on the 16th floor with a view of the lake

So I taught this morning and ate donuts and drank coffee during my office hours before getting my paycheck and driving to the bank to deposit it (and get $20 fast cash) and pointed my car down Lake Shore Drive to make it to class on time, and when I showed up the classroom was empty and I found myself calling classmates to see if something had happened about which I knew nothing. And it turns out that the professor said some time ago that there would be no class today and I just didn't remember or wasn't listening or didn't care (or all of the above), which I took as an excuse to head down to University Village to go shopping.

Because shopping can be exhausting, I needed food, so I stopped off at Quizno's for a veggie sandwich and Dr. Pepper (a lot of Dr. Pepper) before walking down to Barbara's Bookstore because, really, this is University Village we're talking about, so nothing else is really available or in my price range other than books. And I saw on the way in that all calendars were 75% off, which inspired a bit of an apoplectic fit, since I have been laboring under the delusion (since 1984) that, were I simply to get the "right calendar" (whatever THAT is), I would magically and instantly become super-organized, always on time, never forgetful, and miraculously poised in all of my affairs. It's the concept of a geographic cure as applied to my clutter issues and further evidence of my complete unwillingness to admit my powerlessness over chaos. Of course, I made a beeline for the calendars and found The. Perfect. One. for only $3.49, and it's already collecting dust under my bed, where it fell when I came home and had to throw all my crap on my bed because I had to pee so badly from all the Dr. Pepper. But ANYHOW...

I had time to kill before heading over to the hospital (where I was going to sit with S., who is going through chemo and in need of visitors during the day), and so perambulated over to the books on clearance, where a big stack of Anne Lamott's Plan B practically fell on my head as I got on my hands and knees to see what yummy stuff was on the shelves down below. If I believed in God, I'd say He was at work here, but I don't, and instead what I believe in are God Moments (perhaps splitting hairs, but just humor me) and I bought the book, plus the calendar, along with an Ed Emberley drawing book for the boys so I didn't feel completely selfish, wanting to be organized and find spiritual salvation (or just salve?) before going off to do something that ended up being one of the hardest things I've done sober.

And I'm not going to talk about seeing S. in the hospital, because that's not my story to tell and the things I have to say are less about what it felt like to be there than they are about all the things I've repressed about my own tumor and surgery and recovery, which continues to feel more like a dream than a memory. I think all along I've felt that I was some superwoman soldiering on and proving how brave and strong and adventurous I was. Look at me! I had brain surgery and went back to school two weeks later! But the truth of the matter -- when I allow myself to feel it at all -- is that I was terrified and I felt abandoned by a man who said he loved me and I worried that my children would have a fucked-up mother and I fretted over whether my hair would grow back right and, on a daily basis, I dealt with seizures, headaches, fatigue, memory loss, and a host of other things I don't even feel like listing here.

All this emotion I've been holding back for so long comes tumbling forth and I remember -- as in viscerally, not casually -- what it was like to find out I had a brain tumor and spend an hour walking around Lincoln Square, calling people on the phone, leaving vapid messages -- Hey, it's A., how ya doin'? I have a brain tumor. Call me back when you get a chance -- with absolutely no one calling me back and The Philosopher doing what he always did (leaving me to deal with things alone under the pretense that he was "handling the kids") and me ending up seeing Wedding Crashers on a Friday night amidst loving couples who (I am guessing) knew little to nothing about tumors and cancer and craniotomies and focal seizures or any other similar crises that could (and would) tear all of them apart one day, forcing them to become people they'd barely recognize before the dust settled.

And the odd thing is that I cried last night and again this morning because I was happy and completely filled with hope. And when I was sitting in my car on Halsted wasting seven minutes before I sucked it up and drove to the hospital, I realized it was probably the first time in my life when I thought I could actually succeed in anything I put my mind to, the first time I have had all external obstacles truly removed, and definitely the first time I haven't had any baggage weighing me down. This is all me, I thought in the car. All this hope, all this potential, all these promises and dreams and aspirations... they are all mine to own or lose or squander. And that wasn't the case on September 30, 2005, when I was wheeled into surgery and had a panic attack on the operating room table about three seconds before the general anesthesia kicked in, and the last thing I remember before waking up, groggy and headachey, in the Neurological ICU, was the absolute certainty that I was going to die, everyone who ever loved me would lose me, and I hadn't yet done any single thing that really mattered.

Those are the truths, though, and by accepting them -- yes, I am going to die, and yes, everyone who has ever loved me will lose me one day -- I force myself to do those things (both large and small) that matter. And so it's not so much that visiting someone who has cancer stirs up feelings I had about my own surgery and recovery, but that being there today was one of those things that makes a difference, gives someone else something I didn't have, and brings me not only to tears in the elevator and walking down the sidewalk and talking on the phone but also to the place where I can hug my children just a little bit more snugly and dream a little more than I did yesterday and -- more importantly -- make spaces in my life to allow love and sunlight and happiness to pour in, while there is still time.

on learning the value of crying

("Say Goodbye" from Linzie Hunter, a recent addition to my art collection)

Years ago, when Rebel was a baby, I read an article in Mothering offering evidence crying was a necessary release, not only for those lacking verbal communication skills but for everyone. It serves as a release of tension, frustration, and mental claustrophobia -- and also a valve through which we can let out an excessive amount of positive feeling: happiness, excitement, pure joy. Fuck that, I thought, Crying is for babies. And perhaps I even believed this, given that every relationship I'd ever been in had been with men who believed crying was a form of manipulation, something people (women) did to make other people (men) feel guilty or bad or otherwise horrible. I never agreed but also didn't have much reason to believe (or self-esteem to argue) that they were wrong.

I find myself on the verge of tears this evening not because I am frustrated (though I am) or angry (ditto) but, rather, because I am happy. Not everything is as how I would envision a "perfect life" for myself, but that's quite incidental to the fact that I am sitting here:

• listening to music I don't need to justify to anyone else;
• waiting for dinner to cook that I don't have to convince anyone else is a "normal" meal;
• anticipating a reality TV show coming on that I owe no one else an apology for liking;
• living the "literary" life I've always wanted;
• exploring a new relationship with no expectation (on either side) of how either one of us should be or feel or act; and
• realizing life isn't something to wait to happen, but something happening all around me.

There are a thousand loose ends strewn about my life, but none of them will undo me if it were to be yanked out from under me. My life has stopped being fragile, dependent upon others, or variable according to someone else's mood or opinions, and has morphed into a menagerie of pleasant sentiments and small comforts and hearty laughs and little grins and quiet excitement and devilishly sweet everyday experiences that come together and make me realize, as I feel it all welling up, that crying may have once been for babies, but I'm not the person who said that anymore.

balancing on the beam

My "lunch", at 4:20pm, fresh from my kitchen

There's something sweet and centering about finding pleasure in small things: eating crispy samosas with mango chutney and garlic naan with Indian relish; chatting with an old friend after weeks of missing her; listening to happy new music; driving on Lower Wacker talking on speakerphone with someone who inspires wider smiles than average; thinking about dating (and more); waking up to snuggles from an unusually furry cat; finishing an essay long overdue; enjoying newfound freedoms and newly discovered connections; back rubs and phone calls and kisses and snuggles; discussions about karma and kismet and fate and good fortune; being alive, being sober, being loved, just being. Namaste.

post-deadline online roundup

Normally I wait until Saturday to offer commentary on things I've found online, but a few things are too good to pass up until then:

1. I don't know if anyone has told these girls, but they ain't all that pretty. But I love how the camera pans up on the one of them, and her leggings are all uneven and her legs are not very attractive regardless. Am I being petty? Of course I am. But that's kinda what you get when you go on national television and claim you didn't get water on your flight on Southwest Airlines because you're too pretty. Especially when you're not.

2. Today, I found Songkick. Yesterday, Jesse Jarnow (who's dubbed me Fangs McVegan, which I love) pointed me in the direction of Good Reads, and I found all kinds of cool software to download for my BlackBerry, including Google Talk, leaving me to ponder what hasn't been thought of in terms of technology. [Do I really need the ability to Google chat while driving? This remains to be seen.]

