Handing Out Gold Stars (Blog #186)

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Earlier tonight I had a piece of food stuck in my teeth–well–in my permanent bottom retainer. You know how food gets stranded in your mouth, the way it hangs in there like a bad relationship, refuses to give up like Cher. You keep digging at the food remnant with your tongue, jabbing at it from all angles, swishing your spit around, hoping. Before long, you’ve got yourself a full-fledged hobby. Anyway, this went on for a couple hours with what I assume was a piece of tuna. Finally, I called for backup in the form of a toothpick, which quickly and easily dislodged the fishy little offender.

A toothpick–now there’s a novel idea.

Speaking of novels, I spent the evening at the library, mostly using the fast internet, but also reading. Earlier this summer I started watching TNT’s television show Will, which is about young, sexy William Shakespeare. Initially I was interested because Shakespeare was–I don’t know–a pretty good writer, but I don’t mind saying I’ve stuck with the series because of the young, sexy part. Anyway, as of today, I had three episodes left to watch, and midway through the second, I hit my mobile hotspot data limit. (When that happens, things slow way down. I can still blog, but video watching is challenging to the point that I start cussing.) So I went to library and finished the series.

Phew. Another item completed. I may have to give myself a gold star.

So I have this fear about undercooked chicken. Maybe I should start by saying I’m not the best in the kitchen–at least if we’re talking about preparing food. I mean, I don’t suck (again, at preparing food), but it’s rare that I don’t end up with a piece of shell in my bowl whenever I crack an egg. Several years ago I heard that you could put a can of beans directly on the stovetop in order to cook them, and I thought this sounded like culinary genius. Also, once while I was cutting up Velveeta cheese to microwave for cheese dip, I had a friend take away my knife because “I was doing it completely wrong.” Clearly, we all have our talents.

Anyway, anyone who can fuck up cheese dip can most certainly fuck up chicken, and I most certainly have on more than one occasion. Of course, if you’ve ever eaten undercooked chicken, you know it ain’t pretty. But what do you do? Obviously, you sit there, moan, and regret.

This may come as a surprise, but sometimes I can be a teensy bit dramatic and make things out to be a bigger deal than they really are. (I’ll give you a moment to get over the shock.) Well, earlier this year I told my sister that I was afraid of undercooking chicken, and she said, “That’s funny, it’s not complicated,” then explained the whole process. I thought, You can do this, Marcus. It’s just a damn bird. Since then, I’m proud to say, things have gone a lot better. Why, I even had chicken (and sweet potatoes and kale) for breakfast today.

Well.

When I left the library I went for a walk, first around a nearby park because there was a guy working out without his shirt on, then around a local neighborhood. Maybe thirty minutes into the walk is when my stomach started cramping. Putting both hands on my belly, I thought, Uh oh–the chicken. Immediately, I began power walking, simultaneously wondering, If I absolutely had to, could I shit in someone’s front yard and not get caught? Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. Actually, when I got to my car and sat down, the cramps got considerably better, so maybe it was just the exercise my stomach didn’t like.

For maybe a couple years I’ve had a book on my Amazon wish list called Spoons Are for Stirring Coffee by Austin Coats. I honestly don’t remember where I first heard about the book, but it’s a memoir about addiction. Several times since adding the book to my list, I’ve thought about reading it. But I’m always reading multiple books at any given time, addiction isn’t one of my favorite topics, and I figured the only reason the book kept catching my eye was because of the clever title. Anyway, for the last several days, I haven’t been able to get the title out of my head. Spoons Are for Stirring Coffee, Spoons Are for Stirring Coffee, Spoons Are for Stirring Coffee. You know how your brain puts stuff on repeat. Well, I’m always asking the universe questions, and I do believe this sort of thing (intuition) is one of the ways it can answer, so I started with Googling the author.

As it turns out, the author is from Fort Smith. That’s weird, I’m from Fort Smith too! Half expecting to hear the theme from The Twilight Zone, I looked around the room for hidden cameras and thought, Fine, you have my attention. I’ll buy the book. So now I’m a couple chapters into it, things are going fine except for the fact that the guy’s addicted to drugs, and I’ll report more later.

