A List of Lists

(as in, literally a list of lists, not as in the best list that ever was list to end all lists)

Dear Sister,

Err...Hi? Long time no blog? *Sheepish smile*

I don't have a good excuse for my lack of presence on the blogosphere. I've been getting two, that's right two whole days off a week. Can you believe it? I basically don't know what to do with myself, which I realize is an incriminating thing to say since your answer will be "post me a blog!" or "blog me a post!" (Both of which, as we've discussed, are accurate and acceptable uses of both post and blog.)

What I've actually been doing with my time off is trying to figure out what to do with my life. It's a rather daunting task, and leaves me overwhelmed and, as you witnessed the other day, somewhat panicky. Okay, true, somewhat is an understatement. Although, I'm happy to report, I have yet to have a panic attack today. So, go me!

How do I deal with said panic attacks, you ask? (After I call you, I mean.) Well, KA1 (as I have three good friends with those initials and cannot think of a better pseudonym but will edit this later when I have thought of one) asked me what I was panicking about and I replied: job, making rent, student loans, friends, new city, boyfriends (or lack thereof and confusion about)-- this is the point at which she stopped me, and pointed out an obvious fact: that would give anyone a panic attack.

Oh, right, duh. Thinking about everything at once does induce panic attacks in even the saniest of the sane. So, I need to focus on one thing at a time. How did I do this? Lists! (Again, duh).

And because you like lists, I like lists-- we all scream for lists-- here they are:

To Do List (comprehensive, ongoing).

Job-related To Do List

(you'll notice, "find one" is not on there. Hey, I can only control so much.)

Writing Sample Blog To Do List

Places to Apply To List

(The blank space after each--that's for writing details and updates about. Err..Haven't gotten that far, is all).

Things Not To Worry About Yet List

(AKA Things That Give Me Panic Attacks List)

Things To Blog To Aila About

(Editor's note: For video of apartment please see "I've Been Busy")

There are more (Apartment Wish List, Non-Apartment Wish List, Things To Get Done Before DC Trip, Things To Clean), but they are mostly in my head and I'll spare you (sorta). You probably noticed, most of the To Do lists are, well, mostly un-done. But the thing is, just getting it out of my head and onto paper actually does quite a bit to calm me down. Which leads me to the conclusion that there is just too much going on in my head. Also, I really like checking things off and crossing things out. Sometimes I even make lists of mostly things I've already accomplished, just so I can cross them off.

Hmm...I think there was something else I wanted to tell you, that I thought of earlier but didn't write down because I had no pen near me...And now I've forgotten. Darn.

love,

your list-happy, panic-prone, back-to-blogging sister

can I embed video into this blog?

Dear sister,

This is the short (15 seconds) video that, when I tried to email, turned out to be a huge file. The question is, can I figure out how to embed it here?



If the answer is yes, what you see is me learning a new skill, and then saying "I don't think I did that right" (which I hadn't - I raised it up too early), which is then why OAF starts laughing.

Love,
your sister

35 degrees? I thought it was supposed to be cold up here.

Dear sister,

Thanks for your response. As you already know, I told PecanMama to read it because I knew it would make her cry. I would tell StrongDad too, but I know he would repeat some variation on the age-old question, "Wait, you girls have a blog?" and I don't feel like answering again. It's not like it was his birthday present or anything. Sheesh. What good is a birthday present that is ostensibly for someone else even though it really serves to fulfill your own selfish purposes if that someone else doesn't even remember they were given it? (Guess that photo of Nancy Anderson just eclipsed all else.)

Speaking of presents, here's your long-awaited round-up of what was waiting for me at the apt when I arrived:

First, Teddy made some new friends:

Myles the Moose and a puppy! I haven't named her yet. Maybe something like Blacknose? Strongfoot? The husky-who-actually-looks-like-a-husky?

