slumber parties

I wish I could say that slumber parties taught me about life, or friendship, or sex, or even ouija boards. When it comes right down to it, I never liked slumber parties. During the course of the evening, something would always happen that would mark me as a party-pooper or as an uglier-than-(insert cutest girl in fifth grade here). The era of slambooks, those hideous little notebooks with “anonymous” entries about who you most despised or who was the most annoying person in the school, brought about more humiliation than I could stand. It was apparent I would always be “Nicest Girl.”

But I didn’t want to be nice. I wanted to be pretty, or funny, or scary, even. Anything but nice . Nice was the curse of boring people who always lent you a pencil or who didn’t complain when you traded them a sucky sandwich for their wonderful salami on Italian bread one. Nice was terrible. It was the worst fate my fifth-grade mind could conjure up.

The girls I hung out with in grade school were always trying to freeze each other’s bras. I was safe from this particularly weird punishment because I wore a camibra. A camibra is a cut-off undershirt with a scrawny lace flower sewn on it. It is the 90-pound weakling version of a training bra. I hated my camibra, but it was better than still wearing an undershirt. I think.

Anyway, I would always be the one who said, “Hey, that isn’t very nice,” when the other girls would start rifling through someone’s Cabbage Patch backpack. I would always be the one who was too afraid to kiss a classmate’s older brother on a dare. I never chose dare. I always told the truth, too.

Slumber parties were reminders of how uncool I was, and they continued to be until college. I can’t consider a bunch of drunken co-eds passing out in a 12′ by 12′ dorm room a real slumber party, but at least during those I wasn’t so obviously uncool. Then again, it’s nigh impossible to be obvious to an unconscious person.

My friend Kasey used to have me over to her house overnight a lot, in grade school. I can’t call it a slumber party, since it was just the two of us, but we really did have fun. We would put on talent shows, ride her horse, eat macaroni and cheese, stay up late, watch scary movies, tell ghost stories … those were some great times. With her, I was always cool, even though she wasn’t uncool. I was just comfortable, I suppose. She never dared me to do things I didn’t want to do, and she never called me “nice.”

I think every group of kids needs a nice one, a smart one, a cute one, a funny one, and so on. Slumber parties are tiny social paradigms, and to work properly, all the roles must be involved. I would have enjoyed them more if I hadn’t been the nice one. The nice one must fulfill her nice duties and must live up to her nice image. I just couldn’t freeze someone’s bra nicely.


Odd that I should procrastinate while writing about procrastination. I suspect this was tied up with feelings of inadequacy after the trend of lame entries I’ve been writing, but still … I waited until the last possible moment to write this one. For shame.

I procrastinate to the point of utter, all-encompassing guilt, and then because I feel so guilty, I don’t want to think about it any more so I don’t just do the thing, I procrastinate further. Then it becomes this monumental task that can Never Be Completed because I’ve put it off so long. Why?

With writing, it is different. I don’t intentionally, consciously procrastinate writing. When I have something to write, I do it. Except for this journal entry, of course. I believe this has to do with not wanting to think about how much I procrastinate. I do it often. Embarrassed of that.

Chad often wonders, “Why don’t you just do it and get it over with?” He has the full-contact, mow-’em-and-show-’em philosophy of social interaction and personal achievement. I admire this. I cannot do this. I am truly incapable of getting things done the first time around. I’ve tried. Repeatedly.

It’s not that I’m incompetent, or lazy. I just create difficulties for myself. I put up obstacles because failing is so much easier than succeeding. Success scares me. I want to be really good at what I do, not just kind-of good. So it’s easier to be bad at things. Isn’t that pathetic? On the screen, it looks hopelessly pitiful.

And it is, dammit, I rally against myself. It makes no sense to procrastinate; things you have to do will still be there even if you don’t do them right away, so get them done. Things you don’t have to do but would like to do eventually will NEVER get done unless you do the things you have to do, right away. So it doesn’t even make sense to procrastinate.