3. Does it get any better than FoxNewsPorn? Methinks not.

4. Hearing the full story about the cyclist who was killed over the weekend at Lincoln-Irving-Damen makes me feel about 99% less sorry for him than I did yesterday. I mean, OK, it's sad someone died, but isn't this sort of like people who end up brain damaged because they rode a motorcycle 90 miles an hour down I-88 and refused to wear a helmet and crashed? In other words, I'm finding it difficult to garner much sympathy here.

5. (Side note) If you haven't gone to Tulip yet, I've got to say they've got some fine products there. I'm starting to feel a bit like Charlotte from Sex and the City the past couple of days... ahem.

6. I've always wanted an invisibility cloak... is this yet another dream answered by the marvelous folks at Google?

7. Choda Boy, anyone?

8. Will people PLEASE STOP organizing summer music festivals? My head is about to explode from all of my tentative travel plans.

9. My birthday is only five months away, my five-month sobriety anniversary is today, and every day is a good day to buy me a present, so if you're wondering what you can get me, these are a good bet. Or these. Or one of these. OK. I'm done (for now).

back in the old haunts

Sitting here at The Grind waiting for Sax Man to show up for our lunch date and marveling at how much I love this place. On the menu for today: pumpkin curry soup with homemade bagel chips, a double vanilla soy latte, and a slice of vegan chocolate buttercream cake. Could I be any closer to heaven? Methinks not. Yum.

randomness for a monday

1. The best thing about watching My So-Called Life (via Netflix) now, after not watching it when it was actually on television (1994-1995), is that I not only identify with the teen-age characters but also can completely relate to the parents.

2. The Academy Awards last night were so-so. Two notable realizations: I was extremely disappointed Cate Blanchett didn't receive an Oscar for her performance in I'm Not There, and I dislike Diablo Cody. The former should be obvious, but the latter... well, here's the deal: if you're gonna try to rock the indie look (black hair, red lipstick, tattoos), then you need a demeanor to match. You need to OWN that look. And Diablo Cody looked so nervous and skitterish and unsure of herself, she might as well have been dressed like Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville (pre-sexual evolution). She wasn't owning much of anything, and I felt very, very sad for her.

3. About a quarter of the time I'm at Irving-Damen-Lincoln and I encounter dumb-ass bicyclists who insist on not obeying the traffic signals (or paying attention to traffic), I think to myself, Someone's gonna get killed one of these days. And, ya know, I was right. Which is sad. Even sadder than it would be to die from eating too much cake, which I think is probably a risk you take when you enter a contest to see who can eat the most fairy cakes.

4. Sax Man and I were joking last night about how we're so stereotypical despite wanting to avoid stereotypes. When he gets stressed, he heads to Cigar King to smoke a cigar, watch big-screen sports, and sit in a leather chair while surfing the 'net. And when I get stressed, I do what I did Saturday: head to the spa, get a massage, then go out for tea and soup at Bittersweet. I think it's pretty funny how I fit so well into preconceived notions of "what women do" without actually being typical in the least. Go figure.

5. Oh. My. God. Who wants to go to Seattle with me Memorial Day weekend for the Sasquatch! Music Festival?

6. If you have a weak stomach, it may be a good idea to avoid this set of Flickr photos showing a human dissection, but I think it's pretty cool. Almost as cool as the craniotomy photo set I perused before my own brain surgery.

7. Now I've seen everything. I love the Golden Dildo plan, which allows for three toys out at a time. This is a joke, right?

restless, irritable, and discontent

I've been feeling rather snarky lately, and I'm 100% certain it's due to the fact that I've been to a total of five meetings in the past 12 days. I was in Albuquerque, and once I got back, the flu kicked my ass, and I'm still all out of sorts. I don't have the urge to drink, but what I am doing is romanticizing the past, thinking fondly of all that chaos and drama and living on the edge -- and, of course, forgetting about how being in relationships back then meant crying on a daily basis, subjecting myself to abuse of one sort or another, and feeling generally miserable. No, what I'm focusing on today is the feeling that I could be as crazy as I wanted to be and no one would blink an eye (since they were all fucked up, too), the feeling of being part of something wild and edgy, the connection with pain and violence and deep dysfunction that -- because it was something predictable (in a way) and familiar (totally) -- felt extremely comfortable.

But I'm in a de facto uncomfortable place right now -- every healthy decision is made for practically the first time, and every move in the right direction is wobbly and unsure just as much as a baby's first steps. There are times I want to give up this toddling and sprint back to the person I was six months ago, because at least that's not scary. And I can feel the pull, the subtle magnetism calling me back -- things weren't that bad... the pain was just the cost of the excitement... maybe it's too difficult for you to be healthy right now -- but I really don't want to go back, not even for a minute.

Still, I need to get it out there, to say it out loud, so I'm not hiding how difficult this is for me today (and a handful of other days, too). I get a lot of compliments in meetings, people saying that I've grasped things people with years of sobriety have never understood, nominations to speak at huge-ass meetings, etc. -- and all that makes it a little harder for me, I think, to open up about when things aren't going so great, especially when they are rough because I haven't been able to make it to meetings, and then I beat myself up, thinking, So what if I had the flu and my sponsor told me to stay home? What it comes down to is that I am restless, irritable, and discontent, and even though I know (a) it will pass as soon as I get back on track and (b) any discomfort now is certainly less than what it would be if I did go back to my old life, it still really, really sucks. And with that, I'm off to talk with my sponsor. Namaste.

weekly round-up of sorts...

1. The new Sex and the City movie comes out on May 30 (see the extended trailer here), and last night at M.'s birthday celebration I promised to set up a Girls' Night Out adventure to see the film opening weekend. Of course, Sax Man offered to host a Men's Night at his place, complete with cigars and God-knows-what-else. I think we'll both be happy to NOT be part of the other person's plans.

2. I never liked Jaslene from ANTM to begin with, but I think she looks horrid in this Snap Judgment photo from Jezebel. Shudder.

3. Someone who knows about my disdain for all things Barbie and extreme skepticism of tarot cards has combined the two and I don't know whether to laugh, throw up, or buy a set for each and every one of my tarot-loving friends.

4. I HATE making decisions. I don't know whether to attend All Points West in Jersey or V-Fest in Baltimore. They are being held the same weekend and I'm having flashbacks to last October, when Vegoose and the Voodoo Music Fest conflicted, throwing me into a tizzy in which I couldn't decide and then ultimately went to neither. Yeah, I know, kinda like shooting myself in the foot, but whatcha gonna do?

5. Not that I'm a huge fan of the Black Crowes, but they are offering further evidence that no one reads Maxim for the articles, since (apparently) even the magazine's editors cannot WRITE articles based in fact.

6. When I lived in Texas, or at least when I lived in Texas and was old enough to semi-understand politics, Ann Richards was governor, I was a child born into a union family, and I didn't really understand that the state as a whole was more "red" than "blue." So all this new-ish Republican-led gerrymandering crap is news to me, but I was super, super glad to read that the Prairie View A&M students blocked traffic and marched seven miles to their polling place. Now THAT'S the Lone Star spirit I remember!

7. I'm going to go on record and say that while I am 100% support of public transportation, the idea of the Blue Line being extended to Lombard makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth. Why would the CTA do something that all but duplicates existing Metra service when there's so much unexplored territory between the North and the South sides? I would think it's more important to be able to go from the NW side to the SW side without having to detour all the way into the Loop than it is to enable suburban desires to wanna be cool by riding the "L" downtown.

8. OK, so I don't really even like Risk, though I used to play it after school with all the boys I hung out with in high school. But, you know, that was almost 20 years ago and I don't think I'd even know how to play Risk if you put a gun to my head. Nonetheless, holy crap does this look cool!

9. And have I mentioned how much I love the idea of stamped toast? I had one of these (the Virgin Mary) as a door prize at my cookie party in December.

10. As for the planned game room when I move back into the house, this tabletop arcade game may well be part of the final product...

11. I would sell my right kidney to get my hands on one of these comic books, a partnership between Planned Parenthood and Marvel Comics. I like how the book tells readers, "Dreams, thoughts, and wishes about sex are natural" and "Masturbation won't make you insane or harm you in any other way." One word: awesome.

