Road to Recovery — Midnight Juggernauts

I took this photo at the Seattle Marathon over a week ago. Your first instinct — “Marathon? Perhaps she meant to say ‘casserole-eating contest’?” — is entirely correct. Marathons are to Marika as thought is to Sarah Palin: painful, confusing, and alien. Someone asked me what my price would be to run a marathon, and in the end, it was simple. I wanted three things:

1. To rule the country of my choosing as a benevolent dictator.

2. To fund my own space program and become a cosmonaut.

3. To look like Joan Holloway from Mad Men at whim.

(Runner-up: Own a mythical creature.)

To recap: I will run a marathon when I’m a red-haired, space-exploring, Qaddafi-like sexpot who domesticates krakens and minotaurs. Pretty sure that translates to “never ever ever.”

In any case, my 64-year old bad ass of a mom ran the half-marathon, as she does every year, and we met her at the finish line. There were runners everywhere, wrapped up like shiny human satellites, smiling and shivering in their spacey Heatsheets. We walked with my parents to the recovery area (see: above), something I’d envisioned as a giant hall with cots where runners went to die in public. Instead, it was an unsurprising giant hall-slash-corporate mini-mall.

Jolly jazzy-jazz blared forth from the speakers, filling the room with jarring holiday merriment; the music got me in a seasonal mood, but hundreds of sweaty, spandex-clad people made it seem like Christmas in July. We wandered around as booths were quickly set up; healthy corporate America had come a-swaggin’. A tent city of dairy queens handed out chocolate milk, while volunteers handed out bananas next to them. Fruit cups were thrust into our path, as were power bars and water bottles. I walked past a booth for sampling liquid flavored energy — pomegranate! lavender! lime! — and thought, ‘All this swag for wrecking the human knees? How awfully sweet!’

From there we headed to Belltown, in the direction of Etta’s Seafood, wherein my brother works his culinary magic. With time to kill before the reservation, we walked through Pike Place Market; however, I never last long with a Sur la Table across the street, so the Esq and I booked it in that direction. A quick jaunt through the store turned me into Homer Simpson — popover paaaaaans, drooooooool — and I added a few things to my Christmas list. Our family brunch afterward was delicious; I had Dungeoness Crab Eggs Benedict, which rocked my fuzzy socks off.

I came home and wondered what it would take for me to do the half-marathon. This time, my list of three looked different:

1. Outfit the mouth with a junk food bouncer. Pay holiday overtime after 7pm.

2. Increase heart rate through movement, and not just zombie films. In other words, exercise.

3. Buy action-specific sneakers. Use them for training and/or fleeing during zombie apocalypse.

(Runner up: Get support.)

I’m not committing to anything; there are some things I need to research before declaring I’m fucking insane. I’m sorely out of shape, and know that reversing the flow of carb overload is a slow and deliberate process. But I know I need a change, and also a goal. This could be the goal I’ve been cravoiding! That’s craving and avoiding, for those of you new to word hybridization.

Or maybe there’s not enough oxygen getting to my brain and I’m having some kind of stroke. That actually makes more sense.

Then I dove into a question that felt smarter somehow, by instead wondering, ‘Why am I?’ Getting to the source of why I was consistently, regrettably, hideously myself felt like something a grown-up might do, but it only resembled self-assessment. So I figured out what to blame — drugs, men, money, luck, the mean skinny girls in high school — and surprisingly, nothing changed. Finger-pointing does nothing except give the second digits a job.

Recently, I’ve been pondering other questions, like where do questions come from? Why are they important? How do I ask the right ones? When will the answers do something other than keep me confused while I stall for more time?

I’ve always felt displaced on this particular planet, like an amnesiac extra terrestrial awaiting further orders. Even when I’m doing life The Right Way — paying taxes, eating right, getting sleep, contributing to society, keeping my nose drug-free and my shitty tweets clean — I still feel like I’m doing it Your Right Way. Many of us have been conditioned and encouraged (or maybe programmed and pushed) to seek a 1950’s American dream: school, job, marriage, house, kids, retirement, death — plus a vague and boring afterlife, somewhere in the sky.

I never felt affected by this mainstream pressure until I found out I was pregnant at 21. Older women would look at my left ring finger for that sparkly sign of legitimacy, and when they saw I was woefully (immorally!) alone, the tone went downhill fast. I started lying about being married at the start of my second trimester; it was easier to be a liar than to be doing it wrong.