For the last hour and a half–the entire time I’ve been blogging–one of the virus scanners on my laptop has been downloading new virus definitions. Apparently it’s been two years since I’ve updated them. (Whoops.) Anyway, I guess the internet is really, really slow, and–oh my god, I’m not kidding–it just finished. That feels good. Another item completed. I may have to give my laptop a gold star.

Way to go, laptop.

One thing finishes, another starts. Things happen when they happen.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a hangup on completion, a big enough hangup that all my therapist has to do is say, “Completion,” and we can save about thirty minutes of dialogue because we’ve had that conversation so many times it’s not even funny. Still, it keeps coming up, so I guess we’re not completely done with the topic of completion. How’s that for ironic? Honestly, the more I live, I’m not sure that anything is ever done. I mean, I finished a television series today and picked a piece of food out of my teeth tonight after dicking around with it for two hours, but I still have a dozen other shows flagged to watch in my Netflix cue, and I plan to eat again tomorrow. One thing finishes, another starts. And as for why my stomach cramped up earlier or why I thought about buying that book for two years and finally did tonight, I can’t say. Things happen when they happen. But I’m starting to believe that the universe doesn’t hand out gold stars, at least for watching television shows or making cheese dip. If anything, the rewards come for simply braving the kitchen, for being willing to show up here in the first place.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All great heroes, at some point, surrender to the unknown.

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Ripped from a Page (Blog #138)

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This afternoon I went to physical therapy, something I’ve been doing on an almost weekly basis since someone slammed into the back of my car a month and a half ago and turned me into a real-life bobblehead doll. Honestly, physical therapy itself been going great. A couple of weeks ago I got moved from twice a week to once a week, and today I got moved to “almost done,” which means I only need to go back if I feel like it during the next month. That being said, when I walked in today, the therapist said that my posture was “almost perfect,” that my left shoulder was “a bit” high and my head was turned “slightly” to the right.

Well, shit.

Of course, part of me is thrilled with the progress (or whatever), but a bigger part of me is “a bit” stressed out and “slightly” terrified that I’m not–well–perfect. Maybe that’s my perfectionist talking. It’s difficult to say.

Yesterday I started making a dream board, also known as a vision board. It’s one of my 101 creativity assignments, and it involves collecting pictures and phrases from magazines that represent dreams I’d like to come true. (If anyone has a teeny bopper magazine filled with Zac Efron photos, please drop it in the mail to my address.) So this afternoon I went to the library, and while upstairs streaming an episode of Will (the new TV series about young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare), I searched for dream board additions in some of the free magazines I found downstairs.

When I was in junior high, I worked my ass off on an insect collection–you know the kind where you stick a pin through a dragonfly (that you caught with the lid of your parent’s barbecue grill) and another pin through a tiny piece of paper that says “dragonfly” along with the scientific name. Well, it really was great, since I’ve always been a rule follower and extremely anal retentive. HOWEVER, I got marked off four points (for a total of 96 percent) because the edges of my paper weren’t completely straight, since I’d creased the paper on the side of a table and torn it rather than using scissors. At the time, I was devastated. Looking back, I wish I’d known enough to look my teacher right in the eye and say, “Bitch please.”

Obviously, the event stuck with me. I mean, that was over twenty years ago, and I still can’t help but wonder if my life would have turned out differently if I’d gotten those four extra points. Now that I think about it, I’ve wasted a lot of time on perfectionism, which my therapist says is just another name for fear (fear of not good enough, fear of rejection). This is something I’ve been working on–letting go of being perfect–so when the instructions for the dream board said to tear (literally tear) out whatever I wanted to add to my board, it honestly felt great to rip, rip, rip the magazine pages apart and see all those jagged edges. Fuck you, 100 percent.

After gawking at young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare and working on the dream board, I ran into one of my former students with whom I always have fabulous conversations. When I talked about the blog (as I tend to do), my friend referred to my daily self-reflection as “encountering yourself,” which I think is the perfect (there’s that word again) phrase and something everyone should make an effort to do before they die.

