bargaining

I'm finding that when faced with a problem you can do nothing about, the problems you CAN do something about seem minute, simple, and not even really problems at all. In fact, IF this bigger problem could just somehow be removed, you'd then be able to fix everything else in your life as if with a magic wand. "If somehow this could turn out alright, it will be the end of self esteem issues, body image concerns, being directionally challenged, losing my spare keys, general bitchiness, shin splints, nutritional deficiencies, not being good with children, losing my backup set of spare keys, hating Christmas music, lashing out at coworkers who criticize my face, and Blue Moon purchases. I will acquire a perma-smile and devote myself to the betterment of mankind like some kind of non-religious nun."
Sad that you can't actually bargain like that...

Consisting of a rant about Seven-Eleven and an epiphany about life

THREE STRIKES FOR THE SEVEN ELEVEN
It seems there's always one gas station borne, calorie-packed food that I crave constantly, but at varying levels. For a while, it was trail mix. Then moved on to cheese popcorn. Then, shamefully, it was those awful (wonderful) (awful) "danishes," you know, the Archer Farms pastries where they have a single pastry in a package but still try to list it as two servings in the nutritional information, possibly because they don't have enough room to print the calories contained in the pastry without halving it? Well, I've moved on from all of those cravings, and when the era of a certain food passes, I don't want said food anymore. Mentioning it doesn't make me salivate or compulsively reach for my car keys to drive to the nearest gas station. However, it's always replaced by something new and currently it is: breakfast burritos. I am ashamed to even type this. I constantly register at least some level of breakfast burrito craving. During most hours of the day, I can keep it at a manageable level so that I don't start shaking and foaming at the mouth, but if I've skipped a meal or if it's the morning after I've had too much to drink, the burrito craving's strength overwhelms my common sense and clouds my thoughts. And so I rush to the nearest gas station, wherein I shall find my salvation, and promise myself as I open the wrapper containing what shall become my next roll of abdominal fat, with fingers trembling with anticipation, "This is your last burrito EVER, Mandie. God. Buy some vegetables next time."
And it's never the last one. Except now it may be, because the nearest purveyor of burritos, Seven-Eleven, has now received three strikes.
Strike One.
Mandie is hungry and decides she should buy some healthy food. She ventures to her local Seven-Eleven, grabs a little single-serving veggie-and-dip tray, and then, what the hell, balances it out by grabbing a six pack of Blue Moon.
MALE CLERK: Ah, it looks like you are having a party.
MANDIE, being very socially awkward and not good with comebacks, looks down at the makings of quite possibly the world's lamest party, to which the invitees consist of herself and her cat. (No beer for the cat, though he did enjoy my dip leavings.) She can't think of anything to say, so she forces a sound between a giggle and a hiccup.
MC: Are you sure this is all you want?
MANDIE (decisively, swiping credit card): Yes.
MC: Nothing for me?
MANDIE (now in way over her head as far as comeback inadequacy goes): Uhhhh... (another hicgiggle)
MC: Because all I want is a beautiful smile from the beautiful lady.
MANDIE: Heh, heh (now actually kind of grateful she impulsively grabbed the beer, because she's gonna need it)
Strike Two.
Mandie is having a weak moment and decides to purchase a morning burrito.
ANOTHER MALE CLERK: Is there anything else that her royal highness wants?
MANDIE (very decisively): No, thank you.
AMC: Have a wonderful day, royal princess.
Upon getting into her car, Mandie realizes she woke up not long ago and has not looked in the mirror yet today. She flips down her visor mirror and sees that a long dark smear of the remainders of yesterday's eye makeup is completely darkening the side of her nose (I do own eye makeup remover but it's a childproof bottle i can't open, ok?), her other eye looks like someone punched it, and her hair is sticking out at comical angles. This makes the "royalty" comments that already made her excessively uncomfortable and on the brink of hicgiggling seem like cruel sarcasm.
