just doing it

For years, I avoided piercings and funky hair and additional tattoos because The Philosopher would talk about how all of those things were so unattractive and, you know, because he already didn't think I was all that great looking, I needed all the help I can get. [Yes, indeed, we once had a conversation in which he said, Saying you are beautiful implies you are perfect, and perfection is only the things you see in magazines or Greek statues or something. I'm not kidding. But I am digressing...] I've been remembering just how dysfunctional he used to make me feel when I'd want to get, oh, about 0.5% more alternative looking, and I'm so glad I'm not in that relationship anymore. And, actually, I'm super grateful I'm not in any relationship right now -- it's not just the stuff with The Philosopher, but stuff it's been my whole life with person after person... wanting to fit myself into some mold of what they wanted or expected me to be, and never feeling all that free to be myself, or even learn who I was. And, you know, I happen to think I'm the sort of person who gets piercings and tattoos and dyes her hair funky colors.

I was thinking about this in the context of other thoughts I've had about whom I'm "supposed" to be attracted to. In the past, it's been guys who have been punk or had the skater look or were into heavy metal or other alternative-y things. But perhaps I wasn't chasing those guys because those are the guys I want but, rather, because being with them would make me feel as though I could become who I wanted to be without jeopardizing affection or attraction. To which I say, today, who really cares? All I have to do is make the decision to do whatever it is that makes me ME, and I don't have to sit around biding my time until I meet someone who embodies those characteristics so, therefore, I can finally get started being that person. There is absolutely no point sitting around waiting for other people to make my life happen, when all I need to do is take it upon myself to get off my ass and just do it. And it might well be the case that the people I find attractive in the future (or who find me attractive) look completely unlike whatever it was I thought I wanted, but who cares?

I guess what I'm doing is growing up, finding my way in the world, and learning to both express myself and accept people for who they are rather than how much they can bolster my self-esteem. Yay for me, I suppose! [And thanks to Slavegirl for coming with me for moral support at my piercing last night...]

chicago intersections that suck

Since The Philosopher bought his own car last week, it's the first time I moved back into the city (June 2005) that I've had free use of my own motor vehicle, and while I'm still using public transportation quite a bit, it sure is pleasant to be able to, oh, drive my car to Trader Joe's or Target or CVS at 2pm when I decide I want some vegan chocolate bars or cheap clothes or face powder. But a side effect of this is a mild degree annoyance at Chicago intersections that never, ever fail to irritate me:

Damen/Milwaukee/North Avenue
My biggest pet peeve here is the fact that even though it's posted in, like, 95 different places heading southbound on Milwaukee Avenue that left turns are not allowed, I am ALWAYS stuck behind someone who is attempting to make a left turn. And since 98% of time I'm traveling south on Milwaukee Avenue and crossing North Avenue is when I'm on my way to see the Eyebrow Nazi, which means I'm running late, this bugs the crap out of me. The solution, of course, is not to participate in yet another road rage incident but, instead, to leave my house on time.

Foster Avenue between Clark Street and Ashland Avenue
OK, I know it's a timing issue, but I hate hate hate going in either direction on Foster between Clark and Ashland, because it's such a little space there but there are lights at both intersections which means 85 million cars attempt to squeeze into a quarter of a block and plug up traffic for everyone in a four-block radius.

Lincoln/Damen/Irving Park
If you are heading north, this is the Bermuda Triangle of Lincoln Avenue. (If you are heading south, the same phenomenon exists at Lincoln/Ashland/Belmont.) I do not understand why people cannot just go, especially since the traffic delays do not exist in any of the other directions.

The Western Avenue exist from the west-bound Kennedy
This is just fucked up. That's all I can really say. Avoid Western unless it's 2am, and even then avoid it. Get off at Fullerton and just take that to Western. But, no, not really, because....

Fullerton/WesternDamen/Elston
It's probably a residual effect from the Kennedy, but this sucks about 47% of the time. If it's 2am, you're safe, except from the homeless guys wanting to "wash" your windshield with newspaper.

And I was going to talk about Ashland/Clybourn/Fullerton when it occured to me that it is all the fault of these diagonal streets. Ugh. Argh. Blech. This could well be related to growing up in a place where diagonal streets simply didn't exist. I was always told it was a German thing, that they lay out their cities in a methodical right-angle fashion. But Germans settled here, too, and even in Lincoln Square, so what the hell is up with Lincoln Avenue?

Clearly I don't have enough stress in my life, that I have to sit around complaining about intersections.

whoa! this is what "normal" feels like?

So I go to therapy ready to talk about all the relationship-py type stuff (both friendship-wise and other-wise) swirling around in my head, and I get through about five minutes of it before my therapist starts laughing at me. [Just to be clear, "laughing at me" isn't on the list of reactions I prefer from her.] After her giggle fit, she said, None of that is dysfunctional or proof that you're screwed up. You're experiencing what normal people experience. Huh. On the one hand, awesome! On the other hand, you mean angst and confusion is part of the normal and expected human experience? Fuck.

Anyhow, I texted Slavegirl announcing my Officially Normal Status (which is precarious, but what the heck? might as well flaunt it while I've got it...) and she sent me back what has to be the best text message I've received since the last time she sent me a profound uplifting text message (which is often):

The best thing is that you no longer seem to crave that kind of dysfunction. In fact, you're actively avoiding it. I think that's the best thing. It's also the hardest thing.

And, you know, my therapist and talked about this, too, so it was nice getting feedback from Slavegirl. It's weird, how when I first went into therapy, what a different person I was. And in case I'd forgotten, my therapist today not only read me some of her notes from September and October, she also played back audio from those early sessions. Beyond being overly critical of how my voice sounds on tape -- yeah, 'cause THAT's the object of this exercise -- it was fascinating. It's easy for me -- since, well, I'm still, uh, ME, meaning I haven't been abducted by aliens or changed bodies -- to miss the growth I've made, to minimize the healthy things I'm able to do now that were literally impossible six months ago, to ignore the positive changes I make every single day now.

The weird thing is that I can't really figure out how I've done this. My therapist pointed out that plenty of people hit rock bottom, and given my childhood she would have expected me to stay in the abusive and dysfunctional relationship I was in when we first met. What made this all happen? she asked. I guess I could say it's been the program (and it has) or that I didn't have any other options anymore (I didn't), but in discussing it with her, it occurred to me that the one thing that showed me there was hope and love in the world and I deserved better was my burgeoning friendship with Slavegirl. Last June, she did things for me that no one had ever done before -- and they admittedly weren't Herculean -- and her friendship and kindness planted a seed in me that grew into a belief and hope that things could be different if I let people help me. And so I sought help, and look where I am now?

So if I'm on an even keel today, and if I come across as a healthier person, and if I am more present in my life and the lives of others... well, it's because she opened my eyes to a different sort of world, one in which people do kind things for others, one not filled with drama and dysfunction, one where I can -- and should -- be accepted exactly as I am. No, she didn't do all the work I've had to do the past few months, but I know for a fact that I wouldn't have been sitting in my therapist's office today, being laughed at, if not for her. Namaste.

getting in touch with my inner pink

Did you know that until the 1940s pink was considered a color for baby boys? It was considered more masculine, and it was baby girls who wore blue, since (dontcha know?) it is a more delicate and dainty color. And "in the pink" means "getting in good health," whereas "seeing pink elephants" refers to the DTs (which, thankfully, I never experienced). But anyhow... I'm finding pink things more appealing these days -- and by that I mean actual pink objects, not "pink things" ala XTC's Oranges and Lemons (1989) since, ahem, I don't need sobriety to fuel my affection for THOSE. [Though it did take about six months of listening to that song before realizing it referred to a penis. Thankfully, though a bit retrospectively regretfully, my penis naïveté was short-lived...]