I thought a Monday-to-Friday job would make me somehow normal, despite knowing unhappy office monkeys who abhorred the daily grind. Still I envied them their health insurance — that was the gold star standard in the eyes of a society I felt was judging me. Health insurance directly translated in my mind to invisible protection from things one can’t control…

…and yet I got married anyway. I hoped it would be the catapult into normalcy I craved. How eager I was to declare my sameness to everybody else. Fuck being a special and unique human snowflake, I couldn’t wait to settle down into the average American struggle. Look at me, doing stuff that other people do! I’m married! I’m miserable! I’m finally one of you!

All it did was magnify my greatest character flaws, and inflate the insanity quotient in my life. Like ten times over.

I’ve left a lot of schools, held too many jobs, been married and divorced, and cheated death a dozen times. Doing it The Right Way hasn’t panned out so far. Molding yourself like resistant putty into the shape of something “acceptable” never has and never will. That’s something I struggle with every day — that and maintaining a reasonable daily carbohydrate dosage. (P.S. Potato chips are the devil.)

Looking back on the struggles I’ve had, the previous questions don’t seem so important. It doesn’t matter who or why I am, because I am, regardless. Now I ask myself, can I recognize the truth in every disguise? Can I stay curious when I want to shut down? What would it take for me to change direction? How can I include all of myself, all of the time? These are questions that actually have answers — they don’t exist just for themselves.

Worrying and answer-hunting look like different animals, but they’re fraternal twins and lifelong roommates. When we worry, it’s because we’re concerned — fear of the worst, of what’s to come, of not really knowing — but it’s also an action step. When I worry, it feels like I’m doing something… but the truth is, I’m not. I’m just dancing around in a circle of pain, making things worse.

When I seek answers to open-ended, self-serving questions, I get open-ended, self-serving answers. I’m just spinning in a trapezoid, spewing out question marks, never getting anywhere. It’s just another version of doing something without moving forward.

We’re so conditioned towards the Doing, Having, Being mindset. It’s highly American, and previous generations have subscribed to it wholeheartedly. If we DO DO DO, then we’ll HAVE HAVE HAVE, which should later on lead to BEING. The truth is, most people stop at Having; that was their only goal in the first place. ‘Why go further, what’s the point? I own things now, life is good! Look at all my STUFF!’ Stuff burns up in the blink of an eye. Stuff doesn’t fulfill.

For me, life works better — and I’m a happier person — when I strive for Being first, Doing next, and Having last. I can have all the shit I want, but it won’t make me happy. (Okay, it will make me happy for a bit — I’m as materialistic as the next Imelda Marcos — but Owning Things and Having Stuff only guarantees a need for more storage.)

I’m just trying to learn and have a less-complicated life, one I actually have a hand in shaping. I’m striving to be more compassionate, and I want to get good at being. By the way, I’m also levitating! It’s easy to do when you’re spiritually superior to everyone.

I died as a mineral and became a plant,
I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was Man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
(Rumi)

A member of our extended family left this world yesterday on a mule-shaped rocket made of caffeinated stars. Being sound of mind and pure of soul, it was something he chose to do. Thanks again, Oregon, for being lawfully awesome.

Cancer is a ninja, and then a wrecking ball. It creeps into your life until you look around and realize: it’s everywhere, every day, all the fucking time. My Facebook and Twitter feeds are rife with cancer journeys, cancer awareness, necessary fundraising, emotional updates, battles won and battles lost. As I get older, I know more and more people affected by cancer — or hear about it, after the fact, like “Oh, you didn’t know?” — which feels like holding on to an 80-pound fish during a log-rolling contest on an ocean made of chainsaws.

Can I just state the very-fucking-obvious? I don’t like cancer. No one does. It’s the friend who drinks all your booze at a party and then passes out naked on the kitchen table. I mean, yeah sure, I’ve done that — but it’s not like I woke up the next day, tied you to a stake, and lit you on fire to slowly watch you burn. Cancer does all that and then leaves you with the check. It’s inconsiderate, unfeeling, unstable, un-medicated. It exists for itself alone, and grows in humans like parasitic mistletoe on parade. I hate cancer with every molecule that exists in the universe.

(The reality is: it exists. And it’s helped people in other ways, in the Learning About Oneself and Getting The Most Out of Life departments. Still doesn’t mean I’m a fan.)