Strike Three.
It's a Saturday morning, and let's just say that the events of Friday night have propelled Mandie's burrito craving to a level that is beyond her control. She reluctantly visits the Seven-Eleven and gets a burrito.
FEMALE CLERK (giving Mandie an odd, condescending smile): Hungry?
MANDIE, already brutally ashamed of her 340-calorie purchase, not to mention the alcohol calories consumed the previous night that are currently having a pants-size-increasing fiesta in her fat cells and demand Mexican-style refreshments, makes a noncommittal sound. She's not even really that hungry, it's a craving thing, which surely the size-two Seven-Eleven employee before her would not understand.
FC (louder, and this time seeming amused by Mandie's purchase): You HUNGRY?
Luckily, MANDIE is saved from further comment by the guy in line behind her, who says, "Not very hungry by the looks of that. That's not a very big burrito." MANDIE, having paid, escapes.
I'm not going to that Seven-Eleven anymore, and you know, I may even be liberated from burritos. It's one thing to be creepily hit on, it's another thing to have your smudgy morning face subjected to harsh mockery, but to have a skinny woman ask you if you're hungry as you go on your shameful, solitary junk food run is more than any human being should have to endure. And I'm done with it. Goodbye, conveniently located but brutally insensitive Seven-Eleven. Three strikes, you're out. May you and your fattening snacks rot in- oh, wait, there's a chance I may still want to use the mailbox in your parking lot. I will not finish that sentence. We shall live as civil neighbors. Please don't egg Cujo.
UNRELATED MUSINGS
Thanksgiving is coming, and I usually post a blog of amusing things my family says at Thanksgiving, because inevitably there will be some good quotes. I was thinking, since this blog is hurting for material, that I might do a "best of Gossage Thanksgivings" post this weekend. And so I began scanning the late-November entries over the years in my previous blog (which I had for 6 or 7 years, so that's a lot of Thanksgivings). And I came to two conclusions:
a) Funny stuff your family says doesn't have a really long shelf life. It was hilarious then, but it wouldn't be now. I'm not going to re-post any of it. It's had its day, it's time for new material.
b) Reading my old blog can hurt. REALLY hurt. So many close relationships have ended, either with a bang or a whimper, or just a slow fade. Reading these blogs in which I talked about them, quoted them, received comments from them, really was communicating with them (because back in the mid-aughts, people actually read my blog)--can be tough. It makes it so hard to believe our relationships aren't like that anymore. It seems like I should be able to just reach through the screen and pull their 2007 (year chosen at random) selves out, and we should be able to laugh together.
But that's not how it is. I have a hard time dealing with change, but I need to accept the fact that my life has changed very much. I'm a different person, and the people I love have evolved right along with me. And I am EXTREMELY grateful for the exact state that my life is in right now- drunken fiestas going on in my fat cells, crippling social awkwardness, occasional afternoons spent partying with the cat, everything--I still have so much to be thankful for right now, and I feel like this is where Mandie 2012 needs to be.
So, like the family quotes that were hilarious at the time but don't really translate to now, I am ok with leaving these memories in my blog's archives. It doesn't mean I don't cherish the memories, and it doesn't mean I'm giving up on ever restoring some of the good aspects of my life in the past. But it means that I'm not going to pine for the past anymore. I'll look forward to a new Thanksgiving and whatever special 2012 brand of hilarity it might include, and I'll focus on now without comparing it to then.