Anyhow... I've owned a pair of hot pink stilettos for a couple-three years now and they are one of my favorite pairs in my collection, but beyond that, I haven't really been a pink kind of gal. There were the Twin Set Years, aka "the years in which I lived in the suburbs and wore khaki pants and sweater twin sets to try to fit into the ideal of what The Philosopher wanted me to be" -- during which I did wear a fair amount of pink, but I'm pretty sure I donated all those clothes to the Goodwill in Naperville before we moved back into the city.

This New Pink Wave began in December, when I was in Walgreens and noticed they had pink holiday lights. They were something like twice as much as the "normal" lights, but I wanted them. So I got them and hung them in the doorway between my kitchen and living space. And a couple of weeks ago I of course had to buy a pink kissing ball for that doorway, since the mistletoe kissing ball went out of style New Year's Day. And then pink curtains. And pink dishes, cups, and bowls. And pink mixing bowls. And a sudden compulsion to turn my blog pink. And plans to turn my office from orange-and-yellow to grey-and-pink when I move back into the house.

Since this newfound compulsion is not accompanied by the desire to actually wear pink (no, I'm not going to start shopping at Victoria's Secret or come home with sweat pants that say PINK across my ass, if for no other reason than I don't need to draw MORE attention to my back side), I don't think this means I'm becoming necessarily more traditionally feminine (or historically masculine). My theory: as I'm getting healthier and more comfortable with myself and my sober time increases, I want less drama in my life. And can you think of a color that's more drama-free than pink?

fun from my sober friend j.

What is your occupation?
I'm a website editor and an adjunct English instructor.

What color are your socks right now?
White crew socks -- I have finally decided I'm a crew socks kind of gal in the fall and winter and a low-cut ankle sock kind of gal in the spring and summer. God only knows how I spent 34 years of my life before realizing this fact about myself.

What are you listening to right now?
The Canasta station on Pandora, which is what I've been listening to pretty much for days, which slight segues into the Apocalyptica and Naked Raygun stations.

What was the last thing that you ate?
In between typing my responses, I am eating Everything Pretzel Slims from Trader Joe's dipped into this amazing pretzel dip one of my students from last semester gave me on Friday.

Can you drive a stick shift?
Yes, indeed. I learned how to drive on a manual transmission, and if they stop making them I do believe my new avocation will be launching an attack on the auto industry for screwing up my driving life.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Vivid Tangerine, formerly known as Orange-Red.

Last person you spoke to on the phone?
The Sax Man, who called me from a comfy leather chair at the Cigar King, where he was smoking a cigar and watching golf. During the conversation, I promised to buy him a smoking jacket and ascot for his birthday, investigate dance lessons for us to take while it's still cold out, join a bowling league, and take up golf. Weird.

Do you like the person who sent this to you?
I think she's awesome! She's a paragon of sobriety in my life.

How old are you today?
Thirty-four, but let's forget that fact...

Favorite Drink?
Pellegrino, Pellegrino, and more Pellegrino. And if you mix Pellegrino with OJ, it's a virgin mimosa. Soooo yummy.

What is your favorite sport to watch?
Football, but only because I like the tight shiny pants. And, really, that's not enough reason to sit through three hours in front of the television when I could just go down to Boystown.

Have you ever dyed your hair?
I think the only time I *haven't* dyed my hair since I was 14 is when I had brain surgery and shaved my head and was waiting for it to grow out a little bit or else the Manic Panic would have made me look like a prickly reject from the Blue Man Group by leaching to my scalp.

Pets?
I have one cat who lives with me (Luau), and three cats who live with The Philosopher: Thomas, Neo, and Trinity.

Favorite food?
You know, lately I'm a big fan of homemade casseroles.

Last movie you watched?
Orgazmo... it was sleepover time at Slavegirl and The Master's place, and I brought veggie lasagna + garlic bread + foccaccia + dessert and Sax Man came over and we all watched the movie after the kiddos went to sleep. I'd never seen it before, but I liked it!

Favorite Day of the year?
Summer Solstice and the Spring Equinox are pretty much tied.

What do you do to vent anger?
Call someone, meditate, take a hot bath, cry, all of the above.

What was your favorite toy as a child?
My mother had this spinning weaving loom thing that was her toy when SHE was a kid, and I loved it. And I also liked those looms where you could make your own potholders. Awesome! Yes, I was a dork.

What is your favorite, fall or spring?
Spring, 'cause it's the same temperature as fall but it feels so much nicer because winter just happened.

Hugs or kisses?
On a daily basis in my current state of mind, hugs.

Cherry or Blueberry?
If we're talking fresh fruit here, then blueberries. I LOVE fresh blueberries, and -- pragmatically speaking -- they are much less expensive than cherries. But if we're talking baked goods, such as pies, I'd have to go with cherry. And, of course, I'm a sucker for maraschino cherries in my Shirley Temples...

When was the last time you cried?
Tuesday night.

What is on the floor of your closet?
Uh, what isn't on the floor of my closet?

Favorite smells?
Clothes washed with original Tide and original Downey fabric softener; my kids after they take baths; coffee brewing; cinnamon; and a zillion other things. What can I say? Yummy smells are yummy. Yes, a meaningless tautology! Next question, please...

What inspires you?
Humanity in general, but in particular people who are able to be honest and keep doing the next right thing despite adversity.

What are you afraid of?
Spiders. Dying alone and having my cat eat out my eyeballs before anyone finds me. My children falling off the "L" platform or being hit by a bus/car/train while I watch helplessly.

Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers?
Uh, veggie burgers. And my fave right now is the Texas burger from Amy's.

Favorite car?
Of the ones I've had or in general? If the former, my 1968 Firebird convertible (which looked exactly like this one); the latter, those funky tiny Smart Cars.

Favorite cat breed?
I adore tabby cats -- it's the kind I've had more of than any other. I used to like tortoiseshell cats, but then I adopted the one I have now and I'm not so sure anymore. I'm hoping she just feels cramped in this tiny apartment and when we move back into the house she'll be okay. And then, since I'll have four cats, I'll officially be a weird single mama.

Number of keys on your key ring?
Too many to count -- got them for my car, my apartment, the house, work, and places I've previously worked. I'd say about 17 in all?

How many years at your current job?
At the website, it will be two years in June. At the college, it's a little over two years. This is officially the longest I've worked anywhere, which is weird.

Favorite day of the week?
It used to be Thursday, 'cause that was the day after deadline day, but since I was either confused or didn't care about which day that was, and deadline day is now (or always was?) Tuesday, it's now Wednesday.

How many states have you lived in?
Four: Illinois, Texas, Wisconsin, South Carolina.

Do you think you're funny?
Uh, doesn't everyone think they are funny? And, you know, everyone damn well IS funny if they are with the right people. I think one definition of a friend is someone with whom there is consistent mutual laughter.

capacity for honesty

OK, so I suppose I do have a crush. Sigh. What do I do now?

no longer itchy...

...but still damn tired. And since I've GOT to catch up on sleep so the Garden Variety Drunks (with replacement players...) can win the scavenger hunt tomorrow -- I've had ten hours of sleep over the past 72 hours -- I'm going to bed. This weekend's going to be blog-lite... tomorrow after the hunt is a sleepover with the boys at Slavegirl's house, and Sunday brings a traditional meeting-n-movie with Sax Man. So there will be a paucity of words. Be prepared. Namaste.

what a day

I'm itchy all over and can't figure out why. First I thought it was my new tattoo (which has just about healed) because it started on the back of my neck (uh, where the new tattoo is) but now it's my entire upper body. Perhaps I'm allergic to something, but the only thing I've eaten since this afternoon is, uh, half a soy cheese pizza and some garlic bread, and I've been eating junk food so much since I've gotten sober that I would expect to break out in hives if I didn't eat it. And so the mystery continues.

***

There's this program guy who asked me out tonight, to a party on Saturday night. Since I have the kids on Saturday nights, I of course said no, which marks a turning point in my life. The Old Me would definitely have said yes -- even though I completely thought this guy was gay (more on that later) -- and then figured out some way to dump B. on someone else for the night. But The New Me apparently can't even tell when someone is asking me out, since I was on my way home and in my car before I realized, uh, whoa! that guy asked me to go out with him on Saturday night. And, uh, because I completely thought he was gay, I actually said, maybe some other time that's not on a Saturday night. Nice. Hello, Oblivious Me!

