturity. Pretty sure he believes he’s some kind of politician, albeit a warped and misguided one, but one nonetheless. Just ask him about his “policy” and you’ll understand. But mostly he’s just offensive and unfortunate, which is more than a little bit sad, because it leaves me with very few options.

AND I sat behind a murderer yesterday. A real one. He killed his wife in front of their daughter. And he laughs in court.

Then today, a thief casually admitted to stealing quite a large sum of money from me. My mother is shocked. Me? Not so much.

Did I mention it’s only Wednesday?

But the point is, that even as I write this, the one thing I don’t feel is anger. My back is screaming at me, I probably should have held off on coming to work for one more day. My stomach is in knots over the anxiety of having to drive back home tonight. My feelings are a little bruised over the reality of the politician; I so badly wish he was a better person, especially since he has so much potential to be. I’d be thrilled if people could stop jacking me for large sums of money. And I would be totally within my right to raise an eyebrow, shake my head, or shed a tear or two.

But there is no anger. No rage. No visual images of doing hood rat things with my friends using blunt metal objects or employing large Italian men known as ‘Vinny the Vaporizer.’ I know that the physical pain will go away eventually, that I’m better than closed-minded, provincially pedestrian nonsense, that justice will be served and the money recovered.

A year ago, two years ago, count back as far as you’d like, I didn’t know this place existed. And if I had known, I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea of how to navigate my way here. And yet, here I am, and it feels amazing. So, snaps for the kid.

Smiles and limps away…my back, remember? ;-)


**Candace Caveat: Since writing this, I've found out that my car is in fact, totaled and not "banged up" as I had originally said. And I just fell down the steps, although clumsiness has always just been my thing. Still, why come the devil is so intent on stealing my joy?! STILL SMILING.**

Striking a Balance

Sometimes I struggle with the reconciliation of being both a woman who can stand on her own and handle hers while being one that is vulnerable and with whom a man can feel like an asset. My mother wasn't always breathing down my neck about how important it was to be strong and independent and take care of yourself. She didn't have to. She exuded it. And she admits that this may have been done to a fault, a result of her being forced to grow up at a young age and take care of herself. But the very idea of strength is something I’ve always associated with her. So I got that education just by paying attention. (Incidentally, I learned how to brush my teeth and cook in the same fashion).

But the speech I would get ad nauseam? ALL of the many things a man should do where I was concerned. I think that she's always been so afraid that I'll repeat her mistakes, that there’s been a sense of desperation in making me aware of all the positives, pitfalls and red flags. Still, it drove me crazy. (I hate repetition. Tell me once and I'm good. Anymore than that and you're on my nerves). Once, when I was 16, I went on a double date with my boyfriend at the time, his cousin and a friend of mine. When it was over, my boyfriend and his cousin left, in their car, with my friend and I waiting for my mom to come pick us up. When she got there and discovered that the guys had not only left, but did so in a car that they didn't use to drop us both off, she was livid. I heard about it all the way home, and then for a while after that. "You're a diamond," she would say. "Never let a man treat you like cubic zirconia."

I wasn't allowed to pick guys up. If we were going out, I couldn't be the one to drive. If we wanted to hang out, he had to figure out a way to get to me and how to get home. I couldn't be the one always trying to arrange outings or make things happen. Let him pursue. Let him plan. Let him do for you. I could never set a precedent where I was doing more or was more invested then he was. I found a lot of it extreme and biased, based on her experiences. Either way, it all stuck. But as I've gotten older, I've learned to appreciate it more, even if it has made things more complicated.

In my head I hear her rattling off these commandments I'm supposed to abide by, but then I can also see her - years of buying all the Christmas presents, but putting two names on the cards, or packing up whole houses and moving an entire family all by herself - and I’m confused. How do I merge the Independent Woman and “Cater 2 U” girl into one seamless package? I've yet to come up with a sensible answer.

I open my own doors. I'm always a little thrown off when a guy pulls out my chair.  I've approached a guy and asked him for his number several times in the past.I'm not looking for anyone's money. I take care of my own battles. (Only once did I ask a guy to take over a conflict for me. Yes, he handled it better than I ever could have and I was grateful, but I hated not being able to). I give off the "Candace can handle it" vibe by very nature of how I grew up and I tend to leave a guy feeling like he serves no real purpose…or so I’ve been told. I'm not looking for a knight in shining armor.

