I’m not exactly the cheerleader type, but I have to say: I’m proud enough of my (first) alma mater to rub people’s faces in it, when necessary.

Like tonight.

Granted, Duke still has to beat Butler on Monday night to win the NCAA title. But we’re playing in the championship game. Unlike, say, UNC.

Or anyone else but Butler.

No, I didn’t watch the minute-by-minute, second-by-second, beer-quaffing event with fellow alumni (if you know of any alumni in northeast Wyoming, however, please fill me in). I did eat an apple and kept refreshing ESPN at work to make sure the game really did go the way it was “supposed to.” And then I bragged about it to anyone who would listen. As an English/Drama double major lo so many years ago, I don’t have a lot to do with tonight’s victory. Yet I do have the  cojones and vocabulary to pull of a good supportive rant after the fact.

Even without the short skirts and pom poms I feel an almost unreasonable sense of pride in Duke. At times like these,  I’m glad I chose a school that’s good at more than selecting smart people from all 50 states in the nation. I feel like my school is a kindred spirit, of sorts. Since I consider myself more than just a smart person. See,  I’m good at something, too.

At 5′0″, that “something” isn’t basketball. But I have no doubt that if I am ever as successful in my chosen field as Duke is at basketball, my alma mater will brag on me, too.

I just turned in an application today for a grant I’ve been piecing together for six weeks. In the grand scheme of things, six weeks isn’t a long time. But with a full-time job, working some overnights, trying to wrap up my first play in I-hesitate-to-say-how-long required a lot of emotional energy.

I had no idea how much I had given to this particular project until I discovered I could barely sit up straight once I got back from the post office. Even after basically passing out from exhaustion for several hours (I still call that a nap if it’s less than 8 hours) I couldn’t think straight. I was completely grumpy, irrational, and dulled down. Nouns left me. Everything “sucked.” Especially the play I’d just written. It’s a strange sort of post-partum that hits me everytime I complete a new full-length work. I disparage everything I’ve ever done and then cry for awhile and get on the pity pot and whine some more.

The man definitely wanted to run away. He didn’t.

Hours later, I still can barely function. I know that I just need to give myself a few days to relax…but I’m not used to downtime. It feels strange to take time to heal, to get my nouns back. I have half of the next play roughed out, and I think I should just jump right into it. Maybe I’ll scribble some adjectives and verbs. Hopefully, though, I’ll piddle around, send e-mails, read for fun, watch some Netflix.

Ha.

I feel unsettled without a project to work on. Untethered. Adrift.

Give me 24 hours and I’ll be back in my studio, chasing the dream again.

For a long time, my math skills were comparable to my writing abilities. I never liked math as much, but I was good at it. I still like the idea of math. But not so much the numbers. Or at least, not as they apply to calculating time.

For example, I’ve been having a distressingly difficult time figuring out my hours at work. I was advised to break down the hours I worked each day by the clock. So Monday’s hours would encompass 12:01 am to 11:59 pm. Logical. Except I work overnight shifts. And probably shouldn’t be trying to calculate my hours when I get home in the morning.

Here’s the dilemma: I go to work at 11 on Friday night and get off at 7 am Saturday morning. So that’s 1 hour for Friday and 7 for Saturday. Except I go back to work at 7pm on Saturday and get off at 7 am Sunday morning. OK: So that’s still 1 for Friday, we’re up to 12 for Saturday, and now we’re adding 7 for Sunday. Until I go back to work at 6pm Sunday and work until midnight. OK….1 for Fri, 12 for Saturday, 13 for Sunday. It adds up, but I still feel like I’m working 8 hours Fri, 12 on Sat and 6 on Sun.

And then came daylight savings time. I was almost apoplectic.

Worse: the elliptical dilemma. I was doing 10 miles in 48 minutes, and thought that meant 4.8 minute miles. I should just be able to take off a zero, right? But then I did 10 miles in 51 minutes–a 3 minute total difference from my earlier time. OK, so obviously I can’t have done 4.8 minute miles because the difference between 4.8 minute miles and 5.1 minute miles is 30 seconds each mile. Which adds up to more than a 3 minute total difference.

I still haven’t figured out how fast I was going.