12. OK, now this is just INSANE: strapless G-strings? Give. Me. A. Break.

13. The issue is serious, but Jezebel's take on it (with accompanying classic photography) had me cracking up out loud while my class was trying to write essays on 2 Days in Paris.

14. Should I be offended that no one's invited me to a G-spot party? First it was the Botox party invites that never came in the mail, and now my friends apparently aren't interested in my ability to have an intense orgasm, either. Sniffle.

15. The idea of beer + bourbon (even if in name only) is enough to make me wistful, but I'm not really craving it. Just adding it to my list of "things I kinda wish I'd tried before I got sober."

16. Every high school in America should follow the lead of Grover Cleveland High School in L.A. I suspect there would have been many, many fewer unfortunate sexual incidents in my life had the men I encountered been aware of simple female anatomy.

17. Lesley Douglas can kiss my ass. And, yeah, that's totally an emotional response.

18. I am slightly depressed about No Depression ceasing publication. Sniffle.

19. This post from Schmutzie made me realize that, yeah, holy crap!, the same thing has been happening to me. I must be getting old...

20. Here's a lottery I would play a zillion times if it paid off... all I can say is, when can *I* get a swanky UES condo?

21. Have I mentioned how much I adore Yo, Gabba Gabba! lately?

22. Sex Fact No. 225 That I Already Knew.

i do believe...

I just went to the oddest AA meeting in the entire world, even stranger than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. I don't even know how to describe it, so I won't even try. Suffice it to say that I think I know how Alice felt in Wonderland...

2 days in paris...

...has to be the best movie I've seen in 2008 so far. And I think it may well have to kick one of my other Top 5 movies out of the Top 5, though it's going to be difficult figuring out which one gets the boot. (The list, FWIW: I Heart Huckabees, Stranger Than Fiction, All the Real Girls, Shopgirl, Lost in Translation.) I just saw the film today for the second time within a week, since I'm still flu-ish but had to teach class this morning and we just began a unit on male-female relationships, and I thought (or, rather, Sax Man proposed) that 2 Days in Paris might be a good start to that unit, since it does offer a very healthy yet entertaining and interesting perspective on romance. And beyond offending a student I have who is actually FROM France ("not all French people are perverts and live like country bumpkins who skin rabbits...") and forgetting that there's a fair amount of full-frontal male nudity in the film (and, uh, I have two students who are under age... yikes!), the class really liked it.

But ANYHOW... I thought it might be interesting to share my favorite lines from each of the six aforementioned movies, the ones that so appropriately encapsulate exactly what I like best about each film. Enjoy!

I Heart Huckabees

What am I doing? I don't know what I'm doing. I'm doing the best that I can. I know that's all I can ask of myself. Is that good enough? Is my work doing any good? Is anybody paying attention? Is it hopeless to try and change things? The African guy is a sign, right? Because if he isn't than nothing in this world makes any sense to me; I'm fucked. Maybe I should quit. Don't quit. Maybe I should just fucking quit. Don't fucking quit. Just, I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do anymore. Fucker. Fuck. Shit.

Stranger Than Fiction

As Harold took a bite of Bavarian sugar cookie, he finally felt as if everything was going to be ok. Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true.

All the Real Girls

When people from before come up, I want you to understand what they hate when they see me.

Shopgirl

As Ray Porter watches Mirabelle walk away he feels a loss. How is it possible, he thinks, to miss a woman whom he kept at a distance so that when she was gone he would not miss her. Only then does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions except that... well... it was life.

Lost in Translation

Your life, as you know it... is gone. Never to return. But they learn how to walk, and they learn how to talk... and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you will ever meet in your life.

2 Days in Paris

It always fascinated me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all, nothing. It hurts so much. When I feel someone is going to leave me, I have a tendency to break up first before I get to hear the whole thing. Here it is. One more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really love this one. When I think that its over, that I'll never see him again like this... well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together, then we'll slowly think of each other less and less until we forget each other completely. Almost. Always the same for me. Break up, break down. Drunk up, fool around. Meet one guy, then another, fuck around. Forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness start again to look for true love, desperately look everywhere and after two years of loneliness meet a new love and swear it is the one, until that one is gone as well. There's a moment in life where you can't recover any more from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you sixty percent of the time, well you still can’t live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses.

So there you have it. Commence the psychoanalyzing of my state of mind, state of relationships, and state of chaos. Namaste.

if a single woman settles in a forest where there's no one to hear her, does she still make a sound?

Our youth is fleeting
Old age is just around the bend
And I can't wait to go gray

And I'll sit and wonder
Of every love that could've been
If I'd only thought of something charming to say.
(Death Cab for Cutie, The Sound of Settling)

Lori Gottlieb's latest article in Atlantic Monthly, Marry Him! The case for settling for Mr. Good Enough, is causing quite a stir on the hip mamas list today. And I don't know why. Well, I do know why... but I can't say that I entirely agree with their take.

The point of the other mamas -- which I'm not at all belittling -- is that they are evidence of what happens when you settle: years wasted on bad marriages, discontentment, feeling as though sex is rape every single time, longing for something better, and a zillion other "all signs point to no!" responses to, "Should I settle?"

I could be wrong, but I don't think Gottlieb is saying we should resign ourselves to marrying people who are passionless, unattractive, irritating, or otherwise incompatible with our core selves, though I do understand how some of the things she says can be interpreted that way. But then you read the accompanying interview with her, and she utters a gem such as this, when asked what "settling" is:

Well, it’s different for different people. But you look at what you need and what you want. You may have certain needs, like having a child. And kindness from your spouse. And reliability and stability and safety. But beyond that, what do you desire? You desire passion. You desire shared interests. You desire a certain level of intimacy. If your needs are met but your desires aren’t, that may be how you can tell if you’re settling.

And I guess how I can see how that could be translated into Gottlieb saying that passion and shared interestes and intimacy aren't important AT ALL... but, well, I don't think that's her point. Reading her entire article and the complete interview, I get the impression that what she's trying to say is something like, It's nice to have the fantasy that one person is going to be everything you've ever wanted and desired and will be so for, well, forever, but that's just not realistic. Grow up, and focus on the big things you need, and see what happens.

Pretty much anyone who knows me knows that, in the past, I've been one of those people who has focused on excitement and passion and edginess and, well, a certain sense of danger. I've wanted my life to be like a Hollywood movie, or possibly even an E! True Hollywood Story, something more appropriate to a renegade lifestyle than anything resembling real life interactions with human beings. It's only recently that I've realized -- and worked to change -- my tendency toward finding men who offer me passion and drama and that feeling of constantly being on the edge of my seat (not to mention violent kisses)... which is all fine and good, but all of those men have left something (actually, a LOT) to be desired when it came to all that kindness and reliability and stability and safety.

It's possible someone out there exists who offers all that nice responsible grown-up stuff with excitement on the side, but I'm skeptical. Well, let me clarify. I'm skeptical that someone who offers that initial reaction of WOW! This guy rocks! or This guy is EXCITING! is going to be the same guy who gives me the things I need in order to be in a healthy relationship. I should know -- I've been in dozens of those situations, and they all ended up the same way, again and again: with me feeling as though I deserved better but didn't quite know how I ended up with the short end of the stick, yet again. But, and I am finding this to be 100% true, there are people out there who may not be our "type" or who aren't the ones who initially knock our socks off who actually end up lighting a fire under us in ways we never expected or imagined.

What I suppose I'm trying to say is that "settling" means different things to different people, and I think what Gottlieb means is that we need to stop seeking out that exciting guy and start looking around for the guys who can meet our needs... and perhaps that excitement will come later, or we'll realize it wasn't what we really wanted after all, or a host of other things that are a lot better and more fulfilling than being alone. As for me... I'm satisfied, for now, figuring out that my "type" was just a mechanism by which I pushed people away because I was afraid of finding happiness in unexpected places. And, as it turns out, violent kisses are just as prevalent in nice-guy land as they were in the land of assholes. Who knew? Namaste.