I am easily distracted by sparklethings. Sparklethings are any objects, concepts, people, or places that emanate newness and spirit. The new TV card in Chad’s ‘puter distracts me. Distractions make it very easy for me to procrastinate. I can attack my to-do list with such excuses as, “Well, what if I get up from my chair to go clean the tub, trip and fall, crack my skull open on the bookcase, and die? I would have died for a stupid thing, cleaning the tub; instead I will sit here a while longer and enjoy my time with my friends and my toys.” Pathetic, isn’t it? Mm-hm.

It doesn’t help that I always have fifty or so projects going at any given time. I can’t stand to be only halfway busy. I must procrastinate on three, four different levels instead of just one. More productive that way (??).

[Author’s Note: I lost the rest of this entry due to an editor bug. If I ever get caught up, I might come back and write what I remember from that lost part. Otherwise, just assume it was startling and brilliant.]

maternal instinct

An acquaintance of mine, a med student, asks me, “Do you have any kids?” I laugh and say, no, no, not me, ha ha ha, very funny there, move along. Then he points to my wedding ring. “Well, that kind of goes to say you’ll be having them at some point, right?” I become self-righteous — or not self-righteous, but somebody-else-righteous — “No,” I explain carefully, “I didn’t get married to have children.”

But I want them. This terrifies me on a regular basis. Probably about three years ago I started noticing babies in that MUST HAVE BABY sense I had always heard about, always feared of. The all-powerful Biological Clock had started ticking for me. Only mine doesn’t seem to tick down; it’s ticking up, accumulating seconds and minutes and hours that I’ve felt this need, until finally my still-punkish twentysomething persona will give way to Donna Reed.

Or not. Maybe I can still be cool and be a mom. After all, my mom did it. She’s the coolest woman I know, and she had ME to deal with. Major points in her favour. Maybe I won’t have to succumb to the phases of annoying I see mothers going through on a regular basis: the “oh look, Johnny made a poopoo” phase, the “don’t touch that, don’t say that” phase, the “over my dead body, young lady” phase. No, I won’t. I will have to suffer through them all; that’s what mothers do, in the name of motherhood, and of propagation of the species.

I don’t want to propagate. I want an adventure. I want to experience the immense, jarring love for a child. Even the pain and the worry. I want it all. Sometimes I hate saying I want it; mostly, I’ve come to terms with it. It took a while. For a long time, I didn’t even think about it, since I would obviously never find anyone who would (a) be decent enough to brew genes with, and (b) stick around that long. Now that I’m married (still adjusting to this concept) and supposedly do have an automagic built-in sticker-arounder, and one whose genes are mighty fine indeed, the motherhood thing seems pretty okay. Someday. I mean, it’s a great idea right now, but I don’t want to do it yet.

“I still have a lot of growing up to do,” I grin at Mr. Med Student. He laughs and nods, “Yeah, I hear that. But are you ever ready, are you ever grown up enough to handle being a parent?” His face gets serious. I shrug, and smile, “I guess not, but someday I’ll definitely be less not-ready than I am right now.” And I will be. I hope we’ll have taken our honeymoon by then.


“Why do you and Chad need separate computers?” my friend asked me the other day. “We wouldn’t be together without them,” I glibly replied. “But why?” Why indeed. The first thing that came to mind was competition. We are very, very competitive sometimes. This is also my answer to other questions, such as: “Why don’t you two play cards against each other?” and the like. We get along quite well, but there has always been an element of competition in our relationship, and frankly, I like it.

I compete with other people in my own mind, as well. I seem to be constantly striving towards “most interesting person so-and-so knows,” now that I don’t care to be the best dressed or the cutest. I don’t know if I would be crushed to find out that I am not the most interesting person someone knows; I’d probably (egocentrically) consider it a clerical error in the great ledger of the universe, and move on. I don’t compete to be the best darn liberry grrl at work anymore; I think my work ethic has gone on sabbatical. I don’t have many, if any, competitive feelings within my family; my parents always instilled in me a sense of uniqueness and importance, and they always seem to be proud of me no matter what I do.

I’ll be driving along, pretending to be a spy (as I’ve done since childhood) and peering at all the unsuspecting humans, and I don’t need to compete with them, either. I know I’m human, so that’s not it. So why Chad, my best friend, husband, and all-around companion and confidante? I think it has to do with admiration. I really admire many things about Chad: his charisma, his sense of humour, his talent, his way of dealing with random salespeople without going freakin’ nanners like I do. So many things. Things that I want to work on in myself.

