It’s Spring Break, which means I have a metric ass-load of unfinished projects that I have to somehow pull off by next week.
Because not assigning homework — and lots and lots of it — over Spring Break would be simply unAmerican or something.
Yesterday was National Nap Day, so I had an excuse. Today, I’m not sure what it is.
I’m tired, tired.
And I’m going back to bed, if even for just a little bit.
I knew 2008 would be a year of loss. Of “positive” loss, I thought.
I just didn’t know it would be this sort of loss, or of this magnitude.
They say you find out who your friends are when times are bad, not good.
When I hit bottom on Wednesday, and I was at my absolute worst, I was lectured by a Carpe Diem girl. While I cried (and, oh, did I cry, knowing the whole time that one cigarette of hers — which she had been smoking around me — would have made it better), she lectured me on what a shitty person I am.
She then left me stranded: all of my stuff’s in bags and boxes and my rooms are filled with organizational stuff that I have no idea how to implement. I can’t find my socks. I can’t find my school supplies.
Hell, I can’t even find my brain right now.
I’m indulging in my first chocolate post-smoke out.
I discovered last year that Godiva chocolate ice cream, despite its high-class name, was rather sub-par chocolate ice cream.
But now I’m spooning with Blue Bell Dutch chocolate (God bless those little Dutch boys) and enjoying every single drop. It tastes like rich, rich chocolate pudding. Only better. Much better.
I don’t remember it tasting this good.
I don’t suppose it ever has.
In really, really, really good news, I found out my graduation date.
I’ll be exactly 34 years and one week old when I get my Bachelor’s.
Better late than never on both accounts, I suppose.
And class starts on Monday. I’m almost ready.
Almost.
I won’t write about “Jambi” tonight, I promise.
I will say that, after having the CD, 10,000 Days, for a couple of months now, tonight was the first time I’d listened to it all the way through.
What an awesome, awesome CD.
Wait, I wasn’t going to talk about music.
When I first began blogging, Brahnamin was one of the first people I met in the blogging community. I was impressed by his humor and graphics; I was inspired by his rawness.
His post entitled Only as Weak as our Deepest Secrets is a perfect example of why I’m such a fan of this man.
One of the most memorable lessons in humility and compassion I’ve ever had was given through a woman named Mary. It was several years ago, and I was working in admissions at the local hospital.
She was an alcoholic and an addict, and was making noises from her room.
She was ignored. We were full of alcoholics and addicts that night; the ER was packed, and they were all making noises from their rooms.
When they’re going through detox, they’re all making noises from their room. And when they’re addicts and alcoholics, they’re so easily ignorable.
I remember the end part of that night like it was yesterday. It was busy; I was exhausted. I hated my job and was wondering why I was even there. I didn’t like my co-workers and I couldn’t stand the utterly superior nurses in Medical ER.
I was really, really unhappy.
But then I met Mary.
I’m in a weird mood. A making-up-words mood (this post was originally titled “Musically Unvocabulated”). A sore mood. A coughing, agitated mood.
But overall, a very Jambi mood.
I took a long, hard look over 2007. The first thing I noticed was how much had happened last year. The second thing I noticed was that a lot of the stuff that had happened was loss. Some good in it, but mostly sad, aching loss.
There was a lot of loss this year. Not just for me, personally, but for a lot of people I know as well.
It was a tough year, seemingly comprised of losses, set backs, and frustration.
But it was a really good year, too, I think, despite all of that.
I’m hoping that 2008 will have magnificent losses: loss of old habits, of old fears, that sort of thing. Which is good, because I have my work cut out for me.
So I made it up to the country before my obligatory weekend double at the Hell’s Pass Hospital.
It was, as it always is, utterly lovely.
I love the drive. I love the visiting and the giggling. But I really, really love those boys.
There are two of them, now ages 6 and 8. They are far and beyond spectacular company.
It’s because of the boys that I experienced my first ever Xbox 360 adventure. For the record, if New York City were dependent on my web-slinging and crime-fighting skills, it probably would have been beaten and killed off the planet a long, long time ago.
“Wow. You fell off the building so much that you killed Spiderman,” the 6 year old told me. “I didn’t even know you could do that!”
Yes, I know I rock. Thanks.
The 8 year old, too smart for his own good and bored in school, received this for Christmas:
“So you comin’?”
“Ayep.” This is me with my country accent. I get it when I talk to Melissa, sometimes.
“Why aren’t you here?”
“Cause I can’t be both ‘on my way’ and ‘there’ at the same time.” Granted, that’s debatable, but this is a purely physical location sort of conversation.
“Right. So why aren’t you here? Or on your way?”
“I’m unfreezing my toes.”
“Wha–?”
“It’s Mississippi. My blood is genetically engineered to freeze at 31 degrees. It’s currently 25. So the blood in my toes is frozen. I can’t walk without breaking a toe off.”
“Dammit, woman. You’re not going to break a toe off.”
This time is normally a time of reflection and writing for me. I accomplish more non-school related writing between the middle of December and the middle of January than any other time of the year.
I haven’t done my normal end of semester activities: devoured movies, gone to the country, or driven all over hell and back. I’ve mostly slept and sneezed.
I looked at the blog entries: inconsequential things, really, and not at all reflective of what’s been going on.
I thought when I’d finally get around to doing a New Year’s blog entry, I’d be full of optimism or, possibly, pessimism. I’d cry “I’ve taken stock and this is what I want, where I am, yoohoo!”
Instead, I’ve found myself thoroughly lost within a song.
My cat and I are not on speaking terms.
I like her just fine (no, really), but she’s adopted an attitude that is rather snooty, even for a cat.
Which suits me just fine, really.
Since I have a decidedly Catholic cat, I’m fairly certain she believes in heaven. And I have a good idea what her vision of heaven is: an electric blanket, a never ending food supply, and my disembodied hips and hair. The hip would be as if I were lying on my side; the hair would be fanned across the bed, allowing her to tapdance, jigaboo, and waltz through it as if she were high on cat nip. And she would drool in it. Copiously.
Lyrical Fool 