This assisted-suicide business is glaringly intense, but I support it. It’s an individual choice about managing pain and how you want to experience the last moments of your life. A good man — a brilliant doctor, dad, husband, human — made the best choice for himself yesterday. No more unmanageable pain, no drawn-out terror for the entire family. I know that nothing can prepare you for the reality of death, the finality of that moment, but surely there is gratitude and relief at having sweet autonomy? To see a fork in the road, instead of one long, unending path? This was a celebration of someone controlling their own destiny, eyes wide open. To walk with open arms towards death, to welcome it in the presence of family; it’s fucking courageous. It’s eye-opening and confusing and crazy and realistic. It’s a lot of things.

In the end, of course I made it about me. What if this happened to my dad? My mom? What about my siblings, or my boyfriend? What if I was faced with this kind of decision? Who would take care of our stable of unicorns?! DEAR GOD, HOW COULD I EVER–

–it doesn’t matter. The mind is not on our side; it’s kind of a drama queen. What matters in life is now. So many things could happen in the future; to imagine each one of them, especially the worst, is to condemn myself to a lifetime of worry. I’ll cross those yellow-bricked bridges if I have to, and only when they appear.

Right now I just want to honor this family member. Joe’s life was extraordinary, in every sense of the word. He will always be remembered, celebrated, missed, and seen on YouTube.

I don’t really know why I blog. I know why I write, in private and off-line [I have to or I will die; my withered soul demands it; I must, I must, I must] but blogging has changed, and I (Robot) with it.

My focus has changed — well, truthfully, I’ve changed. I’m happier, and moving towards something more professionally meaningful. I’m hacking away at the dead weight of toxic ideas, human lard, unhealthy people, and a lifetime of negativity. I still vow to out-snark you and drop f-bombs on your mom — but I’m less Snotty McSnotterson, if you get what I mean. I haven’t shed that persona altogether — no, not a chance — but I need to make room for new ones. Maybe even ones that serve the whole me and not just my angry face.

So I’m in the middle of re-branding. I know you’re thinking, “Re-branding? Why do you sound like a corporate penis machine that’s violating me in the eye socket?” First off, that’s what people like me and the guy from those Saw movies think of as “fun.” Second, I need help incorporating everything that’s important to me in a way that works for everyone. Luckily, I’ve got an awesome brand strategist (and former boss-turned-friend) who I worked for at Navigating Cancer, and she gets what I’m wanting to do: basically me times a billion, doing what I do best.  You’ll just have to see how my definition of “best” will manifest itself.

What’s the theme? Everything awesome and nothing lame; a hamlet of that which I’m mental for mixed with guts, mirth, and sucrose in a rainbow plenisphere. What do I love about this new project? 1) It’s collaborative. 2) The possibilities are endless. 3) It comes with a new haircut and color.

While I was at Breitenbush in September, I asked Kali to transform my armor — the invisible cloak I use to deflect and hide myself in various ways (something we all do) — into a hug I give myself. Had I the power to turn back time, I might have rephrased my request to sound much, much cooler — but even Cher can’t turn back time, so I’m not really going to worry about it.

My new website is a big part of this cheesetastic hug I crave. In feeding you, the internet, I forget to feed myself. I don’t mean like my boyfriend, who literally forgets to eat while gaming (MADNESS) — I mean the internal wonky parts that make this brain car go… O Beating Heart,  O Thunkin’ Mind, O Languorous Yellow-Bellied Liver! Finally, a project that celebrates you, me, and The American Way! (Just kidding. It only serves me.)

One thing I’m looking forward to is collaborating with my younger brother; he’s a fantastic chef who works for Tom Douglas. I’m excited to introduce him to the softer side of this series of interconnected tubes.

I’ve still got posts to write on this blog, which will happen over the next month or so. In January, my goal is to point you in a new direction — towards my freshly-birthed website, which is going to be fun, DAMN IT — and let the potato chips fall where they may. Hopefully in my mouth.

To all 14 of you reading (Hello, family!), it’s been a weird, wild ride. Thanks for being witness to my ever-present growing pains; I know it was painful for you, too. Snotty McSnotterson isn’t dead — though she took her last bow on Twitter last night — but she deserves an early retirement. Anger is tiring.

Cheers, mates!

Marika

Not that I ever stopped loving them, but getting caught up in the 24/7 Tilt-A-Whirl of the internets will put that love of page and paper on the backburner indefinitely. I’d look at my books and think, ‘There’s not enough tiiiime!’ and then go sit in front of my computer for three mind-numbing hours. You know, watching YouTube videos. Squealing at zooborns. Reading nerd-related crap. Tweeting. Slagging off, basically.