Then there’s Kite. I compete with her regularly, although I pretend not to. When I first read her poetry, I was blown away. I read a lot of poetry, some published and some not, and most of it doesn’t do much for me. But hers — and her prose, as well — I was shaken after I read it. We had some friends in common when we first started talking regularly, and I sometimes had pangs of jealousy: did they think she was cooler, more interesting, funnier than I was? For a while I was angry. I didn’t want to hang out with those friends anymore, since they liked her too; I didn’t understand how they could like both of us at the same time, since I had made it into a “one or the other” issue in my own mind. I’m not sure when I realized that we were different people, with different strengths, different styles of poetry, and we didn’t have to compete. Maybe it was when she told me she thought I was a good writer. That also floored me. Anyway, something changed between us, and now the only competition left behind is the good kind, the kind I like in my relationship with Chad, the you-challenge-me-and-I-like-that kind. I’m often self-conscious about writing alongside her in this journal because her depth of emotion and experience seem so far beyond mine. So that, I compete with, and I know it makes me a better person.

And then, perhaps competition to me has to do with “not knowing where I stand” with someone. I had no idea where I stood with Kite for a long, long time, and it bothered me. We seemed to like each other in tides: one day, we were almost friends, and the next, we were cool and indifferent towards each other. I always wanted to ask her what she thought of me; instead of doing that, I hung out and did the best I could to “keep up” as I saw it. I have to compete with my friends so they’ll show me where I am on their personal coolness scale. Good, then it’s all tied up with self-affirmation and ego and all these things I already know about myself.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m competing with other people, people I like a lot, so I really will try and be better than they are at something. I mean, if it’s something I absolutely cannot do, like swim, then I’m not going to try to be an Olympic swimmer. I don’t even feel bad when someone’s a good swimmer. But if it’s something that I can somewhat do, like write, then I’m in automatic competitive mode (at least with the writers I respect).

And being a woman — heh. I compete with just about every woman I know. I don’t mean competing with glossy airbrushed pictures in a magazine; I mean real women. And that’s not bad, either. It encourages self-examination, and pride. I don’t mean competing so far as attractiveness, either. The older I get, the less I worry about that. No time. No, competing with other women has to do with who’s more down-to-earth, or fun, or intelligent. Back to the traits I admire thing again. Well, this all makes sense. I’m glad.

I was beginning to think I was less rational than — er. Nevermind.

imaginary friends

“I can imagine how alluring an on-line relationship can be because of the safe little shield. But a rl relationship has to be so much more satisfying, in every way. On-line you really are (though I hate to say it) talking with an imaginary friend; this person says all the right things and can basically be anything you want them to be. In real-time you get to deal with a real-live person, individual and independent of all the things you’ve imagined about them. That’s so much more rewarding.” – excerpt from an e-mail

The safe little shield. I’m wondering what this means. Safe little shield on which side, the transmitter’s or the receiver’s? I have a shield nowadays, but I didn’t always. It was just as easy for someone online to get to me as it was for someone “in real life.” And it is sadly very easy to get to me. I’m working on that these days, but I guess the shield concept is lost on someone who takes to heart even the most casual of stranger’s comments.

Talking with imaginary friends. I can’t imagine talking to someone who said all the right things to me. Not even Chad said all the right things to me, when we first met online. He said a lot of right things, to be sure, but all the right things? I don’t even think I’d want to meet someone who said all the right things. That’s just as unreal to me offline as it is on.

Regardless of online or off, I still deal with people in conjunction with all the things I’ve imagined about them. The physical attraction element is definitely different; I agree with this much. But with the advent of jpgs, gifs, scanners, etcetera, you can even see what someone looks like (still-life, true) online. The mannerisms, no. Even if someone would try to type in every mannerism she knew she had, she would still be lacking in the ones she was unconscious of. And these sometimes make or break the bridge from “VR” to “RL” – I speak from experience on this.

