Um, yeah.

I’ve been thinking about this today:  Is it really true that most people go through life doubting whether they are okay?

My parents have a psychologist who tells his patients, right way, that they are okay people.  They were saying, along with some friends of theirs, that this reassurance is very valuable to them.  I’m confused by that.

I have always felt like I’m a good person.  I don’t doubt that.  I’ve done (and continue to do) lots of stupid things, but that doesn’t (in my mind) call my own worth into question.  I am shocked that so many people go around doubting this.  I want to fix that. 

I didn’t get that signed, first edition Little House book.  Surprisingly, it broke my heart.  I am someone who deals very well with disappointment (not sure if I should pride myself on it, but it is true).  I am sad about things, but then I accept them and move on.  Not so with this one.  This time, I felt like something had been taken from me.  I am embarrassed to say that I actually cried.  This is embarrassing because I really can’t remember the last time I cried because I didn’t get something I wanted.  I’m sure I was a very young child.  Magnus was very sweet and wonderful about it.

So in trying to make sense of not getting that book, I searched for something Laura had written that would give me a little mental peace.  I knew she would in no way approve of spending that kind of money on something like a book – she was far more practical than that.  I even knew the title of the article I needed:  “Times and Things.”

I don’t have it here with me at work, so I’ll have to paraphrase.  Money (that we have left after our basic needs are met) can be spent on times and things.  Times would include a trip, an amusement park visit, that kind of thing.  Things would include houses, toys, cars, first edition books, etc.  Times are worthless when you cannot share them with people you love.  Things are similar.  Things are worth nothing to us if we have no times associated with them.  It is the memories associated with an object that truly make it valuable.  The combination of times with things is what makes a house into a home.

This made me think about the value of the first edition book.  Was it more or less valuable than my battered paperback copies of the series?  Would I trade my well-loved books for this amazing autographed first edition of one of them?  I knew right away:  no.  And why not?  Because I am not part of that book, no matter how amazing it is.  My dad did not read it to me when I was four years old.  It doesn’t have covers and pages worn to the texture of velvet from my handling over the last 24 years.  It wouldn’t have the same sweet woody smell.  And it wouldn’t hold within its pages, not only the story Laura wrote, but the story of my love for those words.  I would have to keep it in an archival box, protecting it from all the things that make my battered paperbacks so much more valuable.  Even if it is the thing I’ve wanted more than anything else, it would never have times associated with it.  It would never be home in the way my loved, lovely old books are.

I actually have several topics I’m thinking about right now, but I think I will make them separate posts.

Anyway, kids, today’s topic is friends.  This weekend was wonderful in a way I’ve really missed.  Actually, I can’t even say that.  It was wonderful in a way I didn’t even know I missed. 

Out here, I spend the majority of my non-work time with two people:  my husband and my sister.  When I’m not alone, I am with one or both of them.  Magnus is my friend, of course, but he is also my husband.  We have both always been independent and need to have space/time away from one another.  Part of that is having relationships with people outside of our relationship (if that makes any sense at all). 

My sister is my friend too, but she’s also different than a regular friend.  In everything she does, there are echoes of the little girl I knew.  It’s like when you look at yourself in a 3-way mirror.  There are reflections of yourself as far as the eye can see.  Every time Rachel laughs, I see her as a baby, as a little girl with braids, as a teenager, as a young woman….  This isn’t a complaint.  It isn’t distracting at all.  It just means that every interaction we have is influenced by 25 years of being rivals, friends, confidantes, conspirators, and just generally sisters. 

This weekend with Sam and John reminded me, though, that simply hanging out can be energizing.  I rarely feel that relaxed with people, and it seems like it has been years since I have hung out with my own friends outside of my relationships with Rachel or Magnus.  I think I had forgotten how great and important that is. 

What do I take away from the experience?  Probably I should make more friends of my own out here.  But the thing is I’m not sure it’s worth the lengthy period of discomfort until I got to know them better.  And there are friends I love dearly but who require energy, no matter how long I’ve known them.  I’ve always known that friends with whom I really feel comfortable and energized are a rarity.  So I don’t know if it’s worth trying to make friends here.  What is my point then?  I love having my own close friends.  I love being relaxed with people besides my family and husband.  So this whole things is about appreciation more than it is about future action on my part.