And when the realization hit me, I texted Sax Man about the whole thing and realized my gaydar MUST be off (not that it's ever been "on") because his response was, He's odd, but I don't think gay. Nice. Well, I should look at the positives: (a) he's sober (b) he has a beard (c) he's heard all the crazy things I say in meetings and isn't completely turned off. Admittedly, the beard is probably the only thing that's keeping me from being creeped out by not realizing that he's not gay. [And this really kinda sucks because one of his friends in the program actually DOES pique my interest... but what do I know? I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DATING ANYONE. End of story.]

***

I am so tired and overworked and itchy and blah and bitter and hatin' the cold and I do not want to teach in the morning. Yes, one day a week and class hasn't even started yet and I'm already bitter about being paid for a job so easy I could -- and often did -- do it half-way drunk or all-the-way hungover. Really, I just don't want to go out in the cold with a gimpy knee and a bad attitude and way too much shit on my plate. And since I can't change three of those four things, (the weather, my knee, or my workload), guess who's praying for relief and making a decision to have a fucking good attitude? Uh, that would be me. Namaste.

just how right was i?

Turns out that having a bad day doesn't mean my life is horrible -- it means I had a bad day. And today I woke up and took steps to start fixing my life, including setting up an appointment with an attorney on Monday, drafting a letter to The Philosopher (which I won't send until after speaking with the lawyer) announcing my intentions to cut him off financially (which means I'll be paying him a fair amount rather than subsidizing his life), and cleaning out my car (well, part of it anyhow) since he's bought his own (after driving mine for almost three years after I told him I wanted out of our relationship). And I think a fair amount of the resentment I feel toward him is about all of these things, but the fact of the matter is that I have been allowing this to go on for as long as it has, and can I really blame him for something in which I've been a willing participant? Well, I can, to some extent, but about 90% of it is on me, and so now I'm taking charge of that -- to the extent that I am able to do so without risking my sobriety. Yay for me, I s'pose. We'll see what the attorney has to say on Monday. Until then, I'm not even telling him I'm seeing her, because all that will do is up the drama quotient.

Other than that... the knee is coming along fine, which is both good and bad. It's good in that I'm not in a lot of pain, but the REASON I'm not in a lot of pain has a lot to do with the fact that for about 97% of my waking hours, I'm sitting on my couch, either working (with my legs up on the coffee table -- I know, not particularly ergonomically correct...) or watching television (reclining with my legs propped up on the entertainment center or bookshelf). It's not as though in my day-to-day life I'm particularly ambulatory. So what happens: I leave the house thinking, Ah, my knee is FINE and I don't need my crutches; I'll use my cane. And I go to school and/or a meeting and/or Target (a store to which I believe I am officially addicted at this point) and by the time I get home I don't quite know if I'll be able to walk up the stairs. But then I rest sufficiently and I get amnesia ala alcoholism and leave the house the next day convinced that I still don't need my crutches. And so, yeah, I'm glad I'm not in constant pain, but I don't know if that's because I'm healing quickly or because I'm an idiot. Or both.

this too shall pass...

It's just one of those days where I feel all out of sorts (prolly because of the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, which stirs up a whole crapload of unmanaged resentment toward people in my past), and having a sinkhole close to my 'hood and hearing about Heath Ledger dying hasn't helped. The latter is bothering me more than it should, actually. I keep hearing about all the people who can't stay sober and end up dead and it's really just an abstraction since I haven't been around long enough to connect with anyone who ends up dead (though I've encountered plenty of relapse cases) and even though I don't know Heath Ledger, it's still disconcerting. And actually being able to mentally place where he was when he died -- thanks to all my visiting of NYC -- isn't helping. This shit is real, and all the crap I'm going through today (I'll get to that in a minute) underscores that I need to stay on top of my game, so to speak, or else I'm really going to be in a heap of trouble.

Monday, I called The Philosopher to tell him about my knee, since I'd left two messages for him on Sunday that he never returned, which -- of course -- annoyed me to no end, since I am the one who pays for his phone. But anyhow. I told him how I probably have a torn ligament and will be on crutches for a couple of weeks and, despite the purpose of my call being to ask him if he can walk the boys the half-block over to my apartment rather than me hobbling on crutches to go get them, before I could he said, Does this mean I can keep using your car for another two weeks? Ha ha. Anyhow. I asked if he could walk the kids over after school and he said he was very, very busy (because, you know, that half-block is a real time-consuming bitch) but he would try, and at the very least would send W. over, since W. can walk by himself. Well, 5pm came around and still no kids, so I called, and he "didn't remember" what he'd said earlier, but sent W. over with my cane (so I could go to the play without maneuvering crutches up the aisle of The Goodman) for about three seconds, and he said he'd drop the kids off after school today.

So, then, today, 6pm rolled around and I called to see what was going on, and he basically said he had to cook the kids dinner (which, uh, I could have done HERE) and was going to call me after the kids went to bed (which, uh, would mean I STILL didn't get to spend time with them). And then this is pretty much how the phone conversation went (in condensed form):

Me: I get the impression that it's not all that important to you for me to spend time with the kids.

TP: No, I'm just very busy, and getting my stuff done is the first priority.

Me: Well, it would be nice if you could let me know when you won't be able to do the things you say you're going to be able to do.

TP: It's not my job to keep you up to date.

Me: Uh, well, yeah, it kinda is. When normal people can't do what they say they are going to do, they make a phone call or otherwise inform people that it's not going to happen. It's courteous.

TP: I'm not your lover anymore, so you can't talk to me that way.

Me: I can't point out that you're doing something that's rude and a bit unfair?

TP: Talking about what normal people do is insulting. It implies that I'm not normal.

Me: (Sigh.) Can you please just put the boys on the phone?

TP: Which one? I can't put them both on at the same time.

Me: (Sigh.) Whichever one is closer to the phone.

Sigh. I talked with B. for a while (trying not to sob into the phone) and then W. came over to my place and we watched a documentary from the Discovery channel together, which made me extremely depressed, especially when W. said (about the polar ice caps melting), We're all going to die by the time I'm 25 because everyone is so selfish about their cars and not wanting to take the bus and continuing to eat animals and he got really upset and all I could really do was mumble something about Well, scientists have a way of figuring things out and at least WE aren't driving Hummers and eating steak, right? As if the universe, when it collapses, will be able to sense which people contributed more or less to the impending doom and spare the virtuous. But it reminds me of a quotation I saw recently -- which, of course, is now imprecise and probably wrong in my head -- that said something like Only knowing we can change a little bit isn't cause for doing nothing and, well, that HAS to be good enough for today because otherwise my head is going to explode and I'm right there back on that path that takes me to wherever Heath Ledger is right now.

So I went to a meeting tonight, and then I went to Target and bought pink mixing bowls and some other kitchen stuff plus cat food and a huge soy cheese pizza (which I am of course going to eat ALL BY MYSELF in about 11 minutes, when it's done cooking) and pink sheer curtains (on clearance!) for the doorway between my living area and my kitchen (since I've decided the beaded curtains can wait until I get back into the house) and a picture frame and oh, who knows what else... just a lot of little things that I needed but, of course, I forgot the Bayer migraine relief pain killer stuff, and now my headache won't go away. Time, I suppose, to pray for some relief. Because I know this will pass if I just allow it to do so by getting out of my own way. Namaste.

shining city

So Sax Man and I went to see Shining City tonight at The Goodman -- A. was supposed to go with me but she wasn't feeling well so I asked Sax Man and since almost no one can pass up spending an evening at the theatre with me (well, except A. when she's not feeling well...), he graciously accepted. And of course we had a rockin' good time -- and BOTH of us, afterward eating a late dinner at the Melrose, said, Hmm, I bet the guy who wrote that is a recovering alcoholic. Because the dialogue and theme of the play was all so, well, recovery-ish. And, lo and behold!, I whipped out the program in the middle of the diner and not only is the playwright a recovering alcoholic but Shining City was written when he was in early sobriety. So there ya have it -- we both skipped our regular Monday night meeting to see the play, but we ended up having a meeting-in-a-play, kinda. And getting out of the car at the Melrose, Sax Man mentioned that we should go on a tour of Chicago diners, to which I responded, Totally! And I can even write a blog following our adventures! Because, you know, three blogs just isn't enough for a recovering alcoholic (wannabe) writer (temporarily) celibate single mother who works out of her home and watches way too much reality television.

i can't complain...