Nothing could have prepared me for making this transition with Chad. He was from another world, another place in the ‘States entirely, somewhere I had never been, and was unlikely to visit without good reason. But he was bright, and funny, and utterly charming (unlike the character he was playing at the time, who was more dark and brooding than anything). I was in a RL relationship at the time. It was unsatisfying. And here was a friendship that bloomed online, first at a muck and then in e-mails, and letters, and phone calls. The friendship was very satisfying; we shared stories, jokes, roleplay, ideas, dreams.

And I know Chad better than I’ve ever known anyone. I knew his opinions on hundreds of topics we had discussed during the months online. I knew stories from his past he would recount in late-night phone calls. I knew how he would manage to stay up almost all night with me online, and somehow balance his time for education and for theatre. I wouldn’t advocate anyone deciding her future on an online relationship, but so far as meeting “prospective life-partners,” I don’t think it’s a wholly bad method. It speaks to me much more than any bar or club scene ever did. Interaction, pared down to the nitty-gritty, the words, the stuff, the things that can be taken the wrong way not because you said them in a different tone of voice, but because they were words and that’s all you had to go on.

I’m particularly biased in this realm of communication. Words have always fascinated, tantalized me. Outward appearances, while interesting, and definitely integral to sexual attraction, never “did much” for me. If someone can turn a phrase that intrigues me, I want to know them. Granted, I was blessed in the looks department, so far as being average in all respects: close to the norm so far as build, features, and health. I have been vaguely insecure about how I look ever since I can remember, but other people’s looks don’t seem to evoke much response in me.

The best part of online interaction is being myself. I think this is true for many people who like being online, as I do. I also think I have less of a problem with offline social interaction than most people; I am an attention-hound both online and off, and fairly graceful in most social settings. But there is a certain freedom to being myself so tangibly as through a set of words, of phrases, that Ichoose to describe myself .

Then there are the other people, the choice friends I have made, whom I could not have met if it were not for the internet. Kite is one, for example. I don’t think less of her, or think she is less real, because 99% of our interaction has taken place through mudding and e-mail. We’ve known of each other for years, probably, through different muds we had in common, but only in the past six months have we interacted regularly, and only in the past two have we passed the “friends” mark on my internal chart. I can’t tell you when it happened; we were acquaintances, and then we were friends, bloop, like that. Maybe when I realized she was sticking around “for the long haul,” as many people don’t, with me.

Mac didn’t. We met online and had three months of prolonged sexual tension, interrupted sporadically by deep conversations. I flew to the West Coast to meet him, and spend a couple weeks, a trial run of our relationship. And it was blissful, clear and sweet, like any romantic vacation should be. Every moment was tinged with a “I’ve always wanted to do this with you” feeling. We filled those few moments with memories, some I can even still recall. Then I went home, and it took no time at all for our relationship to fall apart. We were making plans to be together, deciding which of us would move to be with the other. One night I had to leave the computer lab at school at its closing time, and I told him I loved him, and he replied in kind. The next afternoon when I logged in, I received the infamous, “We have to talk,” line.

I don’t love you anymore, Mac said. I don’t know when it happened, but it did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. There was never an utterance so pitiful as “I’m sorry” during a breakup. I knew exactly what had happened, of course. In the months following our meeting, we had grown increasingly short-tempered with each other. With the distance between us. With time, too long, too many weeks, or possibly months — or, god, years? — until we could be together, and be happy. Lashing out at time turned into lashing out at each other, hoarding the seconds we had online together turned into growling at any other life activities that might subtract, or detract, from them. It ended badly, to say the least.

And what if the distance hadn’t been there? Who knows. What if we had met offline instead of on? Who knows. I’ve done my speculating for now. I do know that the feelings I had for him were as real as any I had had before, or have had since. Did the distance kill the relationship, as it had borne it? Yes. So we lose as much as we gain, in the end; we break even. But at least we tried.

That what it boils down to, for me. I’m trying. I’m trying to learn more, to experience more, to interact more, by meeting new people online. This doesn’t mean that I shove my offline interests and friends to the background, like I used to do. Oh, no. I learned that the hard way. I do make time for both, because they’re important to me. And while very different, neither is more real than the other. My reality is big enough for both.