Various kitchen supplies:

A book on cheese making (because I want to learn how to make cheese), a thermos which has yet to, but will certainly soon, hold a lot of hot chocolate, and a cast-iron muffin tin (which I was too lazy to go get for the photo, because it's already upstairs in use).

Various snow supplies:

Snow overalls, long underwear (top and bottom!), head lamp (not for spelunking, I asked), and the infamous snow skirt - my new favorite piece of clothing. Missing from the picture: two left-handed gloves (OAF: "Oops.")

Not to be confused with, various emergency snow supplies:

Wool blanket, heat pads, and 5 (?) gloves.

And finally:

From OAF (well, plus all of the above): my very own poser sweatshirt. Now I just have to live up to the label. And from OAF's mother, a pair of warm slippers to keep my feet warm. They are cow hide with deer skin inserts, beaver fur tops, and wolverine/lynx ruffs. At first, based on my upside-down-chicken-roasting "experiment," I thought I should keep a list of "animals I've learned to cook." Then I thought I'd also have to keep a list of "animals I've seen (alive)" while out and about up here. I never thought of keeping an "animals I've worn" list, but ... so far that one is longer than either of the two above.

Love,
your sus-sister (As in, suspicious sister: why is it 35 degrees here?)

Outlining

Dear Frister (that’s freezing sister, as I assume you must be),

You know what’s funny? I actually remember some of those too! I mean, clearly I don’t remember being in the car seat and grabbing your finger, but I think I might actually remember the seat belt excitement, or perhaps I was similarly allowed to unbuckle my seat belt to get Super Tiger his bottle at some point, and found it equally as astounding. But, I can say, quite certainly, that I do remember the kitchen story. And I remember thinking two things: 1) don’t be ridiculous, I have not replaced you and 2) huh, pretty cool, I’m being like Liz! Oh, and a third—3) here, have your spot back. These folks be crazy. You deal with ‘em.

I’ll be honest—I can’t think of an adequate response to your last post. The reason being, well…it was just an awesome post. I tried to brainstorm, but my thoughts kept going back to yours, and morphing themselves into something that would really just be a mimicry. And then I realized—oh, right, that’s what I do.

Here’s the thing—the best thing’s I’ve written are modeled after things you’ve written. 7 Miles to Manilow was the back-bone of both my funeral story and my leg story (hm, yes, I know my writing is somewhat morbid). I’ve had 7 Miles to Manilow stuck in my brain since I read it, and it’s probably somewhere in everything I’ve written. So is the purgatory story you wrote—that one just boggles my mind. I can’t think about it too much because it hurts my brain, and then I try to think about how your brain must work in order to have written that, and that hurts my brain even worse. I always assumed that you and I had the same brain, until I read that story. It was at that point that I realized that your brain does things that mine cannot. Crazy, cool, mind-boggling things.

There are other examples, but those two make my point. You told me that my leg story was a better version of your 7 Miles to Manilow, but you’re wrong. It’s not better, it’s just my version. And here is the thing, it’s only good because it’s based on you. And I think that’s sort of how it works in life. You do something, and then I use that as my outline, maybe make a few adjustments (like going abroad for a semester instead of a year) but basically just put my own spin on it. And I’m always, always trying to wrap my head around your cyclical double story and create something even half as, for lack of a better word, cool as that.

What I’m trying to say is it’s always easier to write from an outline than a blank piece of paper. So thanks.

Love,

Your can’t-wait-to-hear-all-about-the-igloos sister

this is not goodbye; or, three memories, two of which appropriately enough (for us) take place in a car

My dear sister,

I want to tell you about three memories I have.

