Anne Nahm

Despite all the many cues that a sheep birth is about to take place (e.g., sudden bubble-wrap popping sound, followed by the newborn bleats of little sheep seconds later), I have been unable to catch my would-be masterpiece Foot From Cooter.

Am on antibiotics again. Whee! Sinus infection for me, latex pokey for the husband.

The zit on my forehead is doing quite well. It has a tassel, a nine to midnight work slot, and a dance routine to Pour Some Sugar on Me. Last night as I was going to bed, I caught it wearing a tiny little t-shirt with the word “ZILF” printed on it.

Lately, the wimmins be pregnant around me. Everywhere, everywhere the sweet little waddling, frequent peeing, and generalized glowing of The Circle of Life. Neighbors, friends, relatives.

The sheep in the neighbor’s yard? Nine of them pregnant. The tenth ewe popped a few days ago. Twins. And as much as I wanted to put up a few blog photos of a leg poking out of the ass of a distended bellied animal? I was unable to capture the moment. Woke up and whee! Baby sheep.

Nine more chances to gross you out, Internet.

Because that quizzical look animals get during birth? Somewhere between boredom and serious twat pain? It just captures my feelings on the whole birthing process. I want to share.

Because I love you. That’s why.

Other than that, I am very boogery lately. And my head hurts. That cheekbone doc, as he was talking me down last Winter (from the same ledge he would later push me), kept saying allergies could bring on the pain even in a non-infected scenario.

So this week I am kind of in that ghosty world where I am hoping it is allergies and fearing it is infection and refusing to call anyone because the very act of calling a doctor? Will cause infection. I’m tired and can’t sleep. Waah. My back hurts. I think I might be allergic to sheep.

Also, I have one of those zits on my forehead that is… What? Subcutaneous? Under the muscle somehow? Instead of being a top-of-the-skin thing it is more like a tiny little breast implant. If it sticks around a few more days, I will teach it to dance around a tiny pole, or possibly glue a tassel to it and teach it to swing said tassel in a clockwise circle. Tuck your dollar bills into my shirt collar, honey. And no, the zit doesn’t give out a home phone number. It likes to keep business and pleasure separate.

So basically I am saying that I am just as attractive as I am witty these days. And yet? Things could be so much worse. I could have four nipples and they could be dragging on the ground in the hot sun today. Or? Some bitch with a huge zit could be stalking me with a camera, waiting for something to spill out a girl.

Today’s Embarrassing Confession (with some preamble about talking to myself, so just hang in there): I talk to myself.

In my twenties, it was just kind of a ‘reading textbooks voice’ inside my head. In fact, if I am going to be totally honest, the voice began as a man, stoically whispering in my head as I was doing reading assignments.

The voice has kind of … Blossomed over time. It turned into a woman, gained a sassy attitude, and eventually added some You Had To Be There jokes to its repertoire. It’s not like it happened overnight. It took years of pondering multiple-choice test questions and wondering which shoes to buy: The cute ones or the ones I could afford? (Oh My God! Are you kidding? Cute ones! By the time you can afford them, your feet will be too old to wear them!). Sometimes it tells me a joke and I laugh because oh my God, the voice totally gets me. But then? I am just laughing in a room full of silence. And that, my friends, is embarrassing.

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In the past few years, I have caught the voice actually physically leaving my head in the form of muttering. Mostly it happens when I’m trying to read my grocery list while one kid grabs food off the shelves and the other kid asks repetitively if I know the first kid is grabbing food off the shelves.

I get the feeling that the voice is not going to go away quietly. Oh no. If the voice has something to say to me, it pipes right up and uses my mouth to talk louder than children. (As if that is possible, the voice defends itself here, rolling imaginary eyes.)

Confession: Last week, the voice called me ‘Anne’.**

And there is no compliment as good as the unexpected one that comes out of your own head. Because for me, ‘Anne’ is kind of a make-shift superheroine who is witty and bright and perpetually fueled by caffeine and unencumbered by a history of fear, failure, and real life experience. ‘Anne’ exists for a half an hour where she double-dog-dares me to say something on the internet that makes me want to crap my pants in fear and/or embarrassment. If anything, I had the idea that the voice was Anne while I was the slack-jawed bystander.

To believe I might be absorbing my very own superhero? Becoming Anne? Awesome. So awesome I don’t even mind my mom sobbing into her hankie that she gave me a perfectly good name and why don’t I ever use it when I talk to myself anymore?

Realization that I am now muttering to a distinct alternate personality with a different name? Well, that is just one more check-mark on my mental Bingo card. The one that leads me here:

109 living cats in my house, 12 dead ones in the deep freeze, and yelling at strangers from my porch.