Encounter yourself.

Before I left the library I signed up for the online course I mentioned yesterday about healing your emotional wounds. I’ll let you know how it goes, but one of the ideas presented in the lesson today was that the two natural responses to having a wound are shielding (for protection) and soothing (for healing). The guy teaching the course, Artie Wu, says that shields can show up as anger, people pleasing, and–get this–perfectionism. Soothing can show up as drugs and alcohol, food, or working or using media too much. (I wonder if binge watching hot Shakespeare counts.) None of these responses are bad in and of themselves, but the question to ask is whether the behavior hurts more than it helps. In my case, if I’m going to get real about it, the idea is that perfectionism is a way to avoid criticism (you’re not good enough) and engender praise (you’re the best boy ever). And whereas there’s nothing wrong with that strategy, it does come with a lot of baggage, like the inability to relax with crooked pictures on the wall or walk out the fucking door without every hair on my head just so.

This evening I went to hear my friend Donny play at Core Brewing Company in Fort Smith. He and some of his friends have a band called The Wren Boys, and they’re currently playing every Tuesday night. (Come join the fun.) Here’s a video from their set tonight.

While the band played, Donny’s wife, Vicki, and I discussed the idea of being playful, and as I’ve thought more about it, being playful–curious–seems to be the opposite of perfectionism. Just watching Donny and his friends, it’s the most laid back thing–off the cuff, unrehearsed–fun. And isn’t that the point–to life? I mean, where does it say that all your edges have to be straight (or even that you do)? Maybe this means that one of my shoulders will always be “a bit” higher than the other, my gaze may always be “slightly” off, but clearly I’m the only one taking points away from myself for having “almost perfect” posture. But that’s changing. Honestly, the more I encounter myself, the more I realize that all my edges are torn–almost as if something bigger than myself had ripped me from a page and dreamed that I’d come true.

[Seriously, if you have any old magazines (with or without Zac Efron) you’d like to get rid of, I’d love to have them.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If another's perspective, another's story about you is kinder than the one you're telling yourself, surely that's a story worth listening to.

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The Book of Yourself (Blog #112)

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This afternoon Bonnie and I started hanging curtains at Annie’s Pilates studio. (Are you on the edge of your seats yet?) I say started because we only got them hung in one of the two rooms, since we ran out of time because earlier we decided to 1) sleep, 2) pack to move from one Airbnb to another, and 3) eat tacos instead. Anyway, it’s all coming together. Here’s a picture of the reception area. I’m in love with the colors, as well as that awesome  coffee table and the black bowl on it that holds all the chocolate candy (not pictured).

Yesterday we made two trips to the same store to buy an essential oil diffuser for Annie, but none of us could get it to work today. So we made another trip, and while Bonnie drove, I read one of the five books I’m currently working my way through. When we got to the store, the girl behind the counter looked at us like we were idiots and didn’t know how to operate a machine with only one button on it. “You could always call the company and see if they could help you,” she said.

I immediately wanted to pull my hair out.

No.

I wanted to pull her hair out.

“We just bought this, and it clearly doesn’t work. I personally don’t want to call the company and waste any more time,” I said. So the lady ended up calling the for us, but guess what? The company was closed for the day. So rather than take a dumb store credit, we walked out not only with a broken diffuser, but also with higher blood pressure.

Think of Jesus, Marcus, think of Jesus singing Kumbaya. Come by here–me–come by here.

In need of a break, Bonnie and I checked into our second Airbnb for the week and poured ourselves a couple of beers in the frosted mugs we found in the freezer. (Talk about a classy joint!) But on the serious, this place is super duper cutie pie. (Hi, my name is Marcus, and I talk like a junior high cheerleader.) It’s a bungalow behind a main house, so it sits back off the road.

Here’s a picture of the bed, right as you walk in the door. Notice the lamps on the wall are table lamps that have been mounted sideways. (Everyone should be so lucky.) Anyway, I love creative people.

