Let’s start with the good stuff. First of all, I finished my Bird of the Rings drawing for my friend Kim: a female cardinal saying Eowyn’s line, “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman.” She wrote a lovely article about it and posted a picture of her BoTR. Check it out here.

Also, after a few months of trivia hiatus, I am now part of a new trivia team that is absolutely dominating. It started off as an impromptu gathering two weeks ago at the Highball, where my friends Gayatri and Sandeep announced that they’re expecting their first child (congrats again, G and S!). But the place was so crowded, overheated, and raucous that I insisted we go to Mister Tramps the next week, so I could show ‘em how it’s really done.

So we did. And our team, “It’s A Unix System. We Know This”, got second place.

Then this week, with the team name Teamocil, we got first place. FIRST PLACE. At this rate, next week we may receive sainthood.

So that was awesome, even though the pictures from the events (see links above) demonstrate that it’s impossible to photograph me looking like a normal person.

That’s the good news.

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*******

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Last Friday, just as I was leaving work (literally, I had just walked outside and was staring at the fish in the koi pond, thinking about how cute they are), my mother called. My grandmother — who had been put into hospice care the week before that — had taken a turn for the worse. The hospice had called my mom that day, saying my grandmother probably had about a week left.

I asked if I should come home. She said not to, since I’d seen her at my cousin’s wedding in November — and besides, I’d just have to turn around and go back for the funeral.

My grandmother developed Alzheimer’s just over a year ago. She hasn’t wanted to eat in almost as long. A lifelong smoker, now she’s struggling to breathe.

On Saturday, I e-mailed my mom a letter to my grandmother. In it, I briefly reminisced about some of our fun trips together, and about my favorite memories of her. I essentially said good-bye without actually saying good-bye.

Minutes after hitting the send button, my mother called me. She was visiting my grandmother when she got the letter, and had read it to her. Then she told me she was going to put my grandmother on the phone.

Her voice was so hoarse. Only a faint sliver of familiarity was buried in it. She asked about the weather. I told her it was warm, really nice; and that it gave me hope our plants would survive until summer. She laughed. She said she was feeling much better. Then she asked about the weather again. I told her it was lovely.

“I love you, mi hijita,” she said. She rarely says, “I love you.”

I told her that both David and I love her, too.

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*******

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No one lives forever. I’m lucky that I’ve known my grandmother — the woman I’m named after — for this long. But even having 34 years to spend with someone doesn’t make their imminent loss any easier.

Two weeks after I was born, my father left my mother. My grandmother practically helped raise me. I saw her all the time as a kid. I loved her for so many reasons, and not just her fabulous gravity-defying hair. She wasn’t nice to everyone, but she was always incredibly nice to me. She spoke to me as if I was a grown-up. I really appreciated it, since I hated being treated like a kid. I didn’t even like being around other kids.

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My grandmother spent most of her life with my grandfather sticking a camera in her face. I can just hear her telling him immediately after he snapped this picture, "Mario, will you please put the camera down so I can have a moment with my granddaughter! Hijole!"

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While I loved seeing my grandparents all the time as a kid, I know it must’ve been bittersweet for my mother. I can’t imagine how humiliating her life must have been after I was born, suddenly single with a baby. At the time, she was the only divorced member of a devout Catholic family. I know it must’ve been painful for her to ask her parents for help, but I don’t know what we would’ve done without them.

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But when it comes down to it, few people were kind to me when I was young. My grandmother was one of them. I will never forget that.

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I moved back to Texas in 2001 — 6 years after leaving the state for college and work — so I could be near my family, including my grandparents. And though I gave up some good opportunities when I moved back, I don’t regret it. I would’ve regretted far more living my adulthood away from them.

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The next few weeks are going to be really brutal.

I don’t know what else to say, so I’ll just encourage you to read this post I wrote when I visited my grandparents last February. It explains what’s going on in my head a lot better than I can tonight.

Copyright 2012, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.

And I’m certainly not the only retronaut. It seems like everyone lurves mid-century modern, even before “Mad Men” made it trendy. Vintage and vintage reproduction clothing is all over the place. Every wedding photographer’s website I’ve seen lately at work is chock-full of washed-out photos, making them look like they’ve been sitting in my mother’s photo albums for 20 years. My Facebook and Twitter friends use Instagram and Hipstamatic.

As much as I love crinolines (I’ve worn them to 3 recent events), I do wonder what this I-Heart-The-Past trend means for the future. Will my friends’ kids grow up nostalgic for their parents’ digital Instagram pictures? Will hipster mustaches and worn-out ironic t-shirts make them think of their fathers? Oh Jesus, will the brass accents and teal-and-pink flower patterns in 80s decor make a comeback?!?

I expressed my concern with David via chat a couple of days ago. He wasn’t as interested in the conversation as I was.

me: Do you ever worry that our generation’s obsession with retro / vintage looks prevents us from creating our own — looks that are new and that will define us?

David: No I do not.

me: I was just wondering and didn’t know who else to ask.

David: But that’s because those sorts of things don’t naturally occur to me.
Although, I prefer today’s look to Hypercolor and parachute pants.

me: Word.