...but, wait, I totally CAN complain. It just so happens that I don't particularly want to. Isn't that a treat?

Loyal readers (yes, I have a few) might notice that I normally change my quotation and song late Saturday nights, and it hasn't been done yet. It may not get done this week. In addition to fighting my cold and being woken up at 6:30am by three rather loud children (who also saw fit to turn every single light in my house on while making their collective racket -- and bear in mind my apartment is a studio and I sleep in the middle of it...), while I was starting the shower I noticed I'd left my towel on my pillow (a disadvantage of blue hair dye is that it sometimes stains my pillowcase, and also my tattoo is, uh, healing -- aka shedding a bit -- and so I needed protection from those extra colors...) and so I turned to go get it and, well, my knee didn't exactly cooperate. In a split second I went from a sense of impending doom (uh-oh, isn't my knee supposed to be moving, too, right now?) to the most intense pain I have ever felt in my entire life (and let me remind you that I spent eight hours pushing two children out of my body without any pain medication for half of that time) which left me hovering somewhere between semi-consciousness and a coma while sitting on the side of my bathtub.

After I caught my breath and saw fit to get into the shower (if I'm going to the doctor, it's with clean underwear and a non-smelly coochie), I yelled to W. to bring me my towel and warned him I was going to the ER. The Philosopher was unreachable by phone (what else is new?) so I had W. run over to tell him to call me so he could get B. and I could go to the ER. And in the meantime, I had to text Sax Man, since HE was supposed to come over and help me properly hook up the new DVD player I was supposed to go buy at Target after my shower. Instead, the afternoon shaped up like this: he drove me to the ER, we sat in the waiting room and we chatted, I was called for my vitals (blood pressure: 109/67, pulse 56), I sat back in the waiting room and we chatted, I was called for my insurance information, I sat back in the waiting room and we chatted, I was called to get x-rays, I sat back in the waiting room and we chatted (while I tried -- unsuccessfully -- to use my BlackBerry to find what channel the game was on so he could change the waiting room TV to that channel), I was called to the examination room, and then in between getting diagnosed and getting my leg wrapped and learning how to use crutches and getting an anti-inflammatory shot in my arm (much to the chagrin of the nurse, who seemed insistent that my ass was a better place, but I was equally insistent that I wasn't pulling my pants down for him) we texted snarky comments back and forth while, presumably, he watched the game. And then I hobbled out to the waiting room, we went to eat dinner, he dropped me off at home, I went to my meeting, I stopped by CVS to spend $50 I apparently needed to spend (who knew?) on makeup and facial cleansing supplies, and now I'm home blogging.

And so I can't complain, really -- after this whole thing, I'm not upset or agitated, 'cause whatcha gonna do? -- but I do find it humorous that if wanted to complain, I'd certainly have reason. I have a zillion things planned for the week, and now I've got to do them all on crutches. I was quoted in an AP article today in which they spelled my name incorrectly. And: I've got PMS, cramps, a healing but still sore lip piercing, a healing but still yucky tattoo, a torn ligament in my leg, arms that ache from using crutches, a nasty cold, a sore arm from the shot, and a wicked cough. And I still don't have a new DVD player, correctly-hooked-up sound for my TV, or a hot (preferably Italian or French) male nurse to bring me my ice packs for 15 minutes every hour for the next two days. Not that the last thing is a necessity, but I'm having such a crummy day that isn't upsetting me much (thank you, sobriety!), I might as well invent some sort of disappointment for myself.

ugh

As the day's gone on, I've felt sicker and sicker, and by now I have a fever and a full-blown head cold, whereas before it was just a tickle in my throat and a slight malaise. And I'm volunteering tomorrow night for KEXP.com at the Tomorrow Never Knows Festival, which will totally be worth it but I'm wondering how I'm going to catch up on work and make my meeting and eat and take care of my kiddos and clean my piercing and moisturize my new tattoo and buy a new DVD player (which Sax Man is coming over tomorrow to help me properly hook up to my TV and stereo) and write my syllabus and, uh, sleep and blah blah blah. But I suppose I don't have to figure all of that out right now -- duh! -- and all I really have to do is take care of myself, get some medicine into my body, sleep a good night's sleep, and do the best I can.

In the mean time, I bought my plane ticket to Albuquerque and I get a free first-class upgrade (finally) so that will be nice. And I have enough miles on United to book a flight to Texas for SXSW (if I get free tickets through work, 'cause I'm not paying $650) or my brother's graduation from college (if I don't), so there's that to look forward to. And, oh, I was able to reserve a convertible for Albuquerque for less than an economy car would've been -- I have a knack for finding online travel bargains -- so I am rather thrilled at that, though I suspect a convertible in New Mexico in February may be superfluous.

Namaste.

satisfaction guaranteed

So Bred was first incredulous that I'd only recently purchased and used a vibrator and I promised I'd tell the story but then got sick and postponed the whole thing and Candi said I really was a c*** tease (all in good fun!), so here ya'll go... though, a warning: this post is probably at least PG-13...

The gears in my head on this issue -- masturbation, vibrators, self-love, etc. -- started to turn when I went in for a gyne exam at the Chicago Women's Health Clinic in October. As with any visit to the doctor, there was paperwork to fill out, but the CWHC forms had an additional section about "self-love"... questions such as "Are you able to masturbate?" and "Would you like any instructions on how to pleasure yourself?" Or maybe they weren't so explicit and I'm recreating something more dramatic in my head, but in any case it was a bit startling to me, since I'd never before connected "my physical health" and "my ability to get myself off" in any context.

After filling out the forms, the volunteer health worker took me into the examination room. Under normal circumstances, I'd be left there to disrobe and the exam would commence, but I suppose these women's health collectives work a bit differently. (And I am not IN THE LEAST complaining -- I think it's totally cool that these things exist and the workers there encourage women to be in touch with their bodies, though I must admit I was taken aback when, later on, I was asked if (a) I wanted to insert my own speculum and/or (b) a hand mirror so I could see my cervix... but I digress.) So the health care worker got to the section on the forms about self-love and proceeded to attempt to talk with me about this, which made me extremely uncomfortable. Not that I had an intrinsic problem with masturbation... it was just something I didn't really think was necessary. In my mind, I'd tried it, it hadn't worked, and so the solution was to just keep finding guys -- because I had this idea that the only way I could get off is with a guy. And even if a guy was horrible or had zero technique or was completely unattractive, I could always get off because I knew what to do and how to do it and blah blah blah. I guess I convinced myself that if I were getting enough sex, I didn't need to worry about all that self-love crap.

And so when the health worker asked me if I wanted suggestions on techniques and tools and what have you, I blushed and stammered and said, uh, no thank you, and she said something like, well, self-love is an important part of building self-esteem and taking care of yourself and staying healthy, and I was still all, like, okay, thanks a bunch, can we get on to the part where you examine my vag now? and that was pretty much that. And later on, when I was over at L.'s house after W. had gotten caught shoplifting and she and Anima Sola prevented me from both killing him and drinking myself to death, we laughed about it, and I'm sure they were both thinking I was pretty uptight to be freaked out by someone taking a feminist and concerned interest in my sexual health apart from making sure I hadn't contracted gonorrhea or chlamydia or something like that.