(most of) a day in the sickness

Wake up at 12:22pm, participate in conference call for work, chat with A., talk with Sax Man, go to Staples, go to post office, buy pizza, eat pizza, text with Slavegirl, watch Made on MTV, take a nap, text with Slavegirl, answer door to get toilet paper and Pellegrino from Slavegirl, take a nap, watch the premiere of America's Next Top Model cycle 10, shave my legs (?), watch Law and Order: Criminal Intent, start watching Law and Order, talk with Sax Man, get a chat from jj telling me about the Wilco webcast, turn off Law and Order, start listening to said webcast, keep chatting with jj, continue feeling as though I've been run over by a Mack truck, wonder if I'll feel better tomorrow...

delivered to my house this afternoon...

hothouse flowers = spot on

It'll be easier in the morning
It'll be easier in the day
Sun will shine on through your window
We got light to lead the way

(Hothouse Flowers, It'll Be Easier in the Morning)

Christmas, 1987. I got my first CD player, though I was naïve enough that I didn't realize I also needed an amplifier and speakers, so I sat there on Christmas Day, looking at its shiny silver casing, pressing the Open/Close button over and over, wondering whether I'd ever be able to fit the pieces of my life together in a way that made sense and allowed the music to come through the sadness.

It was easy as a trip to Radio Shack the next day, but that feeling has stayed with me... the sense of headstrong foolishness as I rush into situations thinking I've got them all figured out, when it becomes patently obvious mid-way through that I've forgotten (or failed to realize) some component necessary for success. I'm getting better at this -- way better -- but there are still moments when I second-guess myself, fail to plan effectively, or tend to simply make a huge mess of things because of my crazy-lady behavior.

Lots of things have happened over the past 24 hours that aren't blog fodder; suffice it to say that I've been thinking about that first CD player, especially because my new HD DVD player came in the mail and in hooking it up last night, there were components missing (because, duh, I assumed they would all be in the box...) and another trip to Radio Shack is in the near future, though Sax Man's superior knowledge of electronics, music, and All Things Guy will, I am sure, be more valuable than going to get stereo components with my grandmother.

What I regularly choose to remember about the CD player experience 21 years ago isn't that feeling of failure -- though it is definitely still there -- but, rather, what came a few weeks after: joining (like a zillion other teen-agers) some monthly CD club and getting my first order in the mail: The Replacements' Pleased to Meet Me, REM's Document, The Smithereens' Green Thoughts, Peter Tosh's No Nuclear War, The Sugarcubes' Life's Too Good, Crowded House's Crowded House, Sting's Nothing Like the Sun. None of it was particularly subversive by any means, but for me... well, for me, given what I came from (my parents listened to Barbara Mandrell and Ronnie Milsap), I might as well have dropped out of high school and started following the Dead (though, of course, later I would drop out of college and do just that, more or less). As foolish as I felt about not knowing what the hell I was doing with the CD player, getting it and figuring it out and setting it up so it would work took me to a place where I could do something so average and mundane as order a half-dozen CDs through the mail, CDs I still have more than two decades later and which remain some of my favorites.

And I don't feel naïve about the DVD player (that was just a bit funny, seeing Sax Man sitting on my floor, surrounded by wires, seeing him have an Aha! moment in the midst of it) because we ended up watching 2 Days in Paris (which was a phenomenal movie and a must-see for a new perspective on post-modern romance) and it was all fine. And the other things going on in my life? Well... it seems to be a pattern for me that confusion and a lack of knowledge about what's normal open the door for growth and issue a mandate to me to figure out how to put all the components together to make something that works. Sometimes I just wish it were as easy as going to Radio Shack for coaxial cables.

a brief synopsis of the past ten hours

Dinner from First Slice kicks ass, 2 Days in Paris is the best love story since Shopgirl, and the subsequent events of the evening left me up 'til now (5:11am) and wondering how to get back on the beam. I know it's possible, but don't ask me how or why or when. Answers may come from sleep or prayer or meditation. I'm trying all three, hedging my bets. Namaste.

yet another comedy of errors in my tiny life

So the boys don't have school today, but The Philosopher is teaching in the NW 'burbs and I have my assessment class this afternoon. Rather than spend $50 per child on a half-day art or theatre camp, I came up with the (in retrospect rather foolish) idea to have the boys come over to my place in the morning, then bring them with me to UIC, where I would meet The Philosopher before my class starts at 2pm. I'll throw a couple of videos on for them and will get my work done while they watch nature documentaries is what I believe I said to convince both myself and The Philosopher that my plan was an excellent one, an argument more for my own edification that convincing him, since he needs no excuse for saving two cents, much less $50. But it's now 12:58pm and things haven't exactly gone as planned.

Beyond (yet again) not getting to bed 'til after 3am, Renegade woke me up with the door buzzer a little after 8am. Great! I thought. I am up early and can get started on all my work!. This misplaced enthusiasm quickly changed to mild annoyance when Rebel showed up five minutes later, thus putting into motion what would ultimately be a morning filled with bickering, fighting, whining, yelling, and crying.

Trying to defuse the situation, I banished Renegade to the kitchen so he could work on his Latin and Greek vocabulary/grammar, and found the Yo Gabba Gabba! Happy episode via On Demand. But what I'd envisioned as a snuggly half-hour on the couch quickly morphed into 20 minutes spent trying to convince Rebel that my breasts are no longer within his domain. (This is one of many things no one tells you about nursing your children until they are almost four years old.) Every time the poor kid sees my cleavage, he's negotiating with me, and the only real benefit I can see to haggling with him over the terms of his exposure to my breasts (Please? What about just on top of your bra? I promise I will only touch for a second! But they are so nice and squishy!) is that by the time he's 14 and trying to touch boobs that he doesn't associate with nice mommy/sustenance vibes, he'll probably be a smooth operator. Then again, I am not exactly sure I want him to be a Casanova of the Mammaries, so this may require more thought.

But ANYWAY, after the boob-wrangling, I thought taking a shower while the boys played with Go Bots would be a good idea, except I was interrupted no less than seven times in 10 minutes and when I got out, my bed linens were in a heap on the floor, a leg had mysteriously come off my the kitchen table, the Tings were all gone (with crumbs all over my already-dirty rug), Rebel was crying, Renegade was yelling, water was spilled all over the counter, and the cat was locked in the closet. And that was all before 9:30am.

So I did what any work-at-home mom who's about to sell her children to Gypsies for a case of Pellegrino, artisinal vegan chocolates, and a back rub would do: I had them pick out a movie to watch via HBO On Demand. Note: it's probably not a good idea to have your precocious 10-year-old son pick out a movie intended to appeal to a wide range of ages, from his equally precocious five-year-old brother to his enormously stressed 34-year-old mother. What you get when you allow that to happen: The Last Mimzy. And about an hour into said movie, the little guy will freak out and burst into tears because the movie is too darn scary and the mother will begin to wonder if she can compromise on the back rub if the Gypsies will make a house call to pick up the boys in 30 minutes or less.

To add to the stress, I somehow believed that my UIC class started at 1pm, even though it's the fifth week of classes and it's been 2pm since the beginning. But I didn't realize this until I rushed the kids out of the house -- You don't need food - jelly on toast is fine for now - if you wanna complain you can just starve! -- and zoomed downtown (with Wilco's Kicking Television keeping me from any potential road rage incidents) before wondering why I was an entire hour early at school. Uh, yeah.

To save face, I came up with this brilliant idea to take the boys to Demitasse for lunch, but after a block walk down Taylor Street in bitter wind, we found out they are closed on Mondays. (Cue more whining...) And so the Master Mom Plan (which is now being implemented): sit in the car blogging while the boys read in the back seat and we wait for The Philosopher to wind his way into the city.