I saw this dj’s website earlier today. He insists on playing only vinyl and not playing what everyone wants to hear — yes, at people’s weddings — which is a whole separate genre of annoying. Then I saw a link to a “mid-century modern rentals” company. And I wonder if our obsession with old looks renders us incapable of creating our own.

Has every generation been so nostalgic?

David: I don’t honestly know.

me: I don’t think so because no other generation has had the opportunity to repurchase their childhood.

David: “On the skins, Mr. Milton Banana.”

“On the bass guitar, the Guy From Ipanema.”

me: While that is awesome, that is different.

Look at what the hipsters are wearing.

Everything old is hot again.

David: It just came on Pandora.

So that was useful.

What do you guys think? Are we really the first generation that’s been able to buy their childhood back? Do you think we celebrate the look of the past too much? Do you insist on playing vinyl because of its “pure” sound, or do you play records because you secretly long to return to your youth? Or would you, like David, rather not think about this and listen to “Rush in Rio” instead?

Copyright 2012, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.

Shockingly, that plan did not last long.

While I am wearing make-up regularly again (mostly so I don’t scare the people at my part-time job), I pretty much live in jeans and silly t-shirts these days. For the first time in my life, I have jeans that actually fit (Old Navy’s the Dreamer jeans; alas, I can’t recommend them now since they’re cut differently than they were a year ago). I’ve stocked up on shirts from Shirt.Woot and Glennz Tees. I even bought a few hoodies, which I’ve never owned before. I don’t look that professional, but I’m saving a ton in dry cleaning bills.

At first, though, I feared that dressing what I call “business really casual” meant I was regressing into my younger, more immature years. God knows I didn’t want to be the clueless, fashion-illiterate slob I was in high school; nor did I want to look like I did during the post-grad school Lost Years (though most of my fashion problems during that era stemmed from a massive, medication-related weight gain).

But how could I be regressing? I’m finally living my dream. I’m more content than I’ve ever been. Except, you know, for that brief period when I had a career trajectory, when I felt in control and confident and happy. But that wasn’t really me, right? This life — writing — this is the real me, right?

Then I found this picture, taken four years ago at my bridal shower. It was at the height of my professional awesomeness. It was before I saw the treacheries of middle management at that organization: being squeezed between the needs of the people below you, and the orders of the people above you. And before the stress of being on-call 24 hours a day broke me, forcing me to leave that job and take one with fewer responsibilities and (ironically) far more stress. I was still optimistic. I was still in charge. And man, my arms still looked great.

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Straight shooter with upper management written all over her.

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I look at that picture. And I suddenly feel very, very sloppy. Like a mess. Like a failure.

But, I told myself, it’s not like my life was perfect back then. At the time, I felt like I was putting on a show, like I was wearing someone else’s suits and heels as a costume — dressing like a successful person rather than actually being one. It was just a disguise. Not like now, when I wear awesome shirts that demonstrate my charming sense of humor and who I really am.

So if I’m being true to myself now, why does it feel like such a struggle most days?

I think it’s because I miss external validation waaaaaay too much. What I really loved during that era (other than helping people) wasn’t power. It wasn’t responsibility. It wasn’t wearing a suit, and it definitely wasn’t attending meeting after meeting (except the ones in the state’s bunker, because that place is just awesome). What I loved most of all was praise.

One of my biggest hurdles in writing is feeling confident enough about my work to keep going. It’s saying, “This is good enough for today, and tomorrow I will keep making it better.” It’s honestly and sincerely telling myself, “I think you’re doing a great job.” When someone tells me they like what I’ve written, I won’t lie — it’s like getting a drink of water after a long thirst. But I let few people see my fiction, and most of my work remains (thankfully) unread by anyone but myself. Yet I still have to find enough confidence within myself to keep writing.

Recently, I discovered a quick way to get that confidence, if only briefly. Inspired partially by the Bloggess’ traveling red dress project (though I’m far too selfish to share my clothes), I decided to get a fabulous red dress of my own. I spotted this garment online and — even though I didn’t have any special events coming up — I bought it anyway. Surely something would come up; and if it didn’t, I’d make something happen.

As serendipity would have it, the dress arrived two days before a dinner party with some friends — and it fit perfectly. As soon as I put it on, I felt confident again. I felt in control again. So when David came home, I greeted him and spun around the living room. It was delightful. It was unexpected. And it wouldn’t have happened, had I not been brave enough to think, “Sure, I can pull off that bad-ass dress.”

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Impromptu portrait by David. Dress by Unique-Vintage.com. Awesomeness by me.

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I know that, ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether I wear suits or silly t-shirts to write every day. What really matters is whether or not I believe in myself. But for me, it’s far easier to feel like a bad-ass in a glamorous red dress than it is in t-shirts and jeans.

But that’s life, isn’t it? We have to find ways to feel bad-ass and awesome, no matter what we look like on the outside. And sometimes we have to summon the will to tell ourselves, honestly and sincerely, “I think you’re doing a great job.” And we have to believe it. Because then, and only then, can the awesomeness inside find a way out and make that praise come true.

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(Also, since I totally forgot to mention it in my last post: I have another blog post up at WriteByNight’s blog. The topic: The worst writing advice I’ve ever heard. Stop by and comment on the least useful writing advice you’ve ever received!)

Copyright 2012, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.

So…yeah.