So fast-forward a few weeks and partially because I've vowed not to have sex with a man (or, uh, woman) until at least September 26, 2008 (my one-year sobriety anniversary) but also (and infinitely more so) because I've been hanging out a lot with Slavegirl and The Master and they both make me feel like I'm the biggest prude since, well, prudes were invented, but I've long been thinking that I just need to figure out what this masturbation thing is all about. Not that I hadn't been haphazardly trying for, oh, forever... I've taken classes, I've tried using various implements, I've had dildos, I've used oils and lubricants and blah blah blah. It just wasn't happening. And I had so many people give me advice -- including, oddly, Mr. Big, who suggested I use the jets of a hot tub, and I actually did just that when I was at the spa in Santa Fe last year, but either I wasn't doing it right or my half hour in the hot tub wasn't enough time (probably the latter) but that was a no go.

And then I just decided I was going to get a vibrator and give it a try. I had to make my way to the Pleasure Chest to get Slavegirl's birthday present anyhow, and the vibe I wanted was on sale, and so I figured, well, why not? And I would've tried it out that night but it was a Saturday and I have the kids on Saturday night, and despite Slavegirl's suggestion that I head into the bathroom, something just felt wrong about heading into the bathroom of my 400-square-foot apartment while my kids were five feet away (on the other side of a door, but still...) and so it had to wait until Sunday.

I won't go into the details, but... WOW!

And I was mentioning all of this in therapy on Monday -- let me tell you that it's probably one of the most surreal things in the entire universe to be talking to one's therapist about the first time you've gotten off while masturbating with a vibrator -- and she was taking it all in with a remarkably straight face and after I finished my little story, she simply said, It sounds like you've really figured out how to take care of yourself in all of the important ways in the past few weeks. And it occurred to me -- then, and since then, and even more now -- that she was/is totally right.

All this time, I haven't necessarily been anti-masturbation; I just hadn't felt or realized or acknowledged or whatever that all the tools I needed to feel good and take care of myself and be complete were things I already had (well, except for the vibrator itself). I kept looking for happiness and satisfaction outside of myself -- in a bottle of whiskey or in a stranger's bed or in a relationship with someone who didn't treat me the way I deserved to be treated. Because I didn't think I deserved to be happy (or satisfied or whatever), I made sure that I felt my own capabilities were limited.

The long and the short of it is that I've come around (uh, no pun intended) to see exactly what that health worker was trying to say... it's not that masturbation itself is a big deal, but the knowledge that I don't need anyone except me to take care of myself is a huge realization. And what an awesome thing that is to know. As my therapist said, when September 26th rolls around, I may not even want to have sex with anyone... I might well be happy with what I've got: me, and a me who doesn't need anyone to make me feel complete. I just hope I don't end up like Charlotte on Sex and the City, canceling appointments with friends and refusing to leave my house because I love my rabbit so much. [Note to friends: keep an eye out for that...]

20% more suspense, same price

I'm off to Schubas for the Tomorrow Never Knows festival. This is all the time to blog I have. I'm still sick....so that's my way of saying deal with it. Vibrator stories await. I promise.

i'm not really a c*** tease...

By popular demand, I was going to write about Item #3 in yesterday's blog, but I'm sick and going to bed early. You're just going to have to wait to hear how it is that it took me so very long to purchase -- and use -- a vibrator. Don't let the suspense kill you.

tag... i'm it

Russian Mafia Babe tagged me for this blog meme, so I'm venturing forth to fulfill my duty.

The rules: Link to the person who tagged you. Post the rules on your blog. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs. Leave a comment on their blog so that their readers can visit yours.

So, then, seven random and/or weird facts about me…

1. I abscond with miniature-sized things whenever possible. For example, I have a two-inch-tall bottle of Tabasco sauce as well as various shrunken versions of other condiments.
2. When I eat food, I get squirrelly if I can't begin and end chewing on the left side of my mouth, alternating each bite. If I am eating M&Ms or Reese's Pieces, this extends to sorting out the colors and leaving matching pairs until the end.
   
3. Until this past weekend, I had neither owned nor ever used a vibrator.
   
4. When I got married, I had the biggest frilliest beady-est gown, which astonished 100% of people around the world, most of all my family, since I simultaneously refused to pay $10 to get my eyebrows waxed before the wedding. Even more than I'm horrified at my unkempt Italian brows in the wedding photos, what possessed me to choose a dress that had a bustle? Was I completely unaware of the preexisting size of my ass? Did I just not care? Can this be excused by the fact that I was married to my first husband, twenty-three, and, uh, pregnant when I picked it out?
5. I've only shaved my legs once since September 20, which is as effective in my efforts to remain celibate until October 1 as wearing a chastity belt and losing the key. Other than being slightly embarrassed at my hairy ankles sticking out from my yoga pants when I answer the door for the guy bringing me Thai food from Delivery.com and the UPS man bringing me my Sephora.com orders, it's not a big deal. This is why god (or, uh, fashion designers) invented 80 Denier black tights.
   
6. When I was nineteen, I went home with an Adonis-like guy I met at a bar in Stone Park (okay, no snickers...he was really hot...) and snuck out while he was in the bathroom and told me to wait in the kitchen, where I found stacks and stacks and stacks of old-lady and pregnant-women porn on the table.
   
7. I didn't have a single female friend (well, except for co-workers) who didn't try to sleep with one of my boyfriends or husbands until I was twenty-seven years old. Life is so much better now that I've been surrounding myself with trustworthy people who know the meaning of words such as trust, fidelity, honor, friendship, decency, and boundaries.
   

And with the power vested in me by the blogosphere, I now tag the following bloggers:

1. Anima Sola
2. Sarcastic Mom
3. Rachel
4. The Journey Mama
5. Redhairedgirl
6. Schmutzie
7. Groove Mama

Have fun, ladies!

progress, praise, and a bruised ego thigh

1. I may be done with therapy soon. It seems as though I've met most of the goals we set, which included developing a healthy sense of self-esteem, learning how to speak up for myself, discovering how to set (and maintain) boundaries, finding value and serenity from within (rather than seeking someone else to complete or fix me), and figuring out how to stop obsessing about, controlling, and managing everything in the world except myself. Of course, being me, I said, Maybe this is because of the antidepressants, and my therapist said, You do realize that there are people who are on Prozac for ten years and haven't made the progress you've made in four months, right? Well, no, actually, I didn't. But thanks, doc, for forcing me to take responsibility -- and, uh, credit -- for what I've done since September. And that happy feeling I talked about a little while back? It's coming every day now, most all the time. It feels so miraculous that, well, I think it's a bit of a miracle. But the thought of stopping therapy is a little scary -- duh..what else is new? -- and so we're going to just think about it for now and give it a month or so. But the idea that I could completely transform myself into a new and improved and healthy person within the course of a fiscal quarter is a bit astonishing in any case.

2. And school started up today, where I ran into C. and J. and N. Of those people, N. and J. knew I'd stopped drinking and entered the program. J.'s response had been Say it ain't so! and I haven't heard from him much since then. I think N. is curious for his own personal reasons, but meanwhile he's tolerant and supportive of my efforts.... but C. didn't know; she just knows I stopped going to the bar where she works and it's been months since she's seen me. Today she said, It's been forever since I've seen you! and I said, Yeah, I stopped drinking. Her response -- which was AWESOME -- was, Oh, that must be why you look so healthy and beautiful and fabulous. That was so great to hear... it's not like I don't feel a million times better -- and I know it must show to some extent, too, because I'm attracting healthy people for the first time in my life -- but to hear it from someone who hasn't seen me for four months and notices a difference... well, that was nice.

3. I have a bruise the size of a football on my thigh, thanks to some stupid maneuvering at The Hideout last night. I'd climbed up on the bar to get a better view, not realizing it wasn't all that sturdy, so Katie came by to ask me to get down about half-way through, and while getting down I whacked my thigh on the bar... and I had to ice it down when I got home last night, and it's still so tender that it hurts when I walk. And it's huge... when W. saw it today after I got out of the shower, he shrieked, What the hell is that on your leg? Thanks, son. I'll remember this after you end up in your first mosh pit and someone gives you a black eye. I'll make sure to recoil in horror... it feels real good.

pondering poi dog

Poi Dog Pondering rocked The Hideout tonight. It was a pared-down five-piece acoustic version of the band, and it was a spectacular kick-off to a year that is sure to bring many, many tremendous shows. Happy New Year!

news flash

My story is written. I'm going to read in bed. Namaste.

a ho-hum saturday...