But then there's the flip side.

I like it better when you're the one to plan where we're going. I'm almost always happy with whatever the plan is, simply because you're the one who planned it. (This is not to say that I'm not good for an outing or coming up with an idea for us). I want you to be the one walking closest to the curb. I prefer if you drive. You should wait for me to go through a door before you attempt to. I'll open it for myself, but if you don’t wait until I'm done going through it, you’re a douche and I'm annoyed. I'll cry in front of you before I'll do it in front of my friends. When I'm sick, I want the soup and the tea and the care and attention. And when you do it, I'm thrilled. Something as small as recognizing that I haven't eaten all day, and picking a restaurant and a menu for me to choose from, goes an incredibly long way. I send the message that a man's presence is not only wanted, but needed. I'm looking for a knight in shining armor.

See why this is problematic?

I'm a sensitive thug, if you will. But I imagine that if all the inconsistency gives me a headache, it has got to do the same for someone else. I can't let you eat all of my food for ten months, but then get pissed during the eleventh one when you refuse to pitch in or help pay for some of it, when I didn't ask you to all along. Or cry on your shoulder, but then forget that you're walking with me, speed up and leave you behind. It's one extreme or the other. I'm looking for a happy medium.

I was told to be open and possess some level of vulnerability and sensitivity. But I was raised to be capable and self-reliant. And so, dear void, I am figuring out a way to be both, where the two can complement each other.

Making Me Crazy

"But maybe I'm crazy,

Maybe you're crazy,

Maybe we're crazy,

Probably." - Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy"

Because I'm not always so into tradition or protocol, we'll start off with the moral of the story: Good people of the void, don't insult your people's intelligence by feeding them bullsh*t. If they're smart and actually know you, they'll see through it and be offended. And if they're actually dumb or just don't know you well enough to fall for it, and you know this and take advantage of it, you lose an infinite number of cool points.

Recently had a conversation with a friend. The conversation revealed something rather important to me about how he sees me, especially in comparison to how I see him. He wasn't trying to be hurtful, just his usual upfront self, but what he said hurt. A lot. Every now and then, someone will say something to me and I'll get the sensation that I've just been sucker punched in the stomach. The wind is knocked out of me. I'm a little nauseous. (I tend to not let that many people in, so it doesn't happen all that often. I'm thinking that if I did, the shock value would decrease, but that's an issue for another day). But yeah, he punched me in the stomach. The conversation reached a halt very soon after. On my end, I couldn't very well be doubled over AND still be an active participant. And he knew. (Oke used to tell me all the time that you can't get a read for emotion through text messaging or online communication. I didn't believe that then, and I still don't now. When you talk to someone all the time, you begin to get a feel for them and their moods, even if there are many miles and various electronic devices between you. Plus, I'm not all that good at masking my feelings, so figuring out that somethin ain't quite right isn't calculus. [Calculus and I, or numbers in any format for that matter and I, have never been very close.]) So like I said, he knew. He usually does. So maybe that's why he stopped talking in return.

This kept on for almost two days. Not a significant amount of time under normal circumstances, but umm, we talk to each other like we get paid to do so, so yeah, it was strange. I was still a little nauseous, but I couldn't take it anymore, so I spoke up. I'm know I'm changing because I used to be Queen of the Freeze Out. Once one of my oldest friends had done something to really piss me off. I didn't speak to her for six months. Charge it to growth and maturity and all those other words that mean you're less screwed up than you used to be, but for the life of me, I just can't do it anymore. I LOATHE conflict. I'd rather lose face and be the one to speak, then to exist in some space where there's some underlying problem or general weirdness. I can't decide if that particular newfound quality is something I hate or love. Anyway, his silence puzzled me. Wasn't I the offended party? When I asked as much, it was met with "shock." Or at least what was supposed to be shock. I even got an "Excuse Me?" AND a denial of having done anything wrong. And then he was ready to just carry on, per usual.

C'mon son.

Didn't I say that I grew up in dysfunction on steroids? You think I don't know what crazy making is when I see it? Hear it? Smell it from 800 miles away? Puhleaze. I'm pretty sure I'm related to the man who invented it.

Now granted this is the wateriest of severely watered down crazy making cases, but still. Don't do me like I'm making it all up in my head. That your decision to not speak for two days was a mere coincidence and you got just super busy. I don't believe in those kinds of coincidences. And I don't particularly care for them being passed off as such either. Before it was just a sucker punch. This was a slap. And I've got a pretty good face. I can't afford to be hit in it.