I really wanted to start working on the outline to my novel’s sequel, but unfortunately, I didn’t start before I lost my writing momentum; and now I’d need to review the book again before starting that project. (I know, I know — it’s not daunting and overwhelming me; I’m just letting it daunt and overwhelm me.) Nonetheless, for now, I’m working on a story I started in the fall of 2010. It sucks, but I think there are some great salvageable bits in it.

Plus, I went to my writing group last night, which almost always leads to inspiration and confidence rebuilding. So, even though I’m still working on a different blog post, I wanted to get a new post up as soon as possible; and I thought this writing group entry was worth sharing. The prompt was, “When I was a child, I had big plans.” I morphed that into “When I was a child, I had a big imagination.” Here are the results.

When I was little, I spoke to fire hydrants. That’s not a metaphor. The neighbors would call my mother, telling her that her child was at the end of the street, attempting to converse with city equipment. I talked to fire hydrants. Or electric converter boxes. Or small, light green towers with the Southwestern Bell logo.

I remember being very sad when the backyard fence was built, because it meant I couldn’t visit my friend — the large green electric converter box behind our house — anymore. I cried. I even hugged the box good-bye. My mom was surprisingly sympathetic. Then, one day, she was not. She went from pretending to believe me to telling me, “Sarah, you need to stop it or people are going to think you’re weird.” Like flipping a light switch. Are all parents like that? Do some phase in the introduction of the real world more gradually? It started happening after she had gotten remarried and was pregnant; was she worried about having to handle both a new baby and a delusional small child?

Today, I am constantly vigilant about my transgressions — recent and ancient — because I know they could be used against me at any time. It’s exhausting, though, to have to remember all the stupid shit I’ve ever done and said. There’s only so much room in my memory; and lately, it’s been taking up all the available space.

“Tell me about something fun that happened to you during childhood,” my friend Stephannie asked recently. And I replied, honestly and somewhat aghast, “I can’t remember anything fun. I only remember the bad parts.”

I really want to shake off that yoke of guilt and remembering. I want to, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to spin around and do cartwheels through a field, then come up with a snappy and charming retort for whoever runs up to me asking why I talk to fire hydrants.

Sometimes, I don’t think the Adam and Eve story involved fruit. I think what really happened was a little kid used to talk to a tree. And, one day, some snake slithered by and said, “Stop talking to trees! People are going to think you’re weird.” And the kid suddenly knew shame, a feeling so painful that he didn’t even stop to think, “Hey! That was a talking snake! Cool!”

Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.

• I love eating cookies, cakes, and pretty much anything with refined sugar; and I told myself that if I cut back on booze, that meant I could eat more sugar.
• David and I always squabble about who has to be the designated driver. My taking over the driving duties so he could drink (responsibly, of course) was a small gift to him, but a gift nonetheless.
• It’s pretty damn funny to watch other people get drunk. Well, sometimes it’s sad. But it’s mostly funny.
• The last time I had a drink at a social event, I saw my dead father’s ghost. That alone almost scared me away from alcohol forever.
• Social events freak me out. Wine helps — initially. Then I have one glass too many and get paranoid the next day that I’ve annoyed my new best friends. Cutting that off at the pass was a welcome relief, even if it meant I had to be Socially Awkward Penguin all night.

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I learned two important lessons during these sobering events:

1. If you’re a woman and you’re married and you’re not drinking at a party, people instantly get these weird smiles on their faces and look at your gut. I hate this. I hate that almost everyone’s default reasoning for my abstaining from alcohol involves babies, as if that’s the only reason I would pull myself away from booze during the holiday season. But, rather than telling near-strangers that no, I’m not pregnant, and in fact David and I are choosing not to have children (always a great icebreaker), I instead talk really loudly and pointedly about the tattoo I just got. That pretty much says, “I am not with child” loudly and clearly, and often starts a very different and more interesting conversation.
2. I also learned the value of existing in the moment, because I had no other choice. I can panic, start looking around for a place to sit away from the crowd, curse myself for wearing a dress with a crinoline (seriously? I want to blend in and not attract attention, so I wear a dress with a diameter at the bottom?!?), pretend to mess with my cell phone; but it doesn’t matter. I can’t hide. I’m still there, in full view of people looking at my face twitches and nervous glances around. So I take slow deep breaths and focus on that exact moment — how I’m sitting or standing, the expression on my face, what I’m holding or clinging to. I don’t judge myself; I just focus. And I relax. Then I focus on the people around me — on what their body language is saying and how they’re probably a little bit anxious, too. And I relax more. And I just keep doing this, over and over, until the uncomfortable moment passes and I’m talking to David, or feeling brave enough to strike up a conversation with a stranger, or drawn into a chat with a friend. All without drinking. And slowly, everything becomes okay. More than okay, in fact.

Unfortunately, I caved last night and opened up a bottle of wine. I told myself it was because I’d just gotten some stressful news from the vet about my dog Zelda’s ongoing health issues. (Grossness alert: she has an infection in her anal gland. Hey, I said it was gross.)