Friends are good.  I miss living near mine.

Okay, so I just found something I want more than anything else I’ve ever wanted.  This is really saying something, since I love shopping.  It’s eBay item 7010628585.  It’s a twice-autographed first edition copy of The Happy Golden Years.  Bidding went up to $3500 last time it was listed, and it didn’t reach the reserve.  Hard to imagine justifying it.

 But she touched it.  She actually held it in her hands.  I could pay that money and own something she touched, own her autograph and the first edition of my favorite book in the series.  It is something I would love for the rest of my life.  In fact, “love” seems to be an inadequate way to describe that feeling. 

 It is a good investment.  I could try to convince Magnus of that.  It is something that would no doubt only increase in value.  I have never before seen a signed first edition of any of the books, and I really do look all the time.  I want it so much, I can almost feel the weight of it my hands, smell the paper smell of it….

 I looked again after writing that, and now it had no reserve.  Her autograph alone (without the 1st edition) sells for $2000.  Even if I do talk him into letting me bid on it, chances are good that we wouldn’t be able to afford to win it. 

So I know I already posted today, but I’m completely bored at work.  And Sam has stopped emailing (since she has real things to do, no doubt).

I was just thinking about the possibility of my parents getting an exchange student.  They were thinking about helping out some friends of theirs who are leaving the country and currently have a French exchange student.  I haven’t met her, but my parents thinks she’s awesome.  Anyway, it turns out they won’t even be having this exchange student.

 But….  When they were thinking about it, I didn’t want it to happen.  She would sleep in my room.  Why does this bother me?  I know it really doesn’t make any sense.  I just don’t like the idea of some replacement daughter sleeping in my room, living in my parents’ house, getting to talk to my parents all the time.  I know this is lame of me.  Hmm.  I probably shouldn’t judge my feelings about this.  If I were my friend, I wouldn’t judge that.  Feelings are feelings, and they are always allowed and always okay.  But it is puzzling to me.  I am secure in my parents’ love for me.  My room won’t even be my room in a few months.  Why does it matter to me?  What is it about that situation that makes me feel uncomfortable and scared and sad?

 I think the biggest challenge of my life, in all its variations, has been separating myself from my parents.  I still call them so often (3-4 times per week), still see them at least once a month, still think of them when I have good or bad news, etc.  I no longer get that sinking feeling in the morning (remnants of homesickness, which I had for so many years).  Still, what does it say that I can’t stand the idea of a surrogate child in my parents’ home?

I feel like I need to be inspired by something to write in here.  I think that is the way people get with writing.  It’s so easy to get addicted to the workshop environment.  Give me a word, a topic, and I can write forever on it.  Maybe it’s the corporate ennui again.  Have I lost my creativity?

I used to write all the time.  I needed to write.  Now, I can hardly force myself to do it.  Some people say that that happens when you are happy.  To some extent, that is probably true.  When you’re trying to process through a loss or attempting to make sense of a problem, writing is, at least for me, absolutely necessary. 

So here I am, happily married (unless you count the interference of World of Warcraft), owner of a beautiful home, affluent, reasonably attractive, etc.  I have wonderful friends and family.  I live near my sister and see her several times a week.  I have access to a multitude of cultural opportunities and some of the best mall shopping in the country.  I have a puppy.  I have every reason to be completely happy.  And I am pretty happy.  But I think I would be happier if I felt inspired to write.

Sometimes I tell myself (and it may really be true) that other forms of creativity are just as important and maybe fill that void.  Yet, I go back again and again to a series of questions Josh asked me a long, long time ago. 

What would you do with your life if you had one year to live? 

My answer is the same now as it was then:  I’d spend as much time as possible with my family, and I’d write a book.  I’d probably also add going to Egypt.

What would you do with your life if you had five years to live?
Same answer as I had all those years ago:  I’d spend as much time as possible with my family, have children, and write a book.