And to totally shift gears here for a moment, I have been thinking I want to learn how to be a better writer. I am looking to learn skills in general fiction. Can any of you fab peeps help me out by directing me to any good on-line free critique groups? I really like the set-up critters.org, but I am not interested in working Horror, Sci-Fi, Fantasy as is their requirement. I am also looking for a good writing prompt or homework assignments web site. I really like Forward Motion by Holly Lisle for motivational reading. Generally, I am looking to educate myself on fiction writing in general and am looking for quality sites. TIA.

** Anne is not my given name. ‘Anne Nahm’ is just a play on Anon(ymous).

When my dad was a boy, my grandfather worked summers as a trucker, hauling produce across California. Sometimes, he would take my dad on day trips. On one of these trips through the extremely rural heartland, they came across a terrible accident.

My grandfather stopped his rig to offer assistance. The sheriff was already at the scene and had called for an ambulance. Two cars had hit each other head-on and the drivers had been thrown from their cars. One man was already dead and the other gravely injured. Rural car crash circa 1961, there was apparently not much anyone could do in the way of helping that didn’t involve a gun or a mop.

My dad, then only a kid of eight or so, ran over to the cop and demanded his hat. When the baffled officer gave it to him, my dad held it over the dying man’s face so he could have some shade instead of a sunburn.

My mom told me that story when I was 25 in answer to my question, “so why do you think Dad went into medicine?”

Three years ago, my mom and dad flew to California to visit me. While there, Dad got a call from his sister that their father (also in California) was at the end-stage of his long-term illness and would probably not last the week.

My dad chose not to drive 7 hours to see my grandfather one more time before he died. As far as I know, Dad had a fairly good relationship with my grandfather, and I am not entirely sure I understand why he made the choices he did. Two days later, he made the drive to attend the funeral.

Once, when I was really low, my dad emailed me a list of terrible mistakes he had made. He pulled no punches nor made any excuses. Just a black and white concordance of errors in judgement he had survived.

There have also been lots of years when my dad was a stranger. When I was 12, we got in a fight and he got so mad that he walked out the door and drove off and didn’t come back for hours.

When I was an adult speaking to him about my adolescent years, he quoted Indiana Jones and said to me, “Anne, you left just when you were getting interesting”. I was horrified when he laughed as he said that. I think it was accurate – most of my early childhood I’m afraid I was more of a chore than a creature of interest to him.

When I asked him where babies came from at the age of six, he told me I came from K-Mart. “You were a blue-light special!” He insisted.

And other times when I really needed him, he came through for me in ways I would have thought beyond him.

Thanks, Dad. For a while there I was pretty scared our relationship would end up like a Cat Steven’s song. When I see you playing with my kids I know it’s going to be better than that. I hope that one day I’ll know you well enough to know if I am supposed to drive to the hospital to see you one last time, or if I’m supposed to know why I shouldn’t. Happy Father’s Day. I love you.

I was pretty amazed by the comments from last post. Frankly, I was expecting a whole lot of awkward silence. Perhaps followed by the 2-am Googler searching for ‘tempt-my-mom’ breezing through to scream, “BAD KID! AHAHAHAHA! You are a BAD KID!”

So, Universe, you surprise me again. That pretty much makes us Anne: 2, Universe: 567. And this time? In a good way. So yay! Thank you.

In the comments, I also got this from Melanie, which read in part:

Do you want to toss some of that luck over to me? Because I could use finding some money right now, with the rent late and the fridge empty and all that good stuff…

And her comment got me to thinking about how hard it is to hold on to the belief in the actual ‘luck’ part when ‘magical thinking’ is really probably just another way of saying ‘crazy thinking’. The Who and the What and the When are so much easier to put faith in. Especially when the rent is late.

But I am trying an experiment in my own head, trying to put more faith in the magical thinking part. With any luck (heh-heh), I will not take the train into Crazy Town. Or if I do, I will remember to keep my sanity ticket stub and find my way back no worse for the wear. But for now, anyway, I am taking a little vacation from logical thinking. Wheee!

Now there are several studies showing that, (at least if you are a cardiac patient) people thinking good thoughts for you doesn’t help one wit. Screw science, says I. Let us try an experiment anyway. You know where I’m going, right? Lets see if we can throw Melanie some good thoughts and get her to that place where life seems a little magic. If you don’t mind, just take thirty seconds and think a good thought in her direction, that she gets to feel the good vibe.

And holy crap. What if it works? I’m kind of hoping she reports back either way in a week or so. You know, assuming all our good thoughts don’t give her a brain aneurism or anything. If there are any results at all, I plan on scaring the crap out of my kids and my husband by raising my eyebrow and threatening to ‘think about them’.

And also? I checked the bylaws, and if we try this, we neither have to smoke a doobie nor do we have to sing “kumbaya” at the end.

But I know you want to.

ETA: Oh, and will you leave a litte check mark or something either here or in her comments if you do think about her? I am curious to see how many people thinking about one person changes or does not change the person’s perception of their situation. And after this, I am steering clear of the 700 Club type posts. Swear. Its just that I’m really quite curious on this matter.