But, as I sipped a glass of 2010 Decoy Sauvignon blanc, I looked at the small dog who had been snoozing on the couch all day. And I realized that, although she’s still sick, the visit had made her feel temporarily better. Plus, there’s hope that this medicine will cure her problem; and if it doesn’t, at least there are treatment options. And I thought about how lucky David and I am to have a veterinarian who’s genuinely compassionate as well as knowledgable (their services can be expensive, but they do great things like work with rescue groups). I’ve been lucky with a lot of things this year, in fact. I finished a novel — again. I got an awesome part-time job, and I still have a few great freelance clients. I made some new friends. David still has a job, and he still loves it. And at least one of our dogs is healthy.

The sad thing is, I feel kind of guilty for all of this. But considering that I’ve had plenty of craptacular years, I guess it’s okay to celebrate, to be happy, to be content, to be grateful and thankful. To be in the moment, and to be okay with that.

I thought about all this as I finished the glass of wine. And though I usually crave another, I didn’t that night.

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*******

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So I only made it through 4 of the 5 major seasonal holidays without drinking. (Since I went to parties for both, I totally count Hanukkah and Festivus.) I still think it was a great idea. And I’m seriously considering doing it next year, too.

I feel like I should end this post with a list of resolutions, goals, stuff I want to do in 2012. But I’d rather just focus on the moment. I’d rather focus on how Zelda’s finally eating for the first time today, on how my job went well today, on how much fun I had going walking with a friend tonight, on how much David made me laugh tonight. I don’t want to look toward 2012 and panic about everything I want to accomplish. And I don’t want to think about how much I haven’t accomplished over the past year, and the year before that, and all the years before that. For tonight, at least, I’m just going to be in the moment. And that’s okay.

More than okay, in fact.

(In lieu of new year’s resolutions, I present to you “Shake It Out” by Florence and the Machine, performed on “Saturday Night Live.” This song describes the kind of person I want to become in 2012 and beyond far better than I could.)

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Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.

Part II: Motivation

Part III: Execution

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Part I: Inspiration

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“This is a gift. It comes with a price.”
–Florence and the Machine, “Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)”

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“Dedicated to the future, with honor to the past.”
–Neil Peart, “Ghost Rider”

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“You’ll get addicted,” everyone said before I got my first tattoo. “You’re going to want another one right away.” They were wrong. It took a few months before I wanted another one.

Inspiration struck in — of all places — the eye doctor’s office. The assistant noticed my back and asked about the design. I told her it was from the “Caravan” CD single by Rush. “Oh, my husband would love that!” she replied. “He loves Rush.” We started talking about tattoos in general, and she showed me a lovely piece around her ankle, filled with green leaves and vibrant flowers. She didn’t really like it, but I thought it was beautiful.

After I left, I felt the absence around my own right ankle for the first time in years. In high school, I wore one of those cheesy knotted friendship bracelets around it, made of purple and gold embroidery thread (our school colors). Then, when I went to Harvard, I snipped off the old and tied on the new: a crimson and white band made by tying all the threads around one another, one at a time. It fell off every so often, but I just tied it back on. And if I lost it (which I think happened once or twice), I went to the store, bought more thread, and made another. Some of my friends commented that the anklet was silly, but I didn’t care. It meant something to me: that school was a struggle, but that it would lead to greater things once it was over.

I cut the anklet off the day I graduated. And instead of feeling liberated and proud, like I’d accomplished something impressive, I felt a little empty. I felt a little lost. It was supposed to be a significant moment of achievement, not a sad lonely evening in a crappy part of Cambridge, in a cheap apartment with an uneven floor.

I think back to that depressing moment, and I tell myself the mantra I’ve clung to over the last few months, a line from the Florence and the Machine song “Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)”: “This is a gift. It comes with a price.” I told it to myself countless times as I wrote and revised the new version of my novel, and now I apply it to almost anything stressing me out that day:

• Scared about getting negative feedback on my writing? It’s the price I pay in order to become a better writer.
• Frustrated over money problems? It’s the price I pay for being able to focus primarily on my writing, rather than holding down a full-time job (a chance that few of us get).
• Annoyed that my dog Zelda keeps peeing on the kitchen rugs? It’s the price for canine devotion and companionship (though we did trade the small rugs for vinyl floor mats).

I think of the design on my back. I think of how it represents that I need to have more faith in the future — how it takes the place of wings, propelling me ever forward. Then I think about all the hours I’ve wasted mourning the past, wishing I could change it.

This new tattoo needs to be a bookend to the one on my back, I decide. If my back ultimately represents the future, this new tattoo — the anklet I will wear forever — must be dedicated to a beautiful part of the past, something that has lead to greater things. Because my past is a gift, even the awful parts. Even though it’s come with a price.

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*******

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Part II: Motivation

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“Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
–Rainer Maria Rilke, “Letters to a Young Poet.”

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The more I think about it, the more obvious the answer becomes: I want a line of Rush’s music tied around my ankle, with the music staff lines forming a bow in the back, as if it’s a ribbon I’ve tied on. And I know exactly what line of music I want: the opening notes to “The Spirit of Radio.” It’s the first song I ever heard Rush play live, with Alex Lifeson coming out on stage with a huge grin on his face as fast notes poured out of his guitar and the audience roared. And it represents a turning point in Rush’s music — one that reflects my own life’s turning points in the past year and a half. As Geddy Lee said in “Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage”:

We didn’t like what we were becoming, as people… Something started to break. The heaviness of “Hemispheres” made us want to run away from that kind of album. So we ran straight from “Hemispheres” into “Spirit of Radio.”