I can't wait for tonight, which will bring relaxation, time with friends, watching 2 Days in Paris, a yummy dinner, work on the blog Sax Man and I are writing together, more writing my Finding My Way Home, and further discussion of IPOs and projections of stock in AXW. The only thing that could make it better were if I had Pellegrino in the fridge...

lesser of two evils

That Innocence Mission song, Tomorrow on the Runway, is going through my head as I sit here on, well, the runway waiting and waiting and...waiting. I was fine with the delay for weather reasons, but when I found out the latest postponement was due to defective Air Traffic Control equipment at O'Hare, not so much.

on the plane

There is, I think, a class lesson to be learned from flying first class. I certainly have almost 30 years of experience being a plane passenger, but I was 32 years old before I ever flew first-class. Until then, I was one of those people looking longingly at the big comfy seats and the people who looked so, well, comfortable sitting in them as I squeezed past to sit in coach, which always felt more like being cattle on our way to a slaughter than anything resembling a peaceful journey.

Now, the times when I can upgrade, it's different. It isn't so much that I adopt a snooty demeanor, but rather that it makes me want to have some way of announcing, "Hey! I'm not one of those people who can afford $1,000 for a plane ticket! I just upgraded for $135 because I had a rough trip! I'm just like you, only willing to overdraw my bank account until I get paid on Thursday so I can be pampered for 2 hours and 47 minutes in the sky!" But, of course, announcing that would probably mean being carted off by men in white suits and flying home via neither first-class nor coach but, instead, being retained for a mental health observation and possibly making the Albuquerque news as a crazy person. After all, the fact that the lead story on the news last night was the *wind* (Tumbleweeds are actually blowing across the roads! Mullets everywhere are in danger of frizzing out of control!) makes me think that a tattooed pierced lady pontificating loudly and gesticulating wildly about her presumed vs. actual class status would be breaking news.

thoughts while waiting for my delayed flight

So I was *supposed* to take off from Albuquerque at 8:20 but now my flight has been postponed to 9:50, which is making me very, very sad. And I am also hungry, but don't want to eat because I paid for the first-class upgrade* and want to get my money's worth. But I am not the only one stranded - E. just called and his 7am flight has been delayed 'til after 11am, so he proposed renting a car and driving back to Chicago if we can't get out of here today. Which I suppose would be fun on one level but also raises an important question: would I be able to go on an impromptu road trip with someone who tends to irritate me after an hour alone in the same room? Although his Irritation Index is, I am 97 percent sure, is due to my own impatience and character flaws, so maybe this another one of those darned God moments that keep popping up.

In any case, E. is on his way over to my gate so we can hang out and chat for a while. I will readjust my attitude and try to imagine he has tact and an innate sense of diplomacy and awareness of personal space boundaries instead of being a blunt direct guy who is about two thousand percent more intense and touchy-feely than my comfort level allows. (It is at this point when I realize it was probably a mistake to pack my big book in my checked luggage, and something makes me think it's not stocked at Hudson News.)

The biggest disappointment about this delay is that this is one of the few times I've traveled and *really* wanted to get home not a minute too soon. And it's been since Wednesday that I saw Rebel (or Renegade) - or all of my friends - and so that only adds to the frustration.

Still, this is a risk assumed when flying into or out of O'Hare in mid-February when the winter season has already been prolifically snowy. And on that note...I will probs blog later. Namaste.

* I almost always fly American because they have this upgrade thing they do - if there are first-class seats available, anyone in coach can upgrade for $45 per 500-mile segment. And, yeah, that's not dirt-cheap or anything, but it *is* a nice little treat on the tail end of a trip, which is bound to be a bit exhausting even under the best circumstances.

thirty-two things (almost) no one knows about me

1. It's nearly impossible for me to sleep either wearing socks or with my feet covered by blankets. The only exception to this seems to be when I am sleeping in a bed (usually in a hotel setting) outfitted with a thick down comforter, at which point I love just stretching out and relishing its light yet thick presence from head to toe.

2. I've always wanted an old Bronco like the one Salma Hayek has in Fools Rush In, except I want mine to be lemon yellow and have a roll-bar from which I can hang the Gadsden flag. I'd get a slight lift and 32" tires and go off-roading in the Indiana Dunes in July every year and have fun being a tomboy like I was when I was thirteen.

3. Even though I was kicked out of tennis lessons when I was eleven years old for a distinct lack of talent, I kinda want to try to play again. This summer looks good.

4. Until I was a freshman in high school, I was a good little ol' country girl. I listened to Randy Travis and George Strait and old-school country music and almost constantly wore a pair of teal Justin ropers I'd begged for around Christmas. This all changed when I started listening to the Sunday Night Six Pack on this radio station out of San Antonio that would almost always only come through in crackles on my little AM/FM cassette radio -- starting in the evening and going almost all night, they'd play six albums "in their entirety" and I'd stay up, cassette tapes at the ready, recording them all. In retrospect, it wasn't that exciting, but it was definitely different than Willie Nelson and Kenny Rogers and Alabama: UFO, ZZ Top, Killer Dwarves, The Who (Live at Leeds), Supertramp, Genesis, .32 Special, ELO, Boston, Fleetwood Mac, Jethro Tull, etc. This laid the groundwork for hearing Led Zeppelin in the spring of my freshman year, which pretty much sealed the deal.

5. I don't like my feet, specifically my toes, and (aside from my parents and siblings and children) there are only, I think, four people in the world whom I've allowed to see them up close.

6. From 1991 until Jerry died, I toured with the Dead around the Midwest selling jewelry in the parking lots of shows. Nonetheless, I consider myself neither a tourhead nor a Deadhead... it was pretty much just something I did for a boy, who actually became my husband only a few months after our summer touring, but that doesn't change the story.

7. Despite having more masculine than feminine tastes about movies, music, and popular culture, I have an intense dislike for pretty much any film Bill Murray made before Lost in Translation, with the exception of Rushmore, Groundhog Day, Tootsie, and (maybe) Ghostbusters. In other words, I hate both Stripes and Caddyshack.

8. My favorite weather in both Texas and Chicago is right after it rains in the springtime. There's something about the smell and the way the air feels on my skin, both of which someone once told me was due to acid rain or air pollution or both, but I don't care.

9. I still have the same illusions I've had since I was fourteen: that someone important or rich or famous will someday happen upon me and realize I'm super wonderful and rescue me from obscurity. On a daily basis, this fantasy is growing smaller in the rear-view mirror.

10. Given the choice between shooting myself in the foot and going back to live in Naperville, I would glad shoot myself in my foot. Twice. It is this aversion which has me itching to watch Real Housewives of New York City on Bravo, since a commercial for the show included this New York socialite making the most amazingly accurate and hilarious face about the way I feel about living in the suburbs.

11. When I was in kindergarten, I wrote a book, and it won first place among all kindergartners in the state of Illinois in some contest. I have no clue what happened to it. I just know the story.

12. I have a deviated septum, and I would jump at the chance for a free nose job if it wasn't major surgery. After living through a brain tumor and craniotomy, undergoing cosmetic procedures that involve significant risk of, uh, dying plus a traumatic recovery isn't so appealing anymore. I think I'll learn how to live with my bumpy nose.

13. Kissing with my lip rings is about a bazillion times more pleasurable than kissing without them, which makes the painstaking healing process totally worth it.

14. Even though I've only played golf once, I was really quite good at it. Maybe I'll do it again. Maybe not.

15. I've never been a big fan of marijuana, even when I was still drinking. In fact, it would make me sick to my stomach. Guess I'm screwed if I ever get cancer and have to take chemo, eh?

16. When I was fourteen, I was bit by a pit bull, a bite that went down to the bone. I showed my dad and he said, Oh, it's just a scratch. The next day, it was still bleeding-oozing, and I had to carry paper towels around school to clean up after myself. I finally called my mother, she took me to the ER, and no one could give me stitches because gangrene had already set in. Despite all that, it was one of the coolest things ever to see them digging around in my leg after they numbed it all.

17. For a while, when I was a teen-ager, I developed this allergy to my contact lenses, and I got these weird bumps under my upper eyelids that were so bizarre no one could really figure out why there were there. I stopped wearing contacts for a few years, then started again, and the problem was gone. Huh.

18. My appendix burst in January 1991 while I was at the hospital waiting for them to prep me for surgery. Someone else needing an appendectomy was taken into surgery before I was, since she was at higher risk for bursting. When they opened me up, I had a raging infection all through my abdominal cavity. Never once, though, did I feel any pain -- just a super-high fever, delirium, and distinct feeling that something wasn't quite right.