So like I said, don't insult your people's intelligence. If they are actually even somewhat in tune with who you are, it won't work. And if they aren't, it's just triflin. Be upfront. Tell the truth...all the time...not just when it's convenient or easy.

Love them, but the fellas make my head hurt sometimes.

Getting There

"Searchin for that feeling, tell me where is the magic?
Let's stay together 'til we're ghosts
I want to witness love, I never seen it close."  - Drake, "Fireworks"

Tonight I had to attend an event for work, honoring the "Top Doctors" of New Jersey. In comes this Black couple. They were smiling as they entered. They went to hang their coats and were smiling and holding hands when they returned. They were doing the same when they left. Black love - quiet, intimate and amazing to watch. And did I mention that SHE was the Top Doctor, that they were there for her? Hubby wasn't busy whispering hurtful words in her ear, snapping at her everytime she said something or looking irritated by having to be where he was. There was no resentment, or any that I could see, over her success. He just looked proud, and very into his woman.

Right now my life is full of divorced parents who spent the majority of their time together in utterly miserable states, females who have the sense, but not the strength, to not sleep with guys with girlfriends, clueless women in "relationships" with guys who just aren't that into them, men who want your friend and then you when your friend's not looking, girls driven to obsession and borderline swimfan status over guys who use their desperation as a source of entertainment - the list could go on. And maybe it's just the age we're at or the company I keep, but these are the things I hear of and see on the regular. There is no romanticism, no grand gestures or overwhelmingly chivalrous moments, nothing said that makes someone blush through their melanin, and certainly no love. And it's usually not even something I think about. It just...is.

But that couple seems to have removed me, temporarily at least, from my world of the romantically jaded. They were refreshing; watching them be in love with each other was beautiful. It made me wish I could swap out some of the poor choices and hurt feelings for minor PDA and loving someone so much it radiates through your pores. Hmm...maybe that last one is asking for too much too soon. How about just a really nice date with a really nice guy that makes you smile when you think about him, to start?

I know that I'll get there. I also know, or at least pray, that all the people I just put on secret blast (I realize this is an oxymoron, but this is my space, so deal) will too. I refuse to believe that we'll exist like this forever. But in the meantime, shout out to that happy, smiling couple fom earlier. I need them to hold me down until I can catch up.

Gratitude

Every so often my cousin starts the fam and some friends back on this daily email exchange. “Gratitude” gets written in the subject line and we write just that. Things we’re grateful for on that particular day, for whatever reason. It’s great, especially for someone like me, who has gone through a most interesting past year and a half. There’s always something I could complain about. I’m not where I want to be in a myriad of ways – geographically, spiritually, professionally, romantically, the list goes on. But I’m safe and comfortable and things could be much worse, and have been in the past. So for today, here’s my own personal “Gratitude” list.

A job. I get up every morning, blast whatever music I’m into that day and drive to work. I get paid enough to pay my tithes, my car note, and keep my hair done. (Not a lot of money for too much else, but at least I can drive around with my ‘do hooked even if I’m broke. Ha!) I’ve made friends with some very cool 20-somethings who keep me laughing and make the day go by faster. Not to mention that we’ve identified like 6 legit characters from "The Office" and that one of these 20-somethings has OCD and is literally from Scranton, PA. It doesn’t get much better than that. And there’s the routine and consistency. Everyday, I know where I’m going and there’s never the potential of being socked by a pre-teen and landing in the hospital. Which is wonderful.

An education. And the intellect to prove that all this book-learnin’ hasn’t been a waste of time and monies. Living in Montclair, the dichotomy between the educated and uneducated is scary and disheartening. You either went Ivy League after high school or had a bunch of babies, with very little in-between. I always did well because, umm….that’s just what you did. I didn’t even think about it. But I’m glad I did.

