Sunday Scribblings: I have a secret...

...once or twice in the past 31 years, I've gone to bed without brushing my teeth or washing my face.

...I like to stay up until 3:00 and get up at 11:00.

...I think the band Journey absolutely rocks.

...occasionally, I nap with my contacts in.

...I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Dawson's Creek. I especially love the scene in the finale of Buffy when she says to Angel, "Are you going to go all Dawson on me every time I have a boyfriend?"

...I pick my nose.

...I've tried Spam and pork rinds and found them both to be quite edible.

...I once left a candle burning unattended in my apartment while I went to the grocery store. (And have been uber-vigilant with open flames ever since.)

...I voted for Bush the first time around, but not the second ~ when I finally started paying attention to politics.

...I'm afraid of the dark and things under my bed.

...I still wonder about an old boyfriend (and a few almost-boyfriends) and how my life would be different if we'd ended up together.

...I get sick at the smell of polenta.

...I don't understand why "Citizen Kane" has maintained its number one slot on AFI's list of the 100 greatest American movies of all time.

...not all of the light bulbs in my house are the good-for-the-environment-twisty-kind. And I still haven't managed to buy reusable bags for grocery shopping. (But I do recycle the plastic ones I collect.)

...sometimes I think having children could be fun.

...I think my husband gave me athlete's foot.

...even in the midst of heartache and grief, the writer in my head never stops.

...I stole a vintage cafeteria tray from my college alma mater.

...in high school I watched a friend engage in adultery and didn't step-in to bring her to her senses.

...I've wasted time in toxic relationships because I didn't want to face the alternatives.

...I'm a pregnancy hypochondriac. (It started when I was a kid and learned about the Immaculate Conception. What if I'm next? I wondered. Now, I'm just paranoid.)

...I've peed on four EPT sticks in the past month after my new birth control pills made my hormones go kerflooey.

...the first time I ever tried to pick up a cat I accidentally jammed my finger into its butt. I was like: "Whoa! What the-?" And the cat was like: "Whoa! What the-?"

...the sticks were negative.

...all of these are absolutely true.

I told you mine. Now tell me yours...

(Or read others' here.)

Sunday Scribblings: Eccentricity

I think that some "eccentricities" are just code for being high maintenance. Find out others' quirks at Sunday Scribblings.

1. I must have Burt's Bees Beeswax Lip Balm with me at all times. I have them stashed in my purse, car, and around the house. (This one also made my previous list of oddities.)

2. The sound of a ticking clock turns me into a ticking time bomb. If there's one within earshot of my sleeping quarters, you can count on me unplugging, dismantling, de-battery-ing, or smashing it.

3. Chewing noises can gross me out. I have a friend to thank for making me even more aware of this nasty sound.

4. I find it nearly impossible to sit with both feet flat on the floor.

5. I often feel more at ease on cloudy days.

6. I choose my side of the bed based on the location of the room's door.

7. I used to dip carrots in orange juice.

8. I also used to eat ketchup and butter sandwiches on white bread, a delicacy named an "Uncle Ken Special" after my great-uncle whose one index finger stuck straight out and wouldn't bend, having been sewn back on after a machinery accident. He also taught me to say: "See my finger? See my thumb? See my fist? You better run!" I used to replace the last line with "I better run!"

9. I listen to almost no current mainstream music, but am a big fan of 80s music. A good power ballad with a killer electric guitar solo gets me every time. (Oops, this is also a repeat from the previous list.)

10. I'm an obsessive sign reader. Road trips with me can be taxing.

Are you weird? Of course you are! Tell me about it in the comments.

Sunday Scribblings: Spicy

Five things that are good a little bit spicy:

1. Tom Yum and Tom Kha Kai soups
2. Conversation
3. Sex
4. Sweet potato pie
5. Paint colors

Five things that are better bland:

1. Mashed potatoes
2. Your feelings for your college professor
3. The smooth, cool feeling of clean sheets
4. Angel food cake
5. Toilet paper

Where do you like it spicy?

More scribblings here.

One life must be enough

When I wrote this week's Sunday Scribblings musings on Town & Country, I was thinking of something that Linford Detweiler of Over the Rhine wrote in a little booklet called Northern Spy Number One: Crawl Low Under Smoke. I couldn't find it at the time, but found a portion of it copied in my journal from June 1997. He says it so beautifully:

One life is hardly enough. I've had to kill so many lives to be alive in this one. The college professor life. The life lived in the South with the brave dancing words full of sweet storm clouds, grace and the reign of laughter. And me struggling with a first collection of short stories.

The life on the Northeast Ohio farm with mist like the secret birthing night breath of angels coming up off the five a.m. fields and the grey birds praising the new coming day in their secret symphonic language, full of mercy and foreshadowing. The life of the pianist braving The Well-Tempered Clavier, making the Mozart glimmer with purity, getting the warm fire of the Chopin Nocturnes and Preludes and Etudes under the palms of miracle hands, making Ravel's impressionist poems come in and out of focus, breathing all the while.