19. Even though I know skin cancer sucks, I still prefer the way I look tanned than non-tanned, and this causes no small degree of consternation.

20. I love traveling, but I hate being a tourist. As a result, I'd rather sublet someone's apartment for a week and spend that week inhabiting a neighborhood than go to a resort on a fancy vacation.

21. Breakfast is a difficult meal with which to please me. I like waffles but not pancakes, bagels but not English muffins, (veggie) sausage patties but not links, and oatmeal but not with raisins. And, as with all of my meals, it's imperative that none of the individual portions of food are touching each other. I also eat things in order from "things I like least" to "things I like most," as to maximize my eating enjoyment.

22. I'm fascinated by Rob Zombie and actually really like his music (for the most part), but can't understand the whole Marilyn Manson thing.

23. I first suspected I had a drinking problem when I was prescribed antibiotics that would make me deathly ill if combined with alcohol and I postponed taking them for a full six weeks.

24. My nickname, when growing up, was Goosey. My father came up with this when I had a tonsillectomy and my parents visited me in the hospital and asked how I was doing and I said, I feel goofy, except what they heard was, I feel goosey (I suppose, at age three, I had trouble with my labiodental fricatives?), and the name was born. Over the years, this was expanded to Goosey Lucy Moosey Papoosey, which, of course, was a wonderful thing for my friends to find out about...

25. For a time, in the mid-90s, I weighed 198 pounds, up from my previous low of 120 pounds. I wish I could get back to the latter and never again see the former.

26. I have a huge crush on Vincent D'Onofrio. Or at least on the character he plays on Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Although, not really, since I think that character is pretty much a hyperbolic distillation of The Philosopher's personality, so it would likely be about four seconds into the first date that I'd want to strangle him. The character, that is. Not Vincent D'Onofrio.

27. One of the biggest mysteries of pop culture is, for me, why David Caruso can't seem to act without cocking his head to the side. And to think I actually thought he was attractive on NYPD Blue!

28. I'm one of the best drivers you will ever encounter, though I do have a propensity for swearing while operating a motor vehicle.

29. One of my favorite TV shows ever is I'll Fly Away. I was sad when PBS canceled the series.

30. Every year since 1990, I've seen a movie on Christmas Day. The one I remember most, for some reason, is Hoffa.

31. The first time I saw Caligula -- at a midnight showing at the now-closed Village Theatre on the Gold Coast -- I was so nauseated by the fisting scene that I ran and threw up all over the bathroom.

32. The five movies that best encapsulate my feelings about relationships, the meaning of life, and happiness are I Heart Huckabees, Shopgirl, Stranger Than Fiction, All the Real Girls, and The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.

I am sure there are plenty more, but that's all for now. I'm tired and I've got an early flight tomorrow. Ah, well.

my day in abq so far

I promised to relax today, and I've been doing a fair share of that. Breakfast was espresso and pasties at La Quiche on the 4th Street Mall downtown while I read the latest issue of Alibi and made an outline for the yearly blog post that serves as a recap of my trip.

After buying a couple of books for 50 percent off from the publishers' booths, I sat in on the last Dead panel, then chatted with mediajunkie, Phish Guy, and E. about how well I behaved myself last night. But then I was hungry, so I headed out to 20 Carrots, a health food cafe on the other side of I-25 from the Hyatt. Since I love me a vegan reuben, that's what I got - came with a side of corn salsa and organic chips - in addition to a vegan peanut butter cookie from the Alternative Baking Company. And it was all very yummy, though I must say I still prefer the seitan reuben at Earwax over any other version I have had anywhere.

So now I am sitting in on a viewing of Sunshine Daydream - which apparently features a bit of male and female nudity - and feeling mellow and content. Tonight may bring a movie (The Diving Bell and The Butterfly looks good) depending on how much work I get done. Namaste.

back on the beam

1. Despite my best efforts, I didn't make it to a meeting last night -- I left in plenty of time but proceeded to get lost, since the GPS on my phone was freaking out and didn't know what the hell it was doing or where it was taking me. And apparently no one puts addresses on buildings in Albuquerque -- using ESP to find 425 University NW would have worked better than trying to find the building number using my deductive reasoning skills, so blech. I ended up pulling over into an abandoned combination car wash/motel (?) to call my sponsor, who calmed me down and pointed out that, hey, I tried to get to the meeting, right? It's not as though I were doing what I wanted to be doing, which was listening to a Dead panel on hip vs. cool. Though I was very, very sad I missed that discussion... since I consider myself more on the hipster side than a hippie, someone should have been there to represent, right?

2. When I saw E. yesterday for the first time since last year (even though we live, like, five miles away from each other), I said, Hey, you're looking great! and he said, So are you. Well, except for those fangs. Nice.

3. It's interesting being here better able to examine my behavior, to make note of when I'm starting to slip in my thinking, to realize ways I can take steps to avoid putting myself in dangerous situations. And that goes for not only drinking, but also eating, spending money, interacting with the opposite sex, and work. But it was still a little difficult last night at dinner when the conversation turned toward alcohol and drinking and things like absinthe and agave wine, and it was probably a God moment that Sax Man called right when those topics were starting to wriggle up under my skin.

4. In a way I haven't before, I really miss Chicago: my bed, my cat, my friends, my meetings, my car, my robe, my couch, my coffee maker, my microwave, my bathtub, my everything there. Whereas in the past it's been difficult to come home, this time it will be easy. And that's not because I'm unhappy here -- no, things are just fine (though I am exhausted from a week's worth of continual sleep deprivation) -- but just that I'm ready to be in a safe place again. I feel as though I just learned how to swim and I've paddled out to the first sand bar, and my reaction is, OK, that was nice, now how about I head back to shore?

5. I'm starting to get a bit nervous about my nomination to speak at this big cross-town meeting happening next month. The names are picked tomorrow, and there's a one in six chance it will be mine, and I'm feeling a bit unsure. But I also know that the universe will not give me anything I cannot handle, that it is a privilege to be nominated in the first place with less than five months of sobriety, and that I will do just fine if called upon for this task.

6. It is now time for a cat/power nap (ooh, a Cat Power Nap!) before heading to Annapurna for yummy vegan Indian food to bring with us to the house party in Placitas. I can't wait to see the stars -- they are more beautiful from Placitas than anyplace I've ever seen them in the world. Namaste.

life goes on, even at 5,314 feet above sea level

When I visit New Mexico every February, I wonder if there's something missing in me that forces the true beauty of the mountains to escape me. Seeing the landscape on the horizon feels like an intellectual exercise, a shadow on the cave wall, an aesthetically brilliant phenomenon that inspires little reaction in me other than, Huh. Interesting. Whether I'm hard to impress or easy to bore, this baffles me.

Beyond the dilemma of dull mountain ranges, being here is strange, the first time I've been out of town sober, the first time I've had to deal with aberrant thoughts on an airplane (if I have a drink, no one will know...), the first time I've had to interact with the same men who, just last year, were potential lovers or flirting partners or at least not immune to my charms. I'm not the same person I was then (or the two years before), but who, exactly, am I? I've undergone a spiritual transformation, but what's the cash value of that? Are all of these perceived differences facts or just feelings? Does it matter?

There's a friend of mine, I'll call him Dave, who has struggled with his own drinking since I first met him almost three years ago. He recently observed how much healthier I've been looking and expressed interest in going to a meeting to see what it could do for him. He never did, and yesterday when I encountered him in a professional situation it was clear he'd relapsed. It was jarring, and not just because I was surprised he'd fallen off the wagon again (he hadn't had a drink since Christmas). What was surprising was how his entire demeanor had changed and he had morphed into someone I hardly recognized. I don't know if he was actually drunk or not, but I didn't have to wait for him to tell me of his relapse before I knew it. He was acting so strange and doing things that, had I not been sober, I probably would have joined in on -- mocking people when they weren't looking, making angry faces when things didn't go away, violently scribbling "I GIVE UP!" on a piece of paper for me to see. Honestly, the whole thing scared me.