And what a great song to run to. It has such a fantastic, heartfelt message about loving music, and finding honesty and earnestness in it despite all the forces trying to package and sell it.

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(Side note: I can’t believe I found a great quality video of this song, of this moment, on YouTube. The song starts after about a minute of pre-concert video footage. So, to everyone who has ever annoyed me at a show for holding a camera or cell phone up and blocking my view: for this alone, you are all temporarily forgiven.)

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A week before the appointment, I go to True Blue Tattoo and meet with Rachel, the awesome and unbelievably talented artist who did my back design. Then it hits me: this is it. This is for real. If I get this done, it is forever. (I certainly don’t have the money or pain tolerance for laser surgery.) Am I ready to have an almost-inch-tall design on such a public place of my body? I can cover up my back; but this will be visible if, say, I go into a job interview wearing anything other than pants.

David and I stand in the kitchen that evening, leaning against the counters as we bounce arguments off one another. He tells me it’s good I’m at least considering not doing this, because it is a pretty serious decision. But he won’t tell me what to do — which I both respect, and get infuriated over.

“I just worry,” I tell him, standing on the afore-mentioned vinyl floor mat. “I worry that 10, 20, 30 years from now, I’m going to look at this tattoo and regret it.”

“Do you ever regret things?”

“I regret almost everything! So that’s not really a valid argument.”

“Well, why would you regret it?”

“What if I have to go back to the full-time job market? What if my potential boss looks down on it?”

“Would you really want to work for someone like that?”

For a second, I think of how I used to stock up on white button-down shirts and conservative suits, just in case I ever worked somewhere where I needed them. They were my employability safety net — well, really, more like my blanket, as they only created a false sense of security.

“Duly noted,” I finally harumph. “But how about this: what 44- or 54-year-old woman would even think of showing off an ankle tattoo? I mean, unless she was really bad-ass. Or it meant something to her. Or she’d overcome a lot and wanted to celebrate that.”

And I realize I have been approaching this in the entirely wrong way. I have been looking through the wrong end of the telescope.

“I get it,” I gasp. “I finally figured it out. Instead of worrying about whether or not I’ll still love this when I’m older, I should figure out a way to become the kind of person who will still love this when she’s older, who will still appreciate everything it means! It’s like that card my friend Meredith gave me our junior year in college, the one with the Rilke quote, the one I still have on my bookshelf. I have to live my way into that answer.”

He nods. “I think that’s the perfect approach.”

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Part III: Execution

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Although I realize it’s clichéd to say so, it really is a dark and stormy night when I head from work to True Blue Tattoo. I’d been helping to set up for an event downtown, so my feet are tired. I’m shivering from the cold and the rain. I wonder if this was really such a great idea.

My friend Stephannie is already there. We chat as Rachel preps her table. I try to carry on a normal-sounding conversation, even though I want to flail my arms and squeal, “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD IT’S REALLY HAPPENING CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!?”

Rachel calls us over. “This is going to be a painful one,” she gently reminds me. I swallow hard and tell her I took 4 Advil before I came over.

She tells me to stand on the table so she can apply the design transfer. I survey the whole tattoo studio, looking a lot mightier and more confident than I feel. The teenage girls sitting in the lobby area giggle at me. David arrives, commenting on my stature. Partially because I’m trembling so much, the design goes on crooked. Ever the professional, Rachel wipes it off and reapplies it. I check it in the mirror and say it’s good to go.

“Try to stay as still as possible,” she says. I freeze on the table as David and Stephannie keep talking.

She starts with a line on the side — one of the notes, near the time signature. And damn, is she not kidding about the pain.

But I keep my eyes focused on her work. I watch as the needle makes each note and music staff line real. A couple of times, my reflexes take over and jerk my foot around slightly. “I’m so sorry,” I say every time.

And she always responds in a bright, genuine tone, “You’re fine.” And I believe her.

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Stephannie captures the moment, making me look a lot better than I feel.

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The pain hits a new level of excruciating at the front of my ankle. Blood starts appearing, forming small red clouds around the notes. Yet I’m almost relieved to see it. It proves that the pain is real, that it’s not just in my weak little mind.

But it still makes me feel a little woozy. And this is just as David — who I have already begged not to talk about blood or pain — starts telling Stephannie about how, whenever he gets dental work done, the Novocaine is never enough and he still feels everything.

“DAVID,” I say through my biggest and fakest smile, “YOU HAVE GOT TO STOP TALKING ABOUT DENTAL WORK. PLEASE.”

When Rachel asks me to turn onto my stomach so she can do the bow in the back, I tense. Part of what kept my pain level tolerable was being able to watch the work happen. Now, all I can do is clench the soft edges of the table as the worst pain I’ve ever experienced shoots through my ankle and up my leg. I feel my left leg twitching in solidarity with its suffering partner. I feel my reflexes jerking my right leg and I flinch even more, knowing I might’ve disturbed Rachel’s work.

“Squeeze my hand,” David tells me. I do so until I see I’m bending his fingers at weird angles. Then I let go and assure him that it’s better if I don’t.