Here’s my “bedroom,” which is also the dining area. That’s a vintage lamp above the table, and the couch transforms into a bed. Also, the vinyl floor is by Allure and comes from Home Depot, which I only know because I installed one just like it once. (It’s okay if you don’t care. I really don’t either.)

Outside there’s an honest-to-god fish pond with a waterfall, which I can hear running now. It’s beautiful and relaxing, but it’s not helping me stay awake to write.

While Bonnie rested earlier this evening, I read more in The Artist’s Way. I’m currently on week four of twelve, and although I’ve been really pleased with the whole program so far, this week’s assignments include something called “reading deprivation,” which is exactly what it sounds like. No reading–for a week–seven whole days. Uh, wait, but I read all the time. I’m currently reading five different books. I’M AN OVERACHIEVER. I can’t–stop–reading. But I guess that’s the point, to give yourself a break, to focus more on what’s going on in YOUR head rather than someone else’s.

Shit. No more escaping into books.

So after a momentary internal temper tantrum (and finishing the chapter of the book I was reading in the car earlier), I stacked up my books, my Kindle, and even a magazine and shoved them to the other side of the table. Honestly, it felt like locking my own offspring outside in the cold. I’m sorry, Daddy’s got other things to do right now. But he loves you–never forget that–and will be back in a week.

For dinner Bonnie and I walked to a place called Haymaker for sandwiches and drinks. Y’all, my Bloody Mary had a Slim Jim and a piece of cheese in it. How cool is that?

Welcome to Texas!

After dinner I’d planned to attend a swing dance while Bonnie went to the first night of the Kizomba (Latin dancing) festival she’s attending this weekend. However, I was pretty wiped out and decided I could use some time to myself, since asking strangers to dance and meeting a lot of new people can take a lot out of me. So instead I went for a walk, learned a little bit more about the layout of Austin, and came back and took a bubble bath in the most adorable little bathroom you’d ever want to spend time in. Check it out.

I actually spent over an hour in the tub, something I rarely do. I dragged a little cabinet over, set my laptop on top of it, and watched the first episode of Will, TNT’s new series about William Shakespeare. Then I dried off and plopped down on the pull-out couch and watched the second. The show’s pretty good, and apparently Shakespeare was a PILF. (The P stands for playwright. Figure out the rest.) I seriously thought about binge watching all the episodes, but I’ve got this blog thing going on, so I exercised self-restraint. (It does happen occasionally, but it’s not currently happening now with regard to the potato chips I’m eating.)

At one point during the show-watching (not in the bathtub), I picked up my phone and clicked on a couple of articles that had been posted to Facebook. But in the middle of reading the second article, I remembered that I’m not supposed to be reading, so I stopped. This could be harder than I thought.

Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to this not reading thing. As much as I enjoy reading, it’s always on my “to-do” list. I see all the books I own and all the others on my Amazon Wish List, and it feels like I’ll never get them all read. (I hate to break it to you, Marcus, but you probably won’t.) So there’s always a slight amount of internal pressure–read more, learn more, grow more, BE MORE! The thought of shutting that down for a week sounds nice. Plus, it will give me more time to do other things–practice yoga, sing Kumbaya, get mounted sideways.

A girl can dream.

The more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside you, the happier you are.

When I first started therapy, my therapist told me she didn’t have any friends with whom she spoke every single day. Even with her best friends, she said, they only spoke once a week, twice tops. “I spend that time with myself,” she said, “I work on myself.” Well, at the time this wisdom was easy enough in theory but harder in practice. I had a number of friends with whom I spoke or communicated with daily, and I couldn’t see that changing. However, eventually, all those relationships failed or morphed into something else. As a consequence, I’ve spent a lot of time alone over the last three years. Sometimes it’s been difficult, of course, but I know myself better now than I ever have. As it turns out, the more you get to know yourself, the more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside of you, the happier you are. If you stay on the right path long enough, I imagine you get to a point when you don’t have to have all the distractions–watching television, texting with friends, reading five books at once. Rather, you simply read the book of yourself, the only book you truly can’t do without.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Storms don’t define us, they refine us.

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