Or why I can’t just subtract a zero. (Damn you, 60 seconds)

Worse, I can’t figure out why I can’t figure, anymore.

I’ll just have to accept that there are accountants and there are unpublished novelists. The dream is that one day I will write all the time and stop having to calculate the hours I work at all.

I think I may have to go to Tea-hab. My effort to eliminate coffee was a smashing success, but now I’m hooked on tea. Not even caffeinated tea. Licorice, of all things, is my new herb of choice. In the general scheme of addictions, it’s a “good” one. But it still has its drawbacks.

According to the manufacturer of my favorite brand, Yogi Tea, licorice root consumed in high quantities raises blood pressure. How much is too much? More than 2 cups a day, supposedly. Now, that should be plenty. But I’m not someone who functions well with restrictions. Knowing I can only drink 2 cups makes me long for 3, 4. More.

Is nothing sacred? When herbal tea becomes the gateway drug, one of two elements are at work: (1) Murphy’s Law (2) Moderation insisting on itself.

I’ll do my best to moderate, oh licorice root. I’ll spread the love around and dabble in  Mayan cocoa spice again. If it doesn’t work, I’ll call Blue Cross Blue Shield and see if they can get me into a 28-Day program for herbal tea addicts.

BCBS, however, is no fan of of preventative healthcare. I’d probably have to have an “episode” before they paid for my treatment. I suppose shooting up the organic market would qualify. But purchasing a handgun, not to mention the bullets, would waste vital financial resources I could otherwise spend on Yogi Tea.

I suppose I’ll just have to live with yet another restriction. And have to admit that The Libertarian diet just doesn’t work for me. I’m not sure, yet, what does work, but I’ll contemplate it over a nice, steaming cup of….

I’ve long suspected that the cruelest cuts come with a kiss. Today it arrived in the form of a Wyoming State Patrolman who let me off the hook for speeding, but then did something far, far worse.

He wrote a citation, all right–because I don’t have a WY driver’s license. Apparently, even though I have a valid NY license, I was supposed to get it changed over within a year of residency. Oops. Guess they forgot to include that tidbit with the welcome package. I could so with one less bucking bronco sticker and one more “Hey, here’s the state law regarding the operation of motor vehicles.” Might help.

Anyway, I get out of the moving violation. Yay! And then I read the citation. Boo! The legalese is all fine and dandy. But the devastaing part was the physical description. He listed my correct hair color, eye color, height…and proceeded to overestimate my weight by thirty pounds.

I wouldn’t even be that heavy if I were pregnant with twins.

Yes, I read and reread that number and it stayed the same. Triple digits. Mocking me. What kind of man charges you $100, makes you part with your NY license and then PUTS DOWN ON PAPER–IN TRIPLICATE–THAT YOU’RE A FATASS? A Wyoming Highway Patrolman, that’s who.

Sadist.

The man looks me in the eyes, tells me he’s giving me a break, and then proceeds to stab me in my neurotic back. (Through which, my ego insists on noting, you can see ribs.)

That’s it! I’m going to court! I must correct this error for the record! Did you not see the NY license? I don’t have country bones! I’m vegan! I do an hour of aerobic and 1,000 crunches a day!

The upshot was that it took me 27 minutes from the time I left my desk at work to drive to the DMV until I exited, temp WY license in hand. That includes the eye test, photo and fee processing. 27 minutes.

I was sad about parting with my home state until I realized how easy it is to get things done around here. I went to the DMV, the courthouse (they may throw out the ticket) the supermarket and the library all on my lunch break. Hey, maybe this country living ain’t so shabby.

So long as I keep my distance from psychologically devasting highway patrolmen, I’ll be fine.

If anyone asks, he was 450 pounds. Give or take.

I started to get angsty about the anniversary of 9-11 in mid-August. Finally, it’s here. And when I bury my head in the media sand, I can get through it.

I don’t know how to walk the line between memory and moving on. All I know is that my heart rate goes up when anyone mentions 9-11 on the news, or whenever I hear a helicopter. I will never forget. I will never bury my pain that deeply. But I don’t believe that listening to all the coverage out there will help me, either.

For this one day a year, I have an extremely hard time avoiding “what might have been.” What if my uncle had stayed at the academy that morning? What if I went to a bar, instead of a friend’s apartment? What if my family had processed it all differently?