The first is from when our parents were still together, because they were both in the front seats of the car. You and I were in the back – you were in your car seat, and you were new, because I was torn between watching this thing squirming beside me and watching out the window, looking for the red tipped hat of the gnome who lived outside our car (I’ll explain the gnome-world another time). There you were, squirming and squinching and quite probably getting ready to start screaming again. I wasn’t really sure what to make of you, but there you were. The baby. Our baby, as I’d been told. And I wasn’t really considering what all this would mean – I was just watching you flail around a little bit – until you did something that explained it all to me. I reached out to touch you and you grabbed my finger. You wrapped your whole hand around my pointer finger and you held on, with warmth and softness and yes, strength. And it was then that I finally realized, without searching for it, “Oh – this baby changes everything.”

The second memory is also in a car, but this time our parents are divorced because Mama isn’t there. Dad is driving, and I am in the front seat next to him, and you are once again in your car seat in the back. You are little, because you still need a special seat and you still flail around a lot, but you are older too, because now your flails have a lot more kick to them. We are driving to Syracuse, I think, to spend Christmas with Dad’s sister. Dad and I are talking – about the ice on the trees, the cars on the road, maybe the meaning of Christmas or the legend of Santa Claus (I don’t remember when I knew it wasn’t real, but you know I don’t consider that to be synonymous with ceasing to believe). You started screaming. Well, maybe just fussing, but to my untrained four year-old ears, it all fell under the category of things-the-baby-does-that-I’m-not-allowed-to-do. Dad said you wanted your bottle. It was in the back next to you, but you couldn’t reach it. Dad looked around and said I should climb in the back to give it to you. I took the opportunity to point out the obvious flaw in this plan: with my seatbelt on it was physically impossible to climb into the back seat. Dad said I should take my seatbelt off. I stared at him. He was serious. Blinking with incredulous bewilderment, I broke all the rules of driving, unbuckled my seatbelt, climbed into the back so I could give you your bottle, and realized, “Well – the divorce changes everything.”

The last memory is much farther along in our lives. I had just gotten back from my college year abroad in France and, in the midst of dealing with much culture shock and a recent heartbreak, was at Shore St with you and the family. I had never lived so far away, for so long a time, with so little contact. True, you and I had grown up traveling from one family to the other and then back again, sometimes concurrently and sometimes like ships in the night. But this was different – this was a time spent away in a world whose only strings tying it to my previous life where those I could consciously make on my own. This was before gchat and Skype, remember, and when cell phones were carried in case of emergency and otherwise ignored. You had been to visit, once (with a recovering case of mono, you trouper) and so had some of the parentals and familial others. Still, in France I had known a new sense of individual separation that caused me to grow, and to learn, and to realize things about myself and the world and myself in the world and I was all the more shocked to discover that some aspects of this isolation, for better or for worse, had come home with me to New England. I was surrounded by the family I knew and loved but had no idea of how to fit back in. We were in the kitchen – there was some kind of chaos going on – and I thought, “Well, finally. This is where I fit in: I know how to do this, to solve these problems in this way.” And while I was thinking this, you picked up the phone, called the appropriate people, and re-set the gears moving in their own clunky-but-greased kind of way. And so I realized, “Well – everything has changed, once again.”

I give you these memories not to wax nostalgic on the eve of my departure nor to transfer any amount of responsibility, burden, or sense of necessity onto your shoulders. I simply wanted to tell you that everything will be alright. First, we are joined as sisters in a way that no distance, no time, and no boys can undo. (Sorry boys, but it’s true.) Second, while it is true that for every bond that is made in this world another is broken, this is not to suggest that the things that end can cause nothing but hardship. Sometimes we learn from them. Sometimes it is the only way things can get better. (Sometimes it means we get to break some well-established safety rules.) And sometimes the things that fall apart end up drawing us closer together.

Finally, thirdly, with as much support as I’ve given you over the years and as much as I’d like to take credit for all the good aspects of your development into a unique, creative, caring, wonderful human being (I’ll leave the blame for all the other aspects to someone else, because this is our blog and I can do that here), I know that you will always be ok without me. I know this because sometimes you have shouted it with your actions, and sometimes you have whispered it with your eyes. I know this because you have, somewhat stubbornly and at times defiantly, always insisted on forging your own path. I know this because you have nonetheless always had the strength, the persistence, and the love to make sure that this path, your own path, was nevertheless never too disconnected from mine.