The young are apple trees. We prune off many limbs so that we might bear a little fruit. One life must be enough, but damn. (p. 18)

Yes, Linford, yes. Damn.

Sunday Scribblings: Town Mouse & Country Mouse

We give up a thousand lives to live just one.

I could be an actor, waiting tables in New York City.

I could be a college professor, all tweedy with cat-eye glasses, enduring New England winters.

I could be a Peace Corps worker, somewhere hot and humid with giant bugs that I learn not to fear.

I could be a radio producer in Chicago or Seattle.

I could own a horse farm deep in the mountains of North Carolina.

I could work with political refugees in London.

I could run a bed and breakfast in Nova Scotia.

I could make jewelry and textiles in San Francisco.

I could live in a loft, a flat, a studio apartment, a farm house.

I could walk out my door to the forest. To a coffee shop. To the beach.

I could be.

And I am. I am living in a Pittsburgh suburb, struggling to figure out what it means to be a writer, and a self-employed one at that.

The grass is always greener, the sky bluer, the living easier. Over there. Wherever we are not. Just over the fence or across the tracks or around the bend or beyond the sea. Anywhere but here is where we want to be.

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When I chose a college, I wanted a small, non-urban campus that was no more than three hours from my home. I ended up at a lovely school, two hours away, where I made wonderful friends and learned much about myself and the world. I was where I was meant to be.

After leaving my idyllic college years behind, I moved to London for a year. It was exciting and scary. Living abroad was a dream come true. I made wonderful friends and had fabulous experiences. But I was also lonely a lot of the time. Walking past houses at twilight would fill me with profound sadness. The light inside was so inviting. Even ugly little houses looked cozy because they were homes. People lived there with families. I lived in a room at the YMCA. But despite my lonliness, I was where I was meant to be.

Today, I live about 45 minutes outside of Pittsburgh, the most livable city in America. I'm also equidistant to the Laurel Highlands, home to gems such as Fallingwater and myriad state parks. My location means that I escape the traffic of the city and the isolation of the country. But it also means that I have to drive 35 minutes to get Indian food. It's an equal drive if I want to take a hike or sit by a rushing stream. I have the best and worst of both worlds. I live in a sort of suburban purgatory.

I daydream about moving. But I can't make up my mind. I can see myself in a trendy loft apartment, with cultural amenities just steps from my door. But then I'd miss the green open spaces and hillsides heavy with trees. I can see myself in a 100-year-old farmhouse with acres of land and gardens galore. But then I'd long for easy access to the theatre and cafes.

Town Mouse and Country Mouse live in me, side-by-side. They argue over who has the best cheese. But mostly, they try to be happy where we are. When they're not bickering, they say encouraging things like:

"Listen here," says Town Mouse. "You live less than hour from America's most livable city. Stop whining, chickie. If you want 'cultural amenities' that badly, get in the damn car and drive to them! Okay, so it's not London with it's convenient maze of public underground tunnels, but you can afford gasoline, even at this high price. Go get your urban groove on!"

Equally emphatic, country mouse says, "Listen here, sweetie pie. You have a big backyard and plenty of trees around. Sure, you can see your neighbors' houses from your deck, but you know you'd feel anxious out in the middle of nowhere with just the cows and crickets to watch over you. If you need some more fresh air, take a short drive to the mountains. I know you don't like to burn too much fossil fuel, but you don't commute to a job. So treat yourself to an afternoon in nature. After all, it's oh-so-close."

The suburbs have a bad reputation of being full of box stores and soccer moms. Sadly, too much of that stereotype is true. But for now, this is where I live. And there is beauty and love here. Whenever I start to feel restless or ungrateful, I remember those cozy English homes. It's trite, but true: Home is where your heart is.

Last month I went to New York City for a writing conference. I was excited for the big city buzz, but knew that I'd be relegated to the tourist traps since I had very little time and no practical knowledge of the city. And then I met fellow writer and conference goer Kelly, an Austin native who's lived in NYC for about seven years. We hit it off like old friends and she saved me from tourist trap hell by having an extra concert ticket for Mason Jennings and the willingness to show me a tiny bit of her New York. We ate at a crazy Indian restaurant (which deserves it's own blog post) and had a great time.

My city-envy was on full display. But Kelly admitted that she might eventually like to get away from the bright lights. Being the only writer in a square mile seemed like a refreshing concept to her. It was another good reminder to appreciate the grass in my backyard as well as the pavement on my street.

I may have given up a thousand lives to live this one, but I get to live this one. My responsibility is to do that where I am. And for now, this is where I live. I am where I am meant to be.

Where do you live?

Read others' thoughts on this topic at Sunday Scribblings.
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6/8/07 Addendum: Check out One life must be enough for further thoughts on this topic.