My gateway back to books was The New Yorker. Yeah, I know, that’s not a book — but it’s not US Weekly, either. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve also bought some interesting books for my coffee table, since it was crying for new titles. Yes, my furniture emotes.

Here’s a few of my favorites:

The L.L. Bean Game & Fish Cookbook (Angus Cameron + Judith Jones)

Finally, a cookbook for all the big game I’ve got lying around. Remember that antelope I shot, or the bear I killed with my own bare hands? They’ll be marinated in no time! And who wouldn’t love Squirrel Cobbler, or Raccoon Pie? Without a doubt, this is the most resourceful cookbook I have ever read. The Esq likes it, too! “It’s pretty rad we have a cookbook with actual dolphin recipes in it,” said he. And sharks. And muskrats. And musk ox, woodchuck, caribou, beaver. I’m probably going to stick to the ‘fresh fish’ section.

The Superior Person’s Book of Words (Peter Bowler)

If you’re not sure what the words quim or zugzwang mean, Peter Bowler thinks you’re an Inferior Person. I don’t think you’re inferior; I just assume you’re not acquainted with female genitalia slang or combinatorial game theory. But guess who is? Peter Bowler. Superior!

The New Yorker Album of Art & Artists (The New Yorker)

This one has art in it. From The New Yorker.

Speaking of, I’ve read some of the most inspiring, insane, delicious, hysterical, informative stories in that magazine lately. And one isn’t easy to get through. You think it’s going to be fine, like a normal publication, with ads you ignore and articles you skip to get to the good stuff, i.e.; photos of what Team Edward ate for breakfast. Instead, I’ve been glued to every article whether the subject appealed or not; whatever the angle, it has always engaged. And now I have stacks and stacks of them — thanks to hoarding Arturo! — to throw onto my bed and swim around in, naked. (They’re the closest thing I have to cash.)

If you have any book recommendations — of the non-coffee table variety — leave a comment or shoot me an email. I’m also fixing to start a book club where I’m the scary dictator who makes you read and learn and eat cake, yay! If you’re far away but interested, I’m going to make it accessible online — though not the cake, sorry — so let me know if you’d like to be dictated to. Doesn’t that sound lovely?

I’ve recruited three similarly gifted fake musicians who will lead me to VH1 victory: Artosaurus is a well-known acoustic drummer; he’s been on the scene for years. My partner, J-Bot, plays a mean keytar; he’s got a minor in Hybrid Instruments from BYU. And Kayem Wai is classically-trained in the elusive holophoner; she’s one of five people in the world that have mastered this instrument. Me, I’m rocking the electric ukulanjo — it’s a ukulele with banjo twang and occasional feedback. I had a hard time choosing between the two, so J-Bot used his hybrid skills to hook me up.

The only single we’ve produced so far is ‘I Didn’t Hear Any Ooze,’ which is both upbeat and catatonic. While the title is technically good news, it’s also about zombies.

Being in a fake band is good for my fake confidence.

Cream cheese pound cake with vanilla-Grand Marnier whipped cream + summer berries

One thing to learn before baking a wedding cake:

Maybe don’t offer to bake people wedding cakes.

Cream cheese pound cake soaked in Grand Marnier simple syrup served w/ strawberry coulis

A few things I discovered during The Great Cake-Baking of 2010:

1. I am terrible at time management. See also: keeping cool under pressure, math, wearing a shoe that is not a sneaker, and staying positive.

2. Every hobby I discover and love is doubly more expensive than the last. I imagine my next hobby will be specialized camel breeding.

3. The straw that breaks the human spirit will always be something small and barely worthy of concern. I named mine The Dowel Tragicomedy (Volumes 1-12) and left it at that.

The Cake

The Cake consisted of three tiers:

Top – Three layers of dark chocolate cake, two layers of mousse filling.

Middle – Two layers of golden butter cake, one layer of white chocolate-cream cheese filling.

Bottom – Three layers of dark chocolate cake, one layer of dark chocolate ganache filling, one layer of mousse filling.

Frosted with a semi-sweet dark chocolate ganache. Major drool.

Final product. Cake topper consisted of their old iPhones.

One thing to know about baking a wedding cake:

Having fun is possible. A nervous breakdown is inevitable.

I did better than I thought. Raised my voice to shattering levels under five times, and only cried once. Those goddamn dowels.

Through it all was the Esq — washing dishes, leveling cakes, setting timers, running to the store, making coulis, and keeping me calm. We make a good team — kind of Laurel and Hardy-ish, or maybe King Kong and Jessica Lange (I like the 1976 version best), though the Esq would have to be Jessica Lange, and that’s kind of adorable and demeaning.