1. Of the twelve things on my to-do list for the week, I've accomplished two and a half. This is a horrible track record. The one I'm most disappointed about is (still) not writing my story. My sponsor said to me today, With your emotional sobriety and the way you've changed your thinking and behavior, you could really be on your fourth or fifth step by now...so stop procrastinating! And so, yeah, I've just got to sit down and write the damn thing. Of course, no one likes doing the fourth step (where you take a fearless moral inventory of yourself), so perhaps I'm really just not wanting to deal with that, and that's what will come up damn soon once I finish writing. Whatever. It needs to get done, and nothing like telling me I'm falling behind other people with my same ability level to get me motivated. Whatever works, I guess.

2. I did something right today. I could have gone to a different meeting, where I knew this guy I've got a crush on would be, but I'd promised a friend I'd get some information she needed from someone who'd be at my regular Saturday meeting. The Old Me would have said screw my friend (or at least rationalized it or found some other way to get the information) and gone to the other meeting and thrown myself at my crush, who probably isn't interested in me at all to begin with because he's got a lot of sobriety and, well, I don't. But anyhow. I did the right thing, and I feel as though I should mention this because otherwise it slips away as something that's just a random act when, in fact, it was a conscious choice to show up for my friend. It felt good. I didn't feel deprived in the least. Yay for me!

3. This week brings a lot of concerts my way... tomorrow is Poi Dog Pondering at The Hideout; Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday, I'll be at the Tomorrow Never Knows festival at Schubas volunteering for KEXP...look for me if you're there. I'll be the one with magenta and blue hair nursing a Shirley Temple and trying not to play with her new lip piercing...

a tale of two lunches

There's nothing like spending most of the day in Lincoln Square -- and comparing it to last week's visit to the western suburbs -- to remind me how grateful I am to live in this neighborhood. Around 10:30am, I headed out to The Dressing Room to return a skirt I'd purchased on New Year's Eve and found myself in the midst of a markdown frenzy, and since they know me so well, the staff members were advising me on what was on clearance and what wasn't, etc.

And so I walked out with about $300 worth of stuff for $120 -- including a $190 dress (which I almost bought on New Year's Eve for full price) for $85. Yay! After my buying spree, I snagged W. and we headed up to Cafe Selmarie, and on the way I ran into V., who lives not too far away, in front of Costello's. He told me he'd recently discovered Karyn's Cooked and we chatted for a bit, and then off to the cafe, where there was a ten-minute wait, and so we went to the Book Cellar to grab Fellowship of the Rings, which he has to read for school, and The Best American Essays of 2007 (I need some inspiration). Back to Cafe Selmarie... where I had a cup of wonderful white-bean vegetarian chili with cornbread and a field greens salad and yummy green tea, and these adorable old (as in ancient) ladies were next to us and complimented me on my parenting skills and my hair and my outfit (yay for ancient city ladies!)... and then to Enjoy: An Urban General Store, where I found THE BEST birthday card for Slavegirl and a cute pair of earrings... and Hanger 18 (where I saw a tattoo-themed mirror I might go back to purchase) and Eclecticity (which I'm staking out until the perfect set of vintage dishes and/or china shows up) and Laurie's Planet of Sound (where I saw no less than a half-dozen folks I know) and then peeked in the crystal shop on Eastwood before finally walking home.

And it occurs to me that this is an average day in my life in Lincoln Square. (Well, except for the spending lots of money part.) I visit places I love, I see friends everywhere, the people in the shops know me and what I like, I feel (and am) accepted, and almost everything I could ever want in the entire world either exists or can be ordered from places that exist in a one-mile radius of my apartment. This is so radically different from how I feel in the suburbs -- a place I can't even talk about without sounding as though I'm discussing disgusting bodily functions of people with the Ebola virus -- where, to be sure, there is a lot of stuff but nothing that I find exciting or unusual or atypical or, well, my sort of stuff. And of course there's also the collective disdain I encounter when venturing past Oak Park or Evanston, and that doesn't help my mental state.

Anyhow, between today's fun and yesterday's fabulous thrifting with the super Slavegirl, I am happy. This is my world. I love being here, inhabiting this space, exploring my universe, and simply existing. As Lin Brehmer is wont to say, It's good to be alive. Indeed.

my latest addiction (with a side of irony)

My newest favorite show is Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew... he does a great job of explaining addiction and what needs to be done in early recovery. And I loved how he was explaining to Brigitte Nielsen that it's harder for binge drinkers to get sober than those who drink daily -- because then you have the experience of saying oh, look at all those times when I didn't drink and I was fine rather than focusing on what DID happen every time you drank. This is a show that could have been dumb and -- perhaps because it's Dr. Drew who's behind it? -- it seems like it's really taking addiction seriously. Now if I can only figure out how to watch it without being subjected to commercials for Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant, Rock of Love 2 and My Fair Brady: Maybe Baby?

festering thoughts

1. While I am 100% flattered that 99% of the people I meet lately think I'm in my 20s, I'm tired of hearing about it, especially when I have to put on my reading glasses to read the running time for disc one in the Planet Earth DVD set. I am sure one of my lovely friends will remind me of this wholly insane and unjustified annoyance when we are 89 and living in a commune slash nursing home staffed by roller derby nurses.

2. One of the best things about being single (though not THE best, by far) is being able to eat a dinner that consists of kiln-baked bread, red pepper soup with oyster crackers, and baked apple pie at 11:54pm while watching The Fountain in my pink bathrobe and slipper socks.

3. I want to officially go on record and say that, as a group, my exes are some of the craziest and most baffling people inhabiting this planet. I don't know if a full moon is coming or they've all gotten together to see who can engage in the weirdest behavior, but the past 48 hours have been strange. Guys, if you're reading this, stop. Please. Thank you.

4. School starts on Monday, marking the beginning of the biggest Mulligan of my lifetime. Let's see if I can refrain from getting pregnant, finding myself surrounded by potsmokers, getting drunk, or otherwise fucking up my chances of passing my comprehensive exams THIS time around, k?

5. I'm still laughing about B.'s reaction to my lip piercing. He was upset and already crying and then he looked at my face and shrieked, WHAT IS ON YOUR LIP?!?! while visibly recoiling. It's the sort of reaction I would have received from my mother had I done this when I was 14, and I find it quite hilarious that my five-year-old son is channeling my mom, who was the age I am now when I was 14.

6. There's this guy from the meetings that I can't stop thinking about, which A. says is normal because, duh!, I have a crush. Is it terrible that I'm considering rearranging my entire meeting schedule just so I can make it to the ones he goes to? And yes, I know the answer to that question without having to even think about calling my sponsor...

rationalization is my favorite hobby

You'd think that with the news that I'm getting a $10/hour raise come February 1st, I'd plan to do something responsible, such as make extra student loan payments, save up for a condo, or start contributing more to my variable life insurance policy. And I may well do one or all of those things, but the first thing that came to mind? Buying a stand-up arcade game plus foosball, air hockey, and ping-pong tables, then turning the basement into a game room. As long as I troll on Craigslist and Freecycle and eBay for most of this stuff, I figure it can't possibly cost more than a couple (three?) thousand dollars (uh, right?) and I'll be making about $400 more a week, so it's not that irresponsible. And the kicker is that, since the basement is filled with my crap -- boxes of "stuff" that have been there since we moved into the house in June 2005 -- this plan cannot materialize until I get rid of all that junk. So I am looking at this as a reward for decluttering rather than mindless consumer capitalism. I am well aware that this might be rationalization, and I am 100% okay with that. Just don't ask to come over and play Ms. Pacman if you're shaking your index finger at me right now...

cool vs. beautiful

It's on 365 versions of me and it's on my Facebook page and my MySpace page, but what the heck? Here's the first (relatively photogenic) picture of me with my new lip piercing. Yay for me! Well, kind of... it was painful as all heck. I threw up not once, but twice, and I almost passed out. But overall I'm happy with the result, even if it has been almost impossible to eat anything without feeling like I've got a metal straw permanently attached to my lip, a sensation M. tells me went away for her after about a week. And if someone who's got her clit (and other various naughty bits) pierced doesn't know about these things, I don't know who will... so I'm going with that. And in other news:

1. Tattoo No. 7 is planned for Monday. It's going to be on the back of my neck, "namaste" written in Hindi. And while I'm there, Mike is going to see/hear my idea for the mythology-based 3/4-sleeve I've been pondering for ages now. Basically, it's going to be Juno and Persephone and Apollo playing out scenes from the heavens and the underworld and the sober reality that lies in between. Fun!