Why I Need a New Hobby

I haven't read this book in years, but I think I remember that in "Frankenstein," by Mary Shelley, the monster begs the doctor to create for him a companion. Once this request is granted, the two monsters will go somewhere far away, never to bother him again. And so the doctor agrees, but as he looks upon the newly created female monster, he can't bear the thought that he's bringing yet another monstrosity into the world. Therefore he tears the she-creature apart, and the repercussions really kind of suck for him later.
If that's not actually part of the novel, then I may have made it up, and should probably submit to a psychological evaluation. But, either way, that's the story of my nanowrimo attempt this year.
In 2010 I'd begun writing a story, and stopped after roughly 2600 words. Then, life got crazy. Not that I necessarily would have finished this story even if life hadn't gotten crazy, but life did get crazy in 2010, I swear it really did. And to this day, I haven't written any more than 2600 words, but I have the entire story plotted out in my head. And every so often, it finds a way to poke some of the soft gray matter inside my skull, as if to say, "Create me, Mandie, complete me. I have so many plot twists yet to be twisted."
"I don't know if me writing fiction is a good idea," I protest. "My creativity level has flatlined, and as for my vocabulary, I think I'm forgetting about ten words per day."
"But what ELSE are you going to do with your time?" the unwritten story whines.
So, I thought this year I'd try nanowrimo. I've thrice attempted nanowrimo unsuccessfully, but I could just write those off as practice rounds. Virginia Woolf believes one just needs "a room of one's own" to write a novel, and I've got a whole dang apartment. Plus, my November kicked off with six hours of maintenance on Cujo (poor guy needed new brakes) during which I had nothing to do but write.
And so, after handing Cujo's key to the mechanic, I sat down in the waiting room, pulled out my laptop, opened my partial story for reference (I couldn't write in the same document, because those 2600 words can't count toward my total), and began creating a monster.
Seriously. I know my fiction writing was never good and has gotten worse over the years, but this was painful. I found no enjoyment in the process. What I was doing was a crime against God, man, and the English language. I was mangling basic sentence components, forcing them to do terrible things that they were never made for. Once I'd typed 866 words, I was forced to sit back, take a few deep breaths, and study the monster I'd created. I thought of the implications if this story joined forces with my previous excerpt and they were unleashed on the world, and I suddenly felt like I'd birthed a race of demons that would make the literary devastation caused by Twilight seem like a mere hiccup.
Thus I banished my new document to my laptop's recycle bin as my old document looked on in horror, realizing it was destined to be forever alone. And I'm sure, much like Frankenstein's monster, it will continue to nag the creator who gave it life but not fulfillment. In this case, the creator attempted to drown her sorrows by taking mindless quizzes in Oprah magazine (the strength of my inner voice is on the low side of medium, in case anyone was curious about that). But I know all solutions are temporary. It will always bug me, at least a little, that I used to be able to write fiction and enjoy writing fiction, and I can't anymore.
I don't know what it is. I feel like it's some kind of slowing of my brain, and perhaps it just comes with age. Or perhaps it's because I didn't keep my brain in shape. Kind of like I used to be able to run marathon distances on any given Saturday, and I now feel very accomplished if I can run over 8 miles. Part of it may be age, and part of it that I didn't keep my body in that kind of shape.
But still, even when you cease to be able to do something, part of you perpetually thinks you can. I'm in the gym, and I pick up a Runner's World magazine. Always a dumb mistake. I read an article about training for ultramarathons. I COULD SO RUN FIFTY MILES! THAT SOUNDS AWESOME! Or, I'm reading the Game of Thrones series. I COULD SO CREATE A COMPLEX FANTASY WORLD WITH MULTIPLE RELIGIOUS IDEOLOGIES AND POLITICAL STRUCTURES AND 30 PAGES WORTH OF FAMILY TREES AT THE END OF EACH BOOK AND WRITE AN EPIC SERIES THAT FOLLOWS DOZENS OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS BUT AT THE SAME TIME MAKES EACH OF THEIR STORIES ENGAGING, PERSONAL, AND PAINSTAKINGLY DETAILED! THAT WOULD BE A BLAST! Stupid inner voice. Why do you think I can do things I can't do? We need to work on our communication. Maybe Oprah could help me with that.
All this to say, I feel I'm still without talents or hobbies. Perhaps someday I'll find something that I'm capable of and that I truly enjoy, and my inner voice and I will finally be on the same page, and I'll become the Mandie I was always meant to be. In the meantime, though, I'll probably keep on beating the dead horses of writing and running. "Maybe if I wrote this scene from the other character's POV..." "Maybe if I eat a different flavor of Clif bar..."
Hmm, come to think of it, I haven't tried the mint chocolate chip ones.
Today may be the day that changes everything...