Friends. Who feel more like family. No one knows as well as I do that good friends, female ones especially, are extremely hard to come by. I’ve got the stories to prove it. But I can honestly say that I’ve got a handful of people that I can count on, for anything. Zach will pray for me in a second. (He’ll also make you touch and agree via computer for plane tickets, but I digress). Oke will run across campus through locked doors to get to me when I call having a panic attack. He listens and gets angry in my defense like a boyfriend, even though he was let off the hook long ago. Dr. Courtney will diagnose any ailment, listen to any problem and provide the love and advice needed, even if the problem is completely insane and self-inflicted. She never judges. Zetta is and will always be the best big sister ever. She offers sage wisdom with tact and a smile, gave me a fake ID to party when I was underage, a place to sleep when I had to be out of the crib, and kept me company when I was  handicapped. She makes me feel confident in myself even when I don't. The list goes on, and I can only hope that I’m half as good to them as they are to me.

Mr. Jones. He came back around at a very interesting time and in a capacity I could never have predicted. No idea how to fully identify him other than as….Mr. Jones. He’s an enigma, in a class all by himself, mostly because he put himself there, but in possession of all the bravado, brilliance and charm necessary to maintain his placement. He listens, offers insight and sympathizes with, we debate, poke fun and laugh at each other, etc. He makes me feel safe even when he's nowhere near me. He has become a constant, which I can appreciate even more so than his ability to keep up with my pop culture references, random musings and endless questions. He's not perfect, but he is rather amazing. But don’t tell him I said so. I'll just deny it.

Adam. I put money on the fact that my little brother is cooler and more composed than anyone you know. We grew up in dysfunction on steroids, but with all of what I had to deal with, I still think he might’ve had it worse. He was younger and saw a lot more, both in and outside of the family. But he is so strong and confident and smart. Fly. Not easily rattled. Loves hard. Genuine. Heart of gold. Bomb collection of music and J’s. In a lot of ways, I’d like to be like him when I grow up.

Gayl. Because she’s Gayl. World-class mother…who I can now drink wine with. What’s not to love? She’s that Black woman in poems and movies. The strength to deal with more than she should’ve ever had to, and the love and laughter to make it difficult to believe that she’d ever dealt with anything at all. No further explanation needed.

Fellow writers. Who make me want to pick up a pen because reading their words remind me how good it feels to do so. I swear, there are very few things that provide as good a feeling.

And rapper-at-the-end-of-an-acceptance-speech-style: I'd like to thank God, withot whom I wouldn't be here to be thankful for anything. I kid, but it's true.

Words Speak Louder

I think the biggest reason I consider "You've Got Mail" to be one of God's most awesome gifts, made special just for me, is because I truly believe in the power of one's words. We all know...or should know, and if ya don't know, allow me to break you off with the scripture, "Life and death are in the power of the tongue," and for serious, I firmly co-sign on that. In YGM two complete strangers meet and begin the process of falling in love without having met the other in person. Of course early on Tom Hanks got the advantage, but it certainly didn't take away from the film. And for me, who gets by creating the most fantastical of fantasy situations in my head all day long, that type of ish means the world.

Yesterday I started reading this blog, verysmartbrothas.com and I swear, if it were a book, I would've disengaged from the world so that I could read and read only, sometime yesterday afternoon. I love it...everything about it. Two Black men in their early 30's commenting on everything from love and relationships, pop culture, and the most random of  topics like proper public restroom etiquette. They are witty, funny (I've lol'd quite a number of times), intelligent, and down to earth with just the dollop of bougie I need. No idea what they look like, or actually do in life, or if their internet selves are the Alec Baldwin to their real-life personalities' Stephen or Celebrity Rehab brother. Point is, 24 hours and I'm their biggest fan...and maybe in love with them just a little bit.

I could certainly be the only one who feels this way. And that's just fine, blame the writer in me, but I love the idea that someone's written word could somehow usurp a lot of the standard relationship bs. I'm thinking that even with all my rules and regulations that determine whether or not I'll take a guy seriously, I'd be willing to let some of it go if his writing made me want to do nothing but talk to him all day long. Having someone that I can count on for amazing conversation where I'm smiling or lol'ing in public before I can catch myself, ranks extremely high with me. Even if they live hundreds of miles away and with whom your interaction is much more Jerry and Elaine than Jim and Pam, it's still pretty awesome.

Here's hoping that Shopgirl's and NY152's are still out there, and are on their way to finding each other. But here's also hoping that they are super careful and cautious, cuz it's hella crazies out there and being killed by someone you met on in a chat room won't garner the kind of shock value it may have when the movie came out 12 years ago.

Word.

"If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans."