A cute guy on the other side of the tattoo parlor makes eye contact with me. I whisper to Stepho and David that he’s probably thinking I look like a wuss. Stepho answers, “He’s probably just looking at your cleavage — which, I must say, looks pretty fabulous right now.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” David chimes in.

I tell David to ask Rachel for a break, so he does. But within seconds, my whole body is shivering. I feel the skin around my ankle clenching as if it’s having a Charley horse.

“Only a few more minutes,” I hear everyone assure me. “Less than 10.”

But I can’t stand the pain for very long. I ask for another break.

“Less than a minute to go,” they tell me. So I suck it up and, just as my skin starts clenching again, I tell them to tell Rachel to go ahead.

A few moments later, liquid washes over my ankle. Stepho cheers and says it’s done. I turn around and see Rachel and David snapping photos of the finished work. I lean over — and I can’t believe that, with all my thrashing and all the pain over the last hour and a half, it looks this great.

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There it is, in black and pale beige.

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The bow in the back.

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Unfortunately, I walk in pain for the next couple of days. Even with an appropriate amount of Lubriderm, the skin hardens. It does not want to move. So I move as slowly and as little as possible, to let it heal. I hobble around, not unlike when I broke my toe this summer, just before my second Rush concert.

“How much did it really hurt?” David asks hesitantly.

“Grab several leg hairs just around your ankle, yank them all out at the same time, then imagine that pain at a constant level,” I tell him. He tries it and winces.

As I did with my back tattoo, I study it constantly, fretting that I’m not taking good enough care of it. Unlike my back tattoo, though, I don’t need mirrors to study this one. I panic that it’s peeling too quickly, that I’ve stretched the ink out, that I took too long a shower and the ink’s going to blur.

“It’s fine,” David sighs. “And remember, Rachel said she would touch it up if any parts don’t heal right.”

I shudder at the thought of going through that pain again. But then, I look at the perfect 3 under the triplets, just above the inner part of my ankle. And I am amazed — at Rachel’s abilities, at my own strength, at this beautiful and permanent line of music, at the joy it already brings me. And I know it’s worth it. As the chorus of “The Spirit of Radio” declares, it bears a gift almost beyond price.

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Yup; it's still there.

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Reflections of putting my best foot forward.

Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.

Since then, I’d silently planned my Christmas presentation. David and I have been together for almost 10 years; and every damn year, I tell him, “Okay, I got your gift today, and you can either have it now or wait and have it on Christmas.” And almost every time, he says, “Now now now!” (Then he opens it and promptly forgets about it, much to my chagrin.) I’m partially to blame for this pre-Christmas gift-a-thon. I always demand to open gifts as soon as they’re in the house. “What if the apocalypse comes?” I protest as I’m tearing off the wrapping paper, then sending a thank-you note to my mother, who responds with, “You weren’t supposed to open that until Christmas!”

Nonetheless: This year, it was going to be different. This year, I wasn’t even going to mention I’d gotten him a gift other than stocking stuffers (both of which I’ve already given to him). This year, I was going to wait until Christmas Day, then casually mention I had something upstairs for him.

Then I bumped my head really hard this afternoon. (The kitchen counter extends into a bar-like feature, and I always plug my computer in underneath it. Usually, though, I don’t try to stand up right under said counter.) And a few hours later, after he’d been taking care of me all evening, it just didn’t feel right squirreling away such a rare, amazing gift in my study.

So I made him wash his hands, then brought him upstairs and handed the encased book to him.

After he was done squealing and gasping and wondering if Mr. Peart had actually touched the book (I argued that he probably hadn’t; that he’d probably just touched the signed plate; BUT STILL!!!), we took a few pictures of it — in front of my drum kit, of course. It’s hardly a quality set of musical instruments, but it still seemed the perfect backdrop.

Behold, the greatest Christmas gift I have ever given (next to writing my husband a novel, of course).

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My Christmas gift to David. Note the awesome hockey-style logo on the case!

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The book came with its own case. How awesome is that?

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Behold: NEIL PEART'S SIGNATURE. The plate also states that this is copy #175 out of the 500 limited-edition books.

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Merry Christmas, indeed.

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I’m not going to lie: I was super tempted to just keep this book for myself. But come on. It’s Christmas. And David’s one of the main reasons I got into Rush. It was more than fitting to give this to him. Plus, we’re going to keep it in my study, since his gets too hot during the summer to safely store anything this valuable.

Well played, self. Well played.

Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.

My head has been clinging to specific songs like security blankets. Maybe it’s a result of the way my thought process operates during intense writing/revision periods, as it’s stewing and mulling over the same characters and happenings over and over. These songs get stuck between my ears one at a time, with the same few lyrics swirling around in a ceaseless — and surprisingly comforting — repetition.

Yeah, that’s gone now.

But I’ve been thinking about this songs-as-comfort-and-wisdom trope on a larger scale. We all have our “favorite” songs. Some of them are fairly new to us; others we’ve carried with us for years, if not decades. And the list is often subject to change. When I was in high school, I thought “Today” by the Smashing Pumpkins was OMG THE BEST THING EVERRRR. It’s still a pretty good song, but I’d hardly rank it in my top 20 (or even top 50) anymore.

