flashingreds...
yeah, i dunno what it's all about
(2002-11-19, 10:11 a.m.)
I am an awful child.

Last night there was a card in the mail, postmarked in Springfield, Mo. I know no one there. Turns out my dad picked it up when he was on the road and dropped it in the mail. On the front was a sincere little poem about how parents feel about the middle child, how they�ve been uptight with the first and are relaxed with the middle, how it sometimes seems they don�t care, etc., but they do. Given my outburst yesterday, I was duly chastened.

(Whom was I talking to recently who said she�d tried to read a poem on a card or something, but when it rhymed, she couldn�t bear to go on? Did I maybe read it in someone�s web journal? Nonetheless, I struggled through. There were no pictures, just the poem, so clearly I had to read it in order to get the point. I kinda skipped the middle part, though, but I think it still counts.)

I did penance by hanging out with the father figure (and astronomy teacher, among other things) across the road, talking about families, birth order and family counseling based on astrological birth maps of families, all while we worked on separate projects in the wood shop. I was surprised he bought into all that, but we discussed his siblings and how each exhibited classic attributes of their particular place in the birth order. Good stuff. I also had a session on how to get a good updraft when building a fire in the woodstove when the wind is out of the south (hence coming right up the chimney), but I digress.

Later I talked to Dad on the phone, and he noted that I�ve forgotten that he was a middle child, too. He also instructed me to send a copy of the card to ewenorker. But he�s right, I do forget. Uncle Eddie died when Dad was 16, so he�s performed the role of eldest child for as long as I can remember, but it�s not a natural role for him. We don�t typically talk about real things in the family. It was odd.

I�m over myself. For now.

There is no news on the job front, as yet. I refuse to reveal how many times I checked my messages yesterday.

I confess I�m still nervous about finances and how I�ll afford things when I move to the city, but it�s not going to change. If I stayed, I�d get depressed, then end up buying some other massive piece of nonessential furniture, preventing me from saving any money anyway. See? Rationalization. And some day, someone will recognize my genius, my aptitude at being a high-powered publishing professional, and I�ll be showered with money. I�ll pay off all my debt, be lavish with gifts to my family and friends, and I�ll be a patron of the arts. Perhaps I�ll subsidize tours for bands I love�the ones on the little labels. In return, I�d ask them to come over for dinner sometimes, when they�re not on the road. I�d put on a party dress and wheel a little drink cart about.

Wait, how did I get here?

Sigh. I�m off to check in on tornadoali, the very name that will probably always change my internal soundtrack to �Flatland Boogie� by Wayne Hancock.