This has, within the last year, become one of my most important quotes. (Thanks btw, Woody Allen). And I say "important" rather than "favorite" because my severe Type-A personality makes me hate the truth behind it. I am the most literal of literal people. For me, the world has always been black, white and little else...and as I get older, that has been more and more to my demise. Take this past year for instance. This past weekend was Northwestern Graduation c/o 2010. I was of course, filled with nostalgia and slight disgust that it had been exactly a year since I had donned my own purple gown (6 sizes too big) and tried not to cry all weekend long, only to have an embarrassing, uncontrollable, sleep-deprivation-fueled breakdown at 3 in the morning when it was all over (no, alcohol was not involved), that lasted a good 30 minutes...on the street...in the heart of downtown Chicago. There was serious snottage involved, restaurant napkins - just an all-around moment of not sexy.

Anyway, this and many other things flooded back into my mind and have since left me amazed. My biggest issue with graduation is that almost instantly, you're thrust into "the real world" (like for real, who knew that place really existed?!) in the harshest of ways. I once had a tooth pulled and for about 20 minutes, before the Novocaine wore off, I felt awesome, like Steve Carell - "40-Year-Old Virgin" post-coital, musical  montage awesome. And then I got home and BOOM, BANG, POW (and whatever other onomatopoeia you choose to employ), the pain was shuckin' and jivin' all over my mouth, without any warning or expectation. And what sucks most, is that while the initial shock has warn off, mostly I'm still laying on the couch in my living room, screaming, crying and trying to figure out who I can punch or how fast I can get a tranquilizer gun for myself.

My life has always been made up of these elaborate plans I created for myself. Stellar academic performance. Impressive college. (A therapist told me I "like to be impressive," whatever that means. Okay, so I know what it means). Great job where I begin to make my mark on the editorial world. Grad school after 2 years. Husband by 26-27. Fraternal twins (1 boy, 1 girl) by 29 and then continuing to live out my fab life, family and career in hand. And perish the thought that this would not only happen, but in the exact order and time frame I wanted it to. *Blank Stare* Consider the thought perished, or at least a bit wounded.

A year out of college and my professional life has been trying at best. Everyone now I then, I  think that I should've been smarter and like so many of my peers taken the easy way out by going back to school. But the athlete in me makes me feel like that would make me a quitter, so I can't do it. And, while some may argue over its triviality, for the girl who has had (at least) one boyfriend on constant since she was 14, for one to not currently exist is just a bit puzzling. To be fair, I did voluntarily opt out of a three year relationship back in September and am less than interested in another hardcore "wifey" role any time soon, but I still feel that my stock has dropped just a bit. And no, I don't need a boyfriend, I have "people" to talk to and most of the time that's enough for me, but having the option, or a few worthy to choose from would still be nice...make me feel more like me. (I'm a mess, I know.) But more importantly, with no secure prospects in sight, I fear my plans for a family, scheduled to begin in the next 3-4 years, may have been me setting myself up for failure. In which case, my twins may be more than just a stone's throw away.

In truth all of my itinerary may have been setting myself up for failure. There's nothing wrong with having goals...you're frowned upon if you don't. But I think some of mine may have been more romantic comedy than reality tv (real reality, not "The Hills" reality). I think God is trying to teach me a slew of things. Patience, the ability to rejoice and handle the little things, so that when bigger and better comes along, I'll be equipped to deal responsibly, and most of all, much deeper levels of faith and trust in Him. I can almost hear him saying, "I'm sorry...there's only one captain of this love boat. That captain is me," complete with the Tom Green voice.

So stubborn and Type-A as I might be, I'm trying to refine my list, or at least have it much more open to divine revision. I love God, but I'm not interested in keeping him in stitches because of my own self-obstruction.


**Candace Caveat: I firmly believe in "What God has for you, is for you" and I'm certainly not closing the book on my very specific and scheduled dreams for a family. What I'm saying is that when and how I want it to happen, may not be something He agrees with and that I'm trying to be more comfortable in seeing it His way than my own. This is not a "my way or the highway" kind of thing.**

Unfettering For Two...

So today...or yesterday at this point, was Father's Day. And while it's certainly a big deal for some, for people like myself and my brother, it just isn't. My father is...a stereotype. In a lot of ways he didn't start out like that, and in a lot of other ways he did, but at this point, he just is. We have no relationship and but for some sort of miracle or divine intervention (through no willingness of my own), I don't see one coming to fruition at any point. My mother is deathly afraid that my life is going to be screwed up or filled with repeat lessons because of all the familial dysfunction and wants me to some sort of resolution. And secretly I am too, but I feel like I'm standing in a library, with piles and piles of books all around me - burying me almost, and I know that I need to get them all sorted out and stacked away, but there's just so many that it's almost impossible to know where to begin. But that's drama for another day...