2. Stopping by to see the kiddos yesterday, we had the following conversation, which made me laugh heartily and also caused me to wonder whether I'd rather be beautiful or cool:

Me: Hi, guys!

B: What did you bring me?

Me: Was I supposed to bring you something?

B: Yes, something cool.

Me: I brought myself!

W: Yeah, mom's cool.

B: No, you're beautiful, which means you can't be cool.

Me: I can't be both?

W: I've seen some beautiful cool women.

B: Really?

W: Yeah. There was this picture...

Me: OK, let's stop there...

Ah, the joys of bringing male children into the world...

3. I was interviewed today by a wire service, which means I'll be seeing myself in a Google News Alert soon, which will be quite surreal, I am sure.

4. One thing that really sucks about being sober and wanting to stay sober and, therefore, working a strong program: having a commitment to doing the next right thing. It would be so much easier, on some level, to blow people off and not show up where I said I'd show up and not participate when I feel like slacking and blah blah blah... but no. That ain't what it's all about... so I continue to reluctantly do things and somehow it gets me out of myself and it's all good. Or at least better than drinking. Someone at a meeting on Sunday said I didn't get in trouble every time I drank, but every time I got in trouble I'd been drinking and -- wow! -- ain't that the truth? I think that needs to be my daily mantra for some time to come...

5. I'm getting back in the swing of things re: concerts... I stopped off and saw Adam at Laurie's on Friday and he said haven't seen you around for a while, and it's totally true... I did kind of drop off the face of the local-show planet but now I am officially back. Yay! Going with W. to see Poi Dog Pondering on Sunday, and then there's the Tomorrow Never Knows festival at Schubas, plus tons of other great stuff coming up. So, then: I'm back. But better. Be forewarned.

you look like a normal person but actually you are the angel of death

Remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Sally is heartbroken that her ex is marrying the woman who was supposed to be his rebound girlfriend, and Harry comes over to her house, and she says ...AND I'm gonna be forty and he says uh, in eight years and her response is But it's there. It's just sitting there, like some big dead end? Well, I remember when that movie came out and I was sitting in the Brauntex theatre with my guy friends (all of whom were impossibly in love with Meg Ryan) and we all laughed... hahaha, those silly women in their 30s who are already older than we ever wanna be and fret way too much about turning forty. So imagine my surprise when I was thinking the other day about how my best friend's fiancé is forty years old but he doesn't seem that much older than I am because... uh, holy crap... he's NOT that much older than I am. And the entire world slowed down for more than a few moments as I thought about all my friends who turned forty last year and the ones who are turning thirty-six this year and my ex-husband is turning forty-eight and my uncle -- my "young and cool" uncle -- just turned fifty and how did THIS start happening without my even noticing?

It should be made clear that I'm not one of those fanatic anti-aging people. I have the beginnings of wrinkles and my skin isn't as smooth as it used to be and my breasts are sagging (which I blame more on almost four years of breastfeeding than gravity) and a zillion other "signs of aging" are on the horizon, but I still forget to wash my face before I got to bed 79% of the time and haven't yet figured out why I need to buy eye cream, much less apply it with my pinky because the skin is so supposedly "delicate." Most people are surprised that I'm as "old" as I am -- although this usually occurs when disclosing my age to fellow alcoholics, so I either look like a young thirty-four-year-old or a washed-up twenty-seven-year-old -- take your pick. And I happen to like my age because I know so much more now than I did ten years ago and I have great relationships and I have fun in ways I never could have back then. Yeah, I might have had perky breasts and my ass was 1000% less cellulite-y, but my life is better now than it ever has been, and if anyone wants to argue that a dimple-less ass is more of an asset than self-esteem and health and awesome friends and happiness, then every single one of those twenty-two year olds with no sense of direction are yours for the taking.

Why, then, am I so flustered about this age thing? Honestly, I have no idea... other than what Sally said: it's just sitting there, like some big dead end. And it's not even MY dead end -- it's a socially constructed idea of an age that should be something like the death knell for single women (and quite possibly the first handful of dirt thrown on the coffin of single single mothers).What it really is: this is bothering me, even though I don't want to -- and shouldn't be, dammit! -- be bothered. Does this mean I should finally buy some eye cream and start washing my face before I go to bed?

the first sunday of the year...

...was spent in a rather haphazard fashion. After watching Shrek the Third, M. and W. and the boys and I headed out to Pick Me Up for vegan French toast and, uh, I don't really remember what they had because I was eating my food. Hah! Anyhow, here is the photo from the middle of brunch:And then after that, B. and I headed back to my place, where I took a bath, he watched Sonic X and Kirby, and I got a ton of work done. Yay! And then it was a meeting, followed by The Kite Runner in Evanston (and "dinner" at the Golden Nugget) with W., who cracks me up with his silly stories. And now I'm back home, ostensibly working, watching Friday Night Lights on On Demand, and wondering whether I should take my contacts out now or right before I go to bed. Ah, decisions, decisions...

sleepover number one for aught-eight

Nothing momentous for the day, other than it has found me snuggling with this dog, Thesis. I gotta say: it's the first time in my entire life that cuddling with a dog has seemed appealing. And, no, there was zero bestiality quotient involved, all you nasty people.

on not freezing to death

For me there is nothing worse than being cold. Experience has proven I can handle hunger and homelessness and violence and terror and not knowing how I'll live to my next paycheck, but a lack of warmth is the one thing that remains intolerable. In order to understand this, you need to see from whence I came, which is why I've included these two photos. The first one shows the structure I lived in from age 12 to 14 (the tiny blue garage-shaped building in the middle), and the second shows the trailer I lived in my freshman year (and part of my sophomore year) of high school.

My parents -- mostly my dad, but my mom went along with it -- would always get these wild ideas to build houses on property in the country. I think they bought two or three pieces of land before we moved to New Braunfels in 1983, but it wasn't until 1984 or 1985 that they actually bought land upon which any plans came to fruition. The idea was to build a small structure that would eventually become a garage, but in the meantime it would serve as an apartment of sorts for our family. Guys my dad worked with came over for the pouring of the foundation, and we had an old-fashioned barn raising of sorts. I learned -- as best a 12-year-old could -- how to dig for a foundation, lay rebar, frame and raise walls, hang sheet rock, run electrical wiring, roof a house, install siding, and paint a house (inside and out). And into this "garage" we moved -- all five of us -- as a "temporary" measure while my parents would save up money to build a house on the property.

When we moved in, there was no running water. My brother and I would walk down the hill to the well to pump water that would then be boiled on the stove (we at least had electricity). Not too long after, we had water, but it was months before a septic system was installed. At first, we used a porta potty but after one time of having to clean our shit out of it, my dad decided we could only pee in the porta potty. If we had to "do No. 2" my mom would drive us to the Stop-N-Go that was three or four miles away. Once, when she wasn't home and there wasn't anything else I could do, I shat in a paper bag and put it out with the trash.