It's easy for me to think about how I'm different person now, less easy to take the next logical step: if I relapse, not only will I go right back to accelerating my alcoholism but I'll also be undoing my spiritual transformation. It's not as simple as taking a drink or not -- it's the choice between affirming the desire to want a different kind of life and invalidating every healthy decision I've made in the past 145 days. And, really, it's a no-brainer.

Maybe the beauty of the mountains escapes me because I'm fundamentally a pragmatic person, focused on what needs to be done rather than entranced by frivolity. Perhaps this thing with "Dave" unsettles me for the same reason -- this isn't a joke any more. All those drinking stories and the times I kidded around about taking care of kids with hangovers or staying out too late and getting too little sleep are insane luxuries I can no longer afford. And while one day I might be able to see a sun set behind a mountain range and my pragmatism will have been replaced by awe, I'm absolutely certain my romance with the bottle is over. It has to be.

live from abq (aka random sh**)

1. The ball fell off my right lip piercing as I was waiting to deplane in ABQ, inspiring all sorts of panic. I texted Slavegirl to see if she had insight on how to fix it (her basic vibe: best leave it to the professionals) and then called Sax Man, who quickly went to work on finding a place for me to visit. And I finally got there and the piercing guy was weird. Like, uh, mix Eminem with missing teeth and the Eric Stolz character from Pulp Fiction and add a dash of "white trash ghetto" and you'll get a clue. But, you know, he was nice, and he helped me out for free (I did give him a $10 tip), and so who cares if he was a little off? Not me, that's who.

2. I love traveling because it's an excuse to buy all sorts of magazines to read on the plane that I wouldn't be caught dead with in my house. Well, except for Lucky, which I probably wouldn't mind having around, but I don't think I need any more shopping tips than the ones I already possess in my pretty little head. But anyhow... in today's case: People and Cosmo. I only got to the former, though, before I couldn't keep me eyes open and fell asleep until I landed in ABQ. I can't wait to get to Cosmo so I can find out if sex has changed since the last time I had it. Because, you know, it just might have.

3. I've had 12 hours of sleep since Sunday, and it's now 1am here and I'm not that tired. I still haven't written the paper I'm presenting Friday morning, but that's okay. There is likely to be lots of partying tomorrow night after dinner, and Jake said he'd just take a cab back to the hotel if I felt like skipping out on it, and so I think I might just do that. I'll hang out for a while but come back when things get crazy, crank out my paper, and get a good night's sleep for a change. We'll see.

4. I ended up scoring a convertible Mustang for my time here, and it is awesome. Jake and I had the top down and even though it was a tad bit chilly, I'm loving it. They tell me it's going to snow tomorrow, but as long as it's 55 or warmer on Saturday, I'm putting the top down all the way to Santa Fe, where I'll be visiting the Ten Thousand Waves Spa. Yay!

5. I don't know that I want to be shopping at Forever 21 anymore after reading this story. Then again, it just might be the case that I'm a little, uh, old to be shopping there anyhow.

6. I'm glad I stopped drinking whiskey before I drank some that tasted like urine and lost my job.

7. Ever heard of the Chicago Barbies? Grab some Pellegrino and prepare to snort out your nose reading about them. I'm glad to say I defy categorization -- at least when it comes to this list!

8. Janet Jackson and the whole S&M thing? Maybe I should get Slavegirl her new album for Valentine's Day?

9. I am so fucking tired of otherwise intelligent people claiming that we shouldn't vote for Obama because he will get assassinated as the first black president. First of all, he's mixed-race. Second of all, what the fuck does that say about the first woman president? As if THAT wouldn't cause all sorts of discontent among the masses? It's like, uh, okay, we can't have a black president because that would be TOO different, but a woman from the establishment is okay because she is still WHITE?

10. This Onion story cracked me up. HILARIOUS stuff, people.

11. For those keeping track, I wouldn't mind an America's Next Top Model doll. [My birthday is in August...]

12. I don't know whether I hate or love the idea of a Shaming Diet Doll, but it's interesting that I can't decide which.

13. For some of the best writing about porn ever, check out Reverse Cowgirl's A Porn Valley Story.

14. Whoever came up with the idea to represent the world's subway systems on the same scale, I love you! It's fascinating just to see it all laid out like that. And it's a visual confirmation of just how regretfully inadequate the Chicago subway system is for a city of our size and breadth.

more later

Busy, on my way out the door to ABQ, will blog when I get there. Lots of awesome stuff going on. Yay!

ugh ugh ugh

It's been a chaotic day, the least of which was dealing with Renegade's broken finger and the orthopedic doctor, who showed up at 3:45 for a 1:10 appointment. Because, you know, on deadline days at work, I just love hanging out in Lincolnwood, napping in uncomfortable waiting-room chairs.

too busy to blog...

...but I'm gonna do it anyway (in classic Vegan Mama recap style):

1. Renegade has a broken finger. I took him to the ER today after The Philosopher failed to tell me Renegade hurt his finger in gym class Friday and Ex No. 2 spent the weekend not taking him to the ER because it would "cut into [their] Wii playing time," and the school didn't think anything of it (or at least the, uh, HEALTH TEACHER didn't). I took one look at the finger last night, announced we were going to the ER today (which garnered a "Pop told me I shouldn't say anything to you because you'd overreact"), and held firm in my resolve. And I am SO vindicated 'cause not only is it broken but he might need surgery because of the type of break.

2. I am soooo tired. But I guess that's what staying up 'til almost 4am will do to a gal. Maybe tonight I'll actually get some sleep, but it's not looking good... I've got to catch up on all the work I should have been doing today instead of sitting in the ER.

3. As previously mentioned, Sax Man and I are starting a co-written blog called Dishing on Diners about our dining experiences at, uh, diners in Chicagoland. First up: the Rainbow Restaurant in Elmhurst, where we had the privilege of dining recently.

4. I've been so busy I forgot to pick up my First Slice order this weekend... so now I'm stuck going in tonight before my meeting, and I'm thankful that it's cold enough that I can do that.

5. A handful of people nominated me to speak at this combined meeting next month, and it took me aback. Who knows if my name will even be pulled out of the hat (there are six nominees), but I'm flattered. There are so many times I feel as though I'm slacking in working the program, but in talking to other people, I guess I'm not, or at least not in any measurable form. And that feels good, to know that the work I put into my life and my sobriety is visible to other people. So I'll try to sit back and let the universe do its thing, and if my name is pulled, then I'll work with my sponsor to come up with a 45-minute lead, and it will just be what it will be.

Namaste.

more blogging ahead...

Once again, too busy to blog... but Sax Man and I have decided to start a new blog detailing our adventures in diners across Chicagoland, so keep an eye out for info on that.

no blog today

I'm too busy. Sorry. See ya tomorrow.

sometimes, i'm a random person

1. I threw up in my mouth just a little when I heard that Joe Francis is coming out with a magazine version of Girls Gone Wild. That guy gives me the creeps, and the fact so many people defend what he's doing under the pretenses that the girls "give consent" infuriates me.

2. Jezebel is one of my favorite not-so-guilty pleasures -- a way to get celebrity gossip, fashion news, and all things cultural with a feminist pop culture twist -- and so I'm ticked pink they break the news to me about such things as Tyra addressing sexual squashing fetishes. Too bad I'm done having babies, or else I'd totally name my next kid Jezebel.

3. At the age of 34, you'd think I would have learned my lesson, but at least twice a month I'm sniffing around my apartment trying to figure out what died only to do the dishes and realize, oh, yeah, the dishes are what stinks.

4. Far be it from me to be a pessimist (it goes against the grain of my DNA, I think), but reading that Neil Young has decided that music can't change a damn thing leaves me feeling a bit demoralized. Not that I really expected music to do much of anything, especially since I grew up as part of the We Are the World generation that saw how getting a bunch of stars together didn't do much other than give us some great 80s video in which we can see how funny everyone's dressed. But still. I had at least a little bit of hope. Thanks, Neil Young, for dashing it. Sniffle.

5. And to add insult to musical injury... XRT is getting all fucked up by CBS, which means it's only a matter of time before it turns into 101.9 and I'm stuck listening to Pandora.com or finally springing for a Sirius radio in order to hear music that isn't a canned bunch of crap that the industry is trying to shove down my throat. Yeah, I'm pissed.