Anyway, like I said Father's Day kind of blows. And while most of me doesn't care most of the time, there is a small part that reads the loving tweets from friends to their fathers or a Facebook status with the eternal pledge to be a "Daddy's Girl" and wonders/would like to know what that feels like. But more so than that, what I don't want is for my future children - my future daughter, to have to wonder and want the same thing. So I'm thinking that for both her and myself, however much it's within my power, I choose to forgive and attempt to move on from my own father, so that one day I can take her to the store and help her pick out a card or watch her make her own proclamations of Father's Day love. Something for me to look forward to.

And in spite of all that, Happy Father's Day to the men who standby their responsibilities and earn the rights to such a loaded title everyday, through the love, care and support they provide to their children. You make me smile.

Running Away From the Future

NY Times Bans The Word "Tweet"

So I just read this article *See Link Above* and apparently the New York Times has decided to eliminate almost all use of the word "tweet." Reason being? The term isn't standard English, and according to standards editor Phil Corbett, "...standard English is what we should use in news articles." He states that while someday the term may become "as common as email," right now, it has no real place amongst the pages of the publication.

Now, as a young journalist (with the college loans to prove it) and someone still trying to get a secure professional footing in the media industry, here is my problem with this. I can't fathom a scenario where I would interview for a position and those interviewing me would breathe a sigh of relief when I told them that I stand in firm opposition to all forms of social media. That I hate it, don't support it, don't believe in it and would then proceed in a round of high-fives throughout the room. Telling someone you'd like to work for in editorial, some form of online publishing, PR etc. is a joke if in the next sentence you're saying that you don't have a Twitter account or have at least attempted to understand it and can perhaps see its benefit.

Social media is where we are. What publication doesn't have a Twitter account or Facebook fan page? Further, which of them can say that these and other various forms of social media like Reddit or Gawker have not helped maintain or increase their readership or fan base in a time where actual paper continues on its slow and painful nose dive into oblivion? And because that is the case, how can anyone, a powerhouse like The Times especially, turn their AP Style-loving, literarily-snobbish noses up at what is a major component of both the present and future of journalism? Because that is essentially, in my humble opinion, exactly what they're doing by putting "tweet" on an indefinite time-out.

Needless to say, no cool points to them on that one.

...Into The Void

Creating this blog, and then making a deal with  myself that I'm going to commit to it, is something I equate with standing in a room by myself, naked. Technically I'm all alone, but my innate reaction is to try and cover myself anyway, for fear of who might see me. Writing has always been something private for me. Even when it was just an essay or paper, the only eyes I wanted on it were the teacher's and my own. I never had any respect or use for Writer's Workshop - to me they were just a nuisance. As a result, there are knots in my stomach even as I type, and this is my second draft of the first post in two days. (Yeah...just a tad bit of anxiety going on.) But when making a decision about going to the gym, my mother has always said that when you want to do it the least, that's the best time to go. Pressing beyond both yourself and the emotion increases the satisfaction. So this is me, starting up the treadmill.

This has actually been several months in the making. I went to see a therapist who told me to start a blog. I smiled it off instantly, while saying to myself, "Yeah right, who in the world is gonna want to read that?" and not being sure if I'd even want anyone to. But enough time has passed for me to realize that my audience, aside from an ever-supportive mother and God, is not so much the point. I have a writer's heart, with the mind to match, and I think I got so wrapped up in life this past year, that I abandoned that. So this is my chance to get back, and take a minute to look at myself instead of all that surrounds me. I'm not sure what will come of it from day to day, but I'm thinking that's a part of the fun.

In You've Got Mail, there's a scene where Meg Ryan is writing an email to Tom Hanks, but really having more of a conversation with herself. "I don't really want an answer," she says. "I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void." And as my life is one constant stream of film quotes and lyrics, those words are how I choose to see Reverse Peephole. But should others want to join in the ride, maybe my nakedness will serve as a conversation piece, or I'll at least grow to feel more comfortable in it. Either way, I'm in the room.

"...goodnight dear void."

Goodnight Dear Void...(video link)