So which songs have influenced me the longest, and which ones still hold sway today? For simplicity’s sake, I’m excluding all Rush songs because 1) Rush is a pretty new — if incredibly intense — love of mine; and 2) those songs would dominate the list. According to my list of Facebook quotes (yes, I know how sad it is that this is my barometer of adoration; shuddup about it), here are the songs that still speak volumes to me:

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Long-Lost Loves

These songs and their poignant lyrics are still close to my heart, but they represent turns I’ve already taken on the road of life. However, because they were so important then, they remain pretty important now.

• “Polyester Bride” by Liz Phair. When “Whitechocolatespaceegg” came out in 1998, just before my senior year of college, I fell hard-core, head-over-heels in love with it. The whole album perfectly captured the heartbreak and melancholy nostalgia I felt at that juncture of life, and the fear of death I still hadn’t been able to shake three years after my father’s death.

“‘Cause you’ve got time.”
He keeps telling me,
“You’ve got time.”
But I don’t believe him.

• “Still” by Ben Folds. The lines from this song still hit me in my heart, but I’ve long since passed the phase of not being able to look pain straight into its beady little eyes. Which makes me wonder: am I in denial about anything else? Will I realize that years from now?

I stay
Focused on details;
It keeps me from feeling
The big things.

• “A Boy Named Sue” by Johnny Cash. This song is totally the exception to the long-lost rule. I LOVE Cash. Alas, I didn’t get into his music until after he passed away; but man, where has it been all of my life? Especially this song. If you know me personally, you know I go by the Spanish pronunciation of Sarah (yes, I know it shouldn’t have an h on the end; it’s a family name with a long story that I’m too tired to tell right now). And I’ve been teased and tormented over it just as much as Sue has — though Sue was probably never employed by people who commented that their “Anglo tongues couldn’t pronounce that.” SERIOUSLY.

It’s that name that helped to make you strong.

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Songs That Still Matter

Out of all the songs I love, two have been stuck in my head lately, and not just because of their infectiously awesome chords. These songs carried me through tough times in the past, and they continue to buoy me up these days:

• “Nowhere” by Bubba Sparxxx. Years ago, my friend Andrew left a Bubba Sparxxx quote on my MySpace page. (That should tell you how long ago it was.) I teased him about it, and he responded that “Deliverance” was actually a great album and that I should check it out. He was right. So right. And this song in particular has helped me through some dark days and darker nights over the last several years, starting with an early morning drive through rural Texas as I cried and wondered if things were ever going to get better at my job. The grizzly voice at the start of the song seemed to be speaking directly to me, reminding me to keep my head up because the road was going to turn around. I needed to hear it so badly then. Sometimes, these days, I still need to hear it.

Listen:
First you must travel a long, desolate road.
This road you travel will feel like nowhere,
But nowhere will turn into somewhere.
Keep your head up, Bubba. Don’t let nobody get you down.
‘Cause that road you travel shall turn around.

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• “Fight Test” by the Flaming Lips. I don’t care if it sounds like a Cat Stevens song (which I literally found out 5 minutes ago while looking for the video). I don’t care that I’ve hated their last two albums (okay, that actually does bother me). More than any other piece of music, this song has stuck with me through the best and worst of times. The lines that stay closest to my heart rang true before my brief but memorable career in emergency management; but damn, were they appropriate for that job. These words remain, to me, a perfect metaphor for life: how we often aren’t prepared for it, but we have to face it anyway. I wasn’t prepared for my father to leave my mom when I was 2 weeks old. I wasn’t prepared to be the oldest of 3 kids and helping to emotionally support my mother at age 8, when we became a single-parent family. I wasn’t prepared to go from elementary school (which was abysmal, but where all the teachers doted on me) to junior high (where everything was just abysmal). And I definitely wasn’t prepared to go from a shitty public high school to Harvard. But I did it anyway — because, as the disconcertingly hot Wayne Coyne sings:

And there are things you can’t avoid;
You have to face them
When you’re not prepared to face them.

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Well, that’s the music that matters to me. What about to you? Bring it. Share your favorite, most beloved songs and lyrics in the comments.

Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.

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What you don’t know is that, shortly after finishing these drawings, the irked bird spoke to me. (Not literally). He said words that were familiar — words that were spoken with the same anger that I saw in his little ink-and-pencil eye. Those words were, “Do not take me for some conjuror of cheap tricks!”

Well, I thought, if one bird sounds like Gandalf, maybe more of them will sound like other “Lord of the Rings” characters when I draw them.

Thus, when I redrew him with ink pens, my art project titled “Birds of the Rings” began.

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Meet Grackledalf. (I started writing "cheep tricks" as a pun, but then I thought it might be taken as a misspelling instead, so I fixed it.)

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Our second bird was a black-capped vireo. He became Birdomir.

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After that, we were allowed to choose our own birds to draw. I looked through “Focus on the Wild,” a book of winning entries from the Valley Land Fund’s Wildlife Photography Contest (my stepdad used to be president of the organization, which means I have quite a few of these awesome books around the house). Even though his tail was hidden in the picture, I really wanted to draw one particular cardinal. I named him Merryfeather.

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My last class’ bird came from another “Focus on the Wild” picture. Meet my friend the black-capped sparrow, also known as Birdwin.