Beyond having to share a 400-square-foot space with my parents, brother, and sister, and shitting in a paper bag, there wasn't much heat in the "garage" space. There were lots of blankets, but I remember being very hot in the summer time and very cold in the winter -- and that lasted the entire time I lived there, a little less than two years. Because despite the living situation having been marketed as temporary, it was years before the "big house" was inhabitable, and to this day -- more than 20 years later -- that house remains unfinished and is now vacant. My father, I think, simply grew tired of trying to make it work.

Before all that, though, my parents were divorced and I had a falling out with my dad and I moved in with my mother, who -- having spent the better part of 15 years as a housewife -- had neither money nor a job and, therefore, was forced to find Section 8 housing. In her case, it was a trailer at the top of a hill where my bedroom was so small that I didn't even have room to sit on the floor -- a twin bed and a dresser were pretty much all that would fit. My mother and sister each had larger rooms -- they were living there for a while before I moved in -- so it wasn't a horrid place, but it was the kind of place I was embarrassed enough of that I had people drop me off at the bottom of the hill or -- if I was brave enough to have them over -- made all kinds of excuses about how this was a "temporary" situation until my mother got back on her feet.

More than I remember being embarrassed by the shoddiness of the whole thing -- trailer parks in Texas aren't as necessarily low-class as they are here, and it's more the quality of the trailer that was cause for shame -- I remember being constantly cold in that trailer. The heat was run by some sort of gas -- I don't know if it was natural gas or kerosene -- but whatever it was, my mother often didn't have the money to fill up the tank and we would simply go without. While life in the "garage" wasn't all that great, we at least had some heat to carry us through, but this was something else. And, yeah, I can look back and think, Well, how cold can it possibly have been? It was Texas, after all... but as a fourteen-year-old girl who had lived in Texas since she was eight years old, it was damn cold (the Weather Channel tells me the average low in January there is 34 degrees, so it wasn't exactly tropical). And I remember piling blanket after blanket on my bed and still not ever being able to feel warm, a chill completely through to the bone that I was terrified would never completely go away. And in a very real sense, it never has.

I never really remembered all of this until I took W. to Texas at the beginning of the summer of 2006, and we took kind of a tour of all the places I'd lived as a girl. And as we went from one depressing place to another -- we never did live anywhere with any sort of longevity of value -- I began to remember the humiliation I'd felt my entire life, the feeling that once I was an adult, I would never stoop to that level. I would never make my children poop in a bag (or hold it in until we could make it to the gas station) or live in a space where they had no room to stretch their legs or pile blankets upon their beds because I didn't have the money for gas. Not that my parents wouldn't have made it different if they could have, but in retrospect that's a horribly large "if" to contemplate. And it sounds strange, but until W. was a witness to my geographic history, I had completely forgotten those promises I'd made to myself, that things would be different for my children.

Except I'd never forgotten about being cold. It would be difficult not to remember, living here in Chicago. And since last summer, cold weather reminds me of all those other things that had slipped my mind. I don't think I'll ever be proud of where I've come from -- if I can't feel pride showing my first-born son, how much is there? -- but I do feel a deep and enduring sense of accomplishment at how far I've come. Of all things, cold toes in the winter bring that feeling straight to the surface. And so even though there is nothing worse than feeling cold, I am eternally grateful for the snow.

it is what it is

Within the past half-hour, the strangest feeling has come over me, one I've previously only experienced while visiting New York City, walking past people eating their lunches side-by-side on park benches in Union Square or navigating Chinatown's touristy foot traffic or eating knishes at Coney Island or emerging from the subway into Times Square or browsing at Gotham Book Mart (which has since closed) or sipping tea in Teany for the sixth time in six days or finding the sexiest pair of vegan stilettos at Moo Shoes or meeting new friends at Friday night dinner at the Natural Gourmet Cookery School or a thousand other tiny moments in the small spaces of my life spent in the city I love more than any other. On the surface, this feeling is exactly the same as the beginning of a deep and nearly suicidal depression, a sense that I could burst into tears at a moment's notice, without any real provocation, for no apparent reason. But it also feels like anticipation and hope and surprise and wishing on a star and being twelve again and getting kissed for the first time and falling in love and finding the missing piece to a long-forgotten puzzle.

It occurs to me: this is what it feels like to be happy, to know that everything I need to be complete is already in my possession, that I deserve the good things that happen to me (and there are plenty), that I am loved and able to love, that the only person stopping me from reaching my potential is me. This feels a lot like the fear of the unknown, but today I know that it is joy.

good-bye ruby tuesday...

1. In addition to preventing me from getting out of the house (or, uh, off of my couch), the America's Next Top Model marathon on VH1 is quite educational. By this, I mean that I have learned I can watch the first five minutes and the last ten minutes and be quite happy. And you'd think this would mean that the other 45 minutes of every hour, I'd just turn the television off... but, no, I listen to it and just watch at the end to see everyone's photos and find out who's getting the boot. I do the same only-watch-the-end thing with What Not to Wear, While You Were Out, Extreme Makeover, Flip That House, and pretty much every other before-and-after transformation "reality" show. [In case there were any question, yes, I have a slight problem when it comes to weaning myself from this rather voyeuristic practice of living vicariously through other people's neuroses...]

2. Until yesterday, I was an avid French toast hater. All these years I've been eschewing pancakes and French toast because it gets all soggy with the syrup and, of course, being 99% vegan, French toast is kind of out of the picture. But then B. ordered the vegan French toast at the Pick Me Up Café yesterday and he didn't eat it all and it smelled so yummy and I tried it and... Oh. My. God. There was enough left over for me to have some for breakfast today -- along with Earl Grey breakfast tea brewed in my pod coffee maker (yes, I have discovered TEA PODS!!!) -- and I am now craving the stuff. Anyone wanna go to the Pick Me Up soon?

3. I've gone a bit blog crazy. I've signed up for Blog 365, which means I'll be aiming to post every day in 2008. I've got this one (uh, obviously) and 34 words (which is me participating in x365) and now I've got 365 versions of me -- which is based on this Flickr group idea that you can take a photo of yourself every day for a year. I've added accomplishments and reasons for gratitude because, uh, who wouldn't want a year-long list of all the things they've gotten done and reminders of all the cool stuff in their life? Not me, that's who.

all is quiet on new year's day...

Apologies to U2... but it's all I've got. It's been an eventful first three hours of 2008, starting with W. inching closer to me to avoid the voluminous ass of the drunk woman "dancing" in his face in the VIP balcony at the Metro during the Spoon show (which totally rocked). And then we walked south toward Addison to see if I could catch a cab.... which never happened. I hopped on the Clark bus with W. (the only other option was becoming enraged by the rather annoying drunk women lining the streets -- and, uh, what's up with not wearing any outerwear? if you go out in the snow without a coat, you deserve not to get a cab just because you're whining...), where this rather amusing woman asked if we were married, which caused me to laugh so hard I just about cried. And it was even funnier when W. almost actually did propose, but then stopped himself, claiming I'm the sister he never had -- and, you know, since we're not in Arkansas or Tennessee, that pretty much puts the kabosh on any shenanigans such as those. I got off the bus in Andersonville, thinking it would be easier to find a cab there than Wrigleyville, and it was, but only after a cab stopped for me and these two women STOLE my cab, at which point the following "conversation" transpired:

Me: Thanks a lot.
Them: You're welcome.
Me: Are you so stupid that you cannot detect sarcasm?
Them: Uh, sure.
Me: And rhetorical questions are over your head, too?
Them: Uh....
Me: Whatever. Thanks a lot.

So, okay... the evening didn't end as, uh, soberly as it might have. But I did end up in a cab of my own shortly thereafter, and I gave the cab driver $10 for a $5 fare (hey, it's New Year's and drunk people suck!) and now I'm home watching even more of the Law and Order: Criminal Intent marathon that's been on since at least 11am yesterday (when I first began tuning in) and engaging in a probably rather fruitless pondering of whether Vincent D'Onofrio is single and, if he is, whether I'm his type. Happy New Year.