I am going far away. For a while now our shared memories will have to be built over the phone, over this blog, over Skype. All this new-fangled technology we never had as kids, growing up in separate households, catching glimpses of each other on the weekends, sharing secrets and stories and advice and putting our two separate worlds together to try and re-achieve that one, elusive, coherent whole. I am going now to explore a little bit more of the world, to build more of my own separate sphere, but always, and forever, to share it with you.

Love,
your more-afraid-of-flying-than-of-bears sister

one of these pairs is not like the others

Dear sister,


Love,
your packing-now-because-i-accidentally-took-a-two-hour-nap-after-you-left-this-morning sister

Dear sister,
Getting ready for the Nutcracker this weekend has me thinking about the details. There are so many components of the holiday season that I love: music, candles, nature, warmth, food, decoration and crafts, fires (in fireplaces, of course), sweets, family …



Part of why I’ve always loved the Nutcracker is that it encapsulates so many of these elements at their prime: the lavish decorations and elegant costumes of the Act 1 party scene contrasted with the evocation of natural beauty in the Act 1 snow finale, the warmth, excitement, and colors of the candy divertissements in Act 2, and of course, that ever-present, ever-recognizable music throughout. Putting on a production of Nutcracker, like putting on another classic like Christmas Carol, is an excuse to go to the most pithy of Christmas elements, to draw on the most explicit of the symbols and ideas, to attempt to produce in the audience’s eyes, ears, and hearts the epitome of the Christmas spirit.



And with all that said, another main reason I like Nutcracker so much is because the Act 2 dances encourage my OCD tendencies with a celebration of all the things I hold dear (music, color, dancing, candy) neatly packaged into short, labeled, color-coded packages. Chocolate = Spanish = trumpet solo = red and black tutu. Coffee = Arabian = heavy on the sultry clarinet = deep, jeweled blues and greens. Tea = Chinese = flute trills and quickly plucked violin strings = bright yellow and pink. And so on.



It’s always bothered me slightly that things start to break down after those first three … Marzipan has no associated ethnicity ... Waltz of the Flowers has nothing to do with food … and what drink or candy is Russian supposed to represent, anyway? (Vodka?) And obviously, this is all begging for problematic “ethnic interpretations” by a corps of white, European ballet dancers.



But it’s Christmas, so we overlook the painted mustaches of the Chinese dancers and the see-through Arabian harem pants, and focus instead of how these details come together to paint an overall picture for us, one of imagination and mystery and adventure and, yes, a safe return to the warmth and open arms of home.



Finding myself immersed in all these details has been hard for me this Christmas. I’m spending just as much time sitting by the fireside knitting as I am in the basement, sorting and packing and stowing away. It’s hard to take pleasure in the little delights of the holidays when the big picture to which they add up is at best blurry and out-of-focus. (When I’m having a bad day, it feels more like someone sponge-painted over it with splotches of dark gray – or at worst, erased all together.) There is a bigger picture there, of this I am sure, but right now all I can see is the disparate, disassociated elements.

I can take some solace in lists and labels – what to pack and what to store, what to mail and what to give away. (I have another box for you to look through, by the way. I think some of it might already be yours, actually … I was just babysitting it for you for a while.)

But eventually, I have to leave the basement for the kitchen and the living room and the rehearsal studio – where things are a little more messy and often a lot more unfocused. That’s where the music and the laughter is, the chocolate and the candles, the Christmas tree and the latkes and the knitting and the firesides. And even if the bigger picture seems out of reach right now, I try to have hope in the direction that these little details point me: towards imagination and mystery and adventure and, yes, a happy return to the open arms of family and home.



Love,
your can’t-wait-to-see-you-next-week-and-oh-yeah-I-think-that's-your-blue-shirt-in-my-closet sister