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Today was the last class. Now, after my previous 3 art classes, I put the supplies away and told myself I’d come back to drawing as soon as I had more time. But I don’t want that to happen again. This has been a really fun project, and I’d like to continue drawing birds (even if I don’t want to buy a whole tin of mineral oil to properly shade the feathers, because it’s expensive and greasy and toxic). But I can only keep so many drawings. I’d rather give them away. It is the holiday season, after all — a time for giving and sharing and helping others.

So I tell you what: If you donate $10 to Small Chance Rescue between now and this New Year’s Eve, I will draw you a Birds of the Rings bird and send it to you. You can pick the bird, or the “Lord of the Rings” quote, or both; or you can let me pick them for you. Totally your choice.

Here’s what you do:

• Go to SmallChanceRescue.com and give them a donation of at least $10, preferably by mailing a check. (Their address is at the end of this blog post.)
• Take a picture of the envelope containing your donation — no need to photograph the check; I trust you guys — and e-mail it to me at ThatsAGirlsCar at g m a i l dot com. (If you send a PayPal donation instead, just forward your donation confirmation e-mail to me.)
• Send me your address and your bird / quote preferences (if any).
• If you’d prefer a black-and-white drawing with only pen and ink (like Grackledalf), not a full-color drawing, let me know. (I can also do just a pencil drawing, like the bird-who-is-angry at the top of this post.)
• Your bird will fly to you via USPS, hopefully prior to the start of 2012.

Rules:

• This offer is limited to the first 10 requested bird drawings. (More may be accepted, depending on whether or not I accidentally kill most of my brain cells with Workable Fix-It fumes).
• Limit 3 bird drawings per household. (If you really want more than 3, e-mail me and I’ll see what I can do.)
• I will draw birds only, sans backgrounds. Sorry, aficionados of other animals / plants.
• All drawings will be made on the 5″ x 7″ card stock pad I have. If you want a larger picture, again, e-mail me and I’ll see if it’s possible with the supplies I have.
• In addition to the “Lord of the Rings” quote, I’ll add “BoTR”, the number, and my initial at the bottom, but no other writing unless you want it and I agree to write it.
• I’m still trying to decide whether or not to use mineral oil on the drawings, so don’t hold me to that. I promise you, they look fine without it; just a little less smear-y.

How awesome a deal is that?!? You get a sweet drawing. I get to use my art supplies. And a dog rescue group that saves the lives of several small dogs every year — including dogs with huge medical bills — gets to save a few more pups.

Don’t delay. Reserve your Birds of the Rings drawing today!

UPDATE: Since PayPal is being so horrible to Regretsy and their efforts to buy Christmas gifts for kids, I’d like to ask you avoid them altogether and just mail in a check to Small Chance Rescue. E-mail me a photo of your stamped envelope, and I’ll get you your bird drawing post-haste. (Afore-mentioned rules still apply, yadda yadda yadda.)

Their address:

Small Chance Rescue
P.O. Box 10033
Austin, TX 78766

Rock on.

Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.

Despite the water damage, though, I’m pretty proud of myself and (momentarily) relieved. Not only is this a major milestone for my novel, but it also means I can go back to doing things I’ve been putting off until the revisions were done — like cleaning the house, and going to the gym, and showering. Hey, there are only 24 hours in a day, and I have to sleep for a few of them.

I’d like to thank everyone who sent me words of support during this process. I’d also like to thank the stuff that got me through the last few weeks:

• My friends Stephannie and Andrea’s phenomenal Thanksgiving cooking.
• Stephannie’s various baked goods, of which I have consumed several.
• Shipley’s Do-Nuts — specifically, the chocolate frosted ones.
• Snap Kitchen’s incredibly delicious and healthy food. (Last month, I ate almost nothing but their food for a week and lost 5 pounds. That has since changed, probably due in some small part to the previous item on this list.)
• Coffee. You are truly the wind beneath my jittery little wings.
• The black cashmere sweater I wear every day while working. Amazingly, it has remained free of strange odors.
• Music. My head has been clinging to specific songs like security blankets. Maybe it’s a result of the way my thought process operates during intense writing/revision periods, as it’s stewing and mulling over the same characters and happenings over and over. These songs get stuck between my ears one at a time, with the same few lyrics swirling around in a ceaseless — and surprisingly comforting — repetition. The songs most commonly spotlighted this time around have been:
• Almost every track from Florence and the Machine’s “Lungs: The B-Sides.”
• “Heavy Metal Lover” by Lady Gaga.
• “Chain Music” by Wale. (I had it on repeat in the car the other day; it must have played about 13 times and I still wanted to hear it again.)
• And, as ashamed as it makes me because this is seriously the dirtiest song I have ever heard in my life but I listen to it at least twice a day, “Dance (A$$)” by Big Sean and Nicki Minaj. (Mom, do not look it up. Please.)

Now, on to writing the short story that’s been brewing in my head for a few weeks. And to revising the outlines for the novel’s two sequels. And to starting the draft of the second book. And to reading more. And to writing more blog posts. And to cleaning the house and going to the gym and doing more freelance work.

But first, sleep. And a much-deserved shower.

Ever forward.

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Andy Dwyer, expressing how I feel right now. (Image from ParksandRecGIFs.tumblr.com)

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Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.