I have relatives who won’t get on a plane. Ever. I don’t mind air travel, but I can’t stand the sound of helicopters. They hovered for months afterward. Now everytime I hear one overhead I think that a new tragedy has struck.

Is it wrong to carry on like it’s a “normal” Friday? I feel sad. I might cry. But then I will go to the gym and eat my lunch and later on eat my dinner and go to sleep around 10 pm. Is that ignorant, or a successful sign that I’m healing? Is normalcy really just avoidance dressed up in routine?

Today, I’m far from Ground Zero. In fact, I’ve only seen a single helicopter fly by me in WYO .  I’m lucky to feel safe on a daily basis. But at what cost? People here seem to have no sense that danger even exists. I doubt that I would trade my current comfort for 24-7 fear, but I wouldn’t trade it for blissful ignorance of fear’s existence, either.

So where does that leave me? Right where I am. And even if I can’t name it, or define it, or embrace it, I can live it. Here, now. Today is not just another day. But it is my day. I plan to treat myself gingerly, and enjoy what I can.

Mom always told me it would happen…As a silver lover from long back, I had to admit to myself that I really do, now, prefer gold. Granted, my wedding ring is white gold (looks silver).  But as for clothing, shoes, jewelry, home accents:  only gold will do.

Taste, that stalwart, has become a fickle friend.

It’s a seismic shift. I don’t know when it occurred, either. All I know is that I caught myself looking at a perfectly lovely silver top this morning and wishing–really throwing the hope out there–for it to turn into gold. (Where is Rumplestiltskin when you need him on e-bay?)

The same thing happened to me with wood. (Ba-dum-dum) I was always an oak girl. My preference was, for plain, light colored wood. Now I wouldn’t even put light wood in the laundry room. I’m drawn to espresso, mocha–colors like rich tasting coffees.

Is every aspect of my taste subject to such an obvious about-face?

What if I wake up one day and look, aghast, at my black clothes the way I see Navy? What if all of a sudden I want to be swathed in pastels (which I did prefer as a child)? What if I decide I’m not really a gym person?  Or a reader. Or a writer.  What if I decide I really do prefer math to English? Could I be a man trapped in a woman’s body?

Naaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. But I could very well be a lazy person trapped in a neurotic’s body. I’m pretty sure that I’m repressing my inner fat woman. Even as I type this, she’s struggling to step off the elliptical and get her chili cheese fries on.

I just hope that my taste doesn’t change in even more embarrassing ways. I don’t want turn on soap operas and be awed by the plotlines…or decide that celebrities’ lives are none of my business (The horror!).  I hope I don’t release a rap album or start to cook with butter. And please, if I decide that blue eyeshadow is actually, gorgeously ironic, please shoot me.

Let’s just hope that I don’t have to order my gym clothes in blue XXXL before the cycle of strange is complete….

Historically, summer has certain characteristics that carry over from year to year. American kids don’t go to school, for one. Tourists tour. And it’s supposed to be hot outside. This year, I’ve seen the campers, the out-of-state license plates. But I haven’t felt the heat.

In Wyoming, where it snows six to eight months a year, it’s imperative for my well being that I get good and hot for a few months. The first four years I was living here, it routinely hit 100. One hundred degrees of lovely dry heat. It worked like a charm!  It got so hot for so long that I was excited for it to get cold again.

Here’s the rub: Without a decent dose of mind-melting heat, how am I supposed to be grateful for freezing temperatures to return?  This year I am seriously lacking the will to get through the winter.

I know it’s been similar all over the country. My friends back home tell me about breezy days that should be sweltering. It’s not all bad, not having summer. But it’s not all good, waiting for the leaves to fall off the trees again when I only got to wear shorts twice, either. Maybe August will bring those third-degree sunburns I’m craving….

The wedding day came off without a hitch (well… without any major incidents). You can tell it was successful by our overjoyed expressions:

Thanks to everyone who came all this way to make our celebration so wonderful.

If there was a doubt that The Man is a suitable lifetime mate for yours truly, I have photographic evidence that should put any remaining fears to rest:

The Lord and Lady will be legally wed on 6/6/9. Hopefully the ground cover will be a bit less snowy…so the ice king and queen can look a bit less frigid!