When I asked him what team he would compare us to, he thought about it and said, “I could go with Sarah Conner and the Terminator. You know, “I was sworn to protect her?” And I kind of sat there, blinking.

Without him, none of this would have happened, so it’s mostly thanks to him the cakes were baked and no one was killed. And I had fun doing it, and would probably do it again — sans the Esq, of course. That is my reward to him for all his help: He never has to help again.

One thing to remember after baking a wedding cake:

Missing the bachelorette party (you’d make an ass out of yourself, anyway — and you’ll save money!), missing the wedding (you’ll manage to see the ceremony video — thanks, Technology!), and freaking out for a week is totally worth it…

When the couple is worth the effort.

When you believe they belong to a secret underground society for unfairly-overmatched couples, where they probably get together with other perfect pairs and watch America’s Funniest Home Videos.

When you’re rooting for them to make it, like truffle pig rooting, or Superbowl rooting, or internet rewting.

When you think that being around them makes all relationships stronger, or maybe you secretly hope so.

When their relationship seems like destiny, even though you don’t believe in destiny; when it seems like luck, but you don’t believe in luck.

When the couple is admirable. Plucky. Sweet. Inventive. Cool. Bad ass. Deserving. (And above all else: FUN.)

When you believe their future will be sweeter than the cakes you’re baking.

Thanks for making it look easy, Prestons! You’re just a pair of horribly awesome hope-givers. Congratulations!

In other words, we didn’t hit the bum passed out in the street. I could tell the driver wanted to (we all did, really) — hey, the guy next to me was in a hurry to buy smokes and his break was only so long — but she was reduced to honking and waving her arm fat loosely out the window.

Finally, a police officer said the magic removal words, and up rose the urine-covered wildebeest in a trench coat favored by Green River Killers and Inspector Gadgets alike.

He ambled away, somewhat crookedly, righting himself on a garbage can. I waved when we made eye contact because it seemed like the nice thing to do, but we both knew it was bullshit. I just put my hand in the air, where it didn’t actually move. I felt like my five-year old self, pretending to be an Indian.

‘HOW,’ I seemed to be asking, not wanting to know the answer.

‘Who cares?’ his face replied, not wanting to know, either.

…became a clown car for miniature humans (in matching neon t-shirts), and their chipper, teenage overlords.

With a warm blast of heat that smelled of sour milk, strawberry gum, and sun-warmed poop, the Generic Neighborhood Day Camp invaded the bus. Our bus. My bus.

This is what I imagine the South smells like.

I stopped counting the number of children at around 42. There were two kids per seat, and they filled up the entire back section, which is really a whole bus by itself. I thought, ‘My stop is coming up soon — surely this is tolerable.’

That’s when the next batch of stanky kids got on. Chaos followed.

One, two, three, four, twelve, thirty-two — when would this clown car madness end? Panic seeped into my heart about the next day’s headlines: ‘Woman Suffocates To Death By Adorable, Strawberry-Scented Bus Bairns’ was the one I worried about most.

My bus stop came swiftly like the death I’d been praying for. The little girls around me screamed, “BYE MISS LADY!” as I exited the womb of Octobus. I looked into the window as the bus drove away, and five little people made faces at me.

Miss Lady’s heart of darkness warmed at the sight of these faces, stretched into menacing glares of perpetual silliness. I waved at the back of the bus, laughing.

…went through at least twelve major olfactory revolutions, beginning and ending in vomit.

The revolutions were as follows:

Dude, There’s Vomit On Your Boot

Cigarette Smoke For Everyone!

Unwashed Butthole Madness

Victoria’s Secret ‘Passionfruit Surprise’ Smells Cheap and Lasts Forever

Peanut Butter-Banana Sandwich, You Enrage Me

That Coffee Breath Isn’t Doing Much For Your Morning Breath

Old Lady Perfume = ‘Passionfruit Surprise’ Circa 1896

Gay Male Double-Dipped In Acqua di Gio

I’m Choking On Your Nag Champa, Hippie

Robot Perfume -or- You Smell Metallic, But Why?

Marijuana At 8 A.M., I Applaud Your Persistence

You’re Vomiting Uncomfortably Close To Me

I waved the vomitous one away from my seat, though somewhat halfheartedly. I figured after all the other crap, what’s one more pile of pink-and-white matter that looks like alien brain noodles?