6. Is it wrong that I want a boyfriend pillow?

7. If you haven't yet read Waiter Rant, then please do so. Maybe it will get all you cheapskates to tip a little bit better, too?

8. I want to be Diana Athill when I'm 90 years old.

9. I will dig my eyeballs out of my head without anesthesia using a dull knife before I buy BungGlow 8. I don't even want to ask any of my friends if they are worried about the color of their assholes... I think if they admitted it were an issue, that would seriously damage our friendship.

10. It's a sad thing that I'll be missing Whisky Fest this year, but who am I kidding? I probably would have ended up singing karaoke, getting naked, trying to hit on a 60-year-old man smoking a cigar, and been banned for life from all future Malt Advocate Whisky Society events.

11. I am finally glad the thong isn't in style anymore so I can stop getting lumped into a "trend" of sorts. Fact is, I've been wearing them consistently since 1991, even throughout my pregnancies. And let me tell you -- even though that article says boy shorts or whatever are just as comfortable and avoid Visible Panty Lines just as well, that article is WRONG. Well, if you have a large ass (as I do), then the VPL problem still exists with boy shorts and then you feel as though there's a piece of fabric the size of Montana stuck up your ass.

12. Seeing these funky Valentine's ideas makes me wanna move to New York City for Valentine's Day. Too bad I'll be in Albuquerque this year, which is probably the antithesis of the Big Apple, hanging out with Deadheads (ditto).

13. You know that feeling you get when you go to the fridge for another beer and you get there and, what the fuck? where did that last beer go? Well, that happened to me a little while ago. Except it wasn't beer, it was Pellegrino. And I was even more sad.

too bad, so sad (or not, really)

Last week, in my nonfiction writing workshop, I shared a journal of my first 40 days of sobriety. Much of the writing -- though not all of it -- came from this blog, and the piece was well received, considering how personal it is and how difficult it is for many people to understand that whole "alcoholic" thing. Indeed, a number of people commented that they wanted more war stories, more memories of what it was like when I was out there drinking and having one-night stands and generally fucking up my life. And they also commented on how controlled the whole thing sounded. Where is the disjointed fucked-up nature of early recovery? someone asked. Well, the truth of the matter is that my life has been one big control center -- what would it be like to write about this experience and NOT want to craft my words as I go along, to leave things a jumbled mess, to offer up an account as visceral as it is suspended in the moments during which I have no control over anything? I honestly don't know.

As for the war stories... I'm sorry, but I just can't go there, and I don't want to. The things I did and said and regret or feel remorse over (or not) aren't really public fodder. There are some stories I don't mind sharing -- such as one of the last drunks I had, when I stepped on a piece of glass and was so inebriated that I spent an hour in the bathtub trying to dig out the glass with a pair of tweezers and didn't realize I'd gotten blood all over everywhere until waking up the next morning, my dress filled with dark-red stains -- as a recollection of just how bad things were, but beyond that I have little to no desire to be the enabler of someone else's need to feed off of other people's past mistakes and misfortunes. The only person I need to convince of my "right" to sit in those church basements and recovery homes is me -- and possibly my sponsor -- and I'm beyond the point where I'm giving up a fight in that regard.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: yes, I left out the war stories and, yes, I'm a bit of a control freak, especially when it comes to writing. I don't know if that will ever change, or if it will be one of those "sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly" things in which I'll gradually see the difference after six months, or a year, or longer, when I have more perspective and less self-consciousness. For now, this is where I am, and I'm okay with that. If you want sordid details and tragic stories, look elsewhere. Me? I'm basking in the sunlight of today.

i had a dream

I have this theory about my dreams: I only remember them when there is something festering in my head that I'm not dealing with consciously. Or at least that's how it has panned out for much of the past year, and while when I was dating The Narcissist I thought that this was perhaps a sign that I was "pushing through" my issues, in retrospect I think it was more that my subconscious mind was screaming out, What the hell are you doing?!?

I didn't make it to my regular meeting tonight, since the weather quite frankly sucks. I'd planned on going to the 8pm meeting I can walk to, but... late this afternoon, I was stricken with one of the most horrible headaches in recent memory, and so after I put the finishing touches on my newsletter (around 5:30pm) I decided to take a nap until 7pm. I set the alarm and turned off the lights and curled up with myself on the couch and proceeded to sleep... and sleep... and dream... until I woke up at exactly 8pm.

Before waking, though... I had a doozy of a dream. I don't exactly remember its plot, but I know at some point near the end, I was in a room with a number of people. The only ones I remember are my mother and father, and there was some sort of argument about what I'd done -- I think I was babysitting and was accused of something wrong? -- that began with me frantically trying to defend myself and ended with me crying and saying, I'm done, I'm never going to convince you, I'm moving out, and then I woke up still crying, and I cried for some time after.

Lately, I've been struggling a great deal with how to handle my parents. There's a lot of anger and resentment there -- or at least there has been in the past -- but being in the program has prodded me to reexamine the ways I've contributed to the nuggets of bad feelings I have about my parents. I'm learning how to forgive them and accept them the way they are -- but it's one of the hardest things I've ever had to comprehend, this idea that (a) I might have had a part in my past disappointments -- even though I was a child through most of it -- and (b) I can't force them to be people they are not. And it was just yesterday, driving home from the car dealership, that I felt a break in the dark clouds that sure made it seem as though -- one day, not now -- I could deal with them.

And so it's all kind of weird, my headache and then my dream. I don't quite know what it means, but I don't have to know. It feels as though my body was forcing me to let out negativity -- the headache, the crying -- I didn't know I was holding on to and which probably would have manifested itself in unhealthy ways had my conscious mind stayed in charge. And so I don't feel as badly as I might otherwise have for missing a meeting today. Instead, I listened to my body.

hitchin' a ride...

Wow -- what an afternoon... went to see if I could trade in my Scion xA for a Toyota Matrix, and I rolled out of the dealership a couple o'hours later in a car that looks identical to the one pictured above (well, with fog, rain, and impending snowstorms in the background rather than sunny skies and palm trees). It's a five-speed with automatic doors and windows -- and keyless remote entry (which I've been living without since November 2005). It is soooo roomy and has a grand total of 33 miles on it as I write this (Sax Man and I went to dinner at Flat Top Grill and then saw I'm Not There at Pipers Alley, and of course I had to drive since, well, it's a new freakin' car) and I love love love it. I feel like a grown-up with a real car and an even more real car payment (though maintenance is included for four years, so now I have no excuses not to bring it in for service). And my first payment isn't due until the end of March, so: yay!

the night innocence died (or something like that)

1. I killed a snowman today in front of Giddings Plaza in Lincoln Square. Hey, it was either running him over like a not-so-crazed maniac going 3 miles per hour or being stuck there forever while Sax Man relocated him to the sidewalk.

2. The Savages was a darned good movie, though a tad bit depressing if you have, had, or will have an elderly parent in need of long-term care... and I think that means it's depressing for pretty much everyone, so be forewarned.

3. Brad Pitt's new hair sucks. Maybe this is what having eighty-five children under the age of two in your care does to you.

4. Is it wrong that I wouldn't mind coming down with stressorexia?

5. Just finished my taxes, and I made $22k more in 2007 than I did in 2006, and so I guess I don't feel so bad that I spend so much money on clothes, going out to eat, and seeing movies.

6. OK, I hate that whole misogynist "you only cry because you're trying to manipulate me" bullshit men do when they don't want to take responsibility for being assholes and doing Bad Things That Make Women Cry, but Hillary is driving me nuts with her crocodile tears. I swear I am at the point where I would do a reverse Ann Coulter (oh, God, that sounds like a sexual position...) and campaign for John McCain if it's a McCain-Clinton contest.

7. I just filled out an application to trade in my Scion xA for a Toyota Matrix, which still gets good gas mileage and would be a lot more room. I'm feeling (a) the car I have is more of a toy than meant for a grown up (b) I need to have a car that reflects my financial security rather than demonstrates how financially insecure I've felt in the past and (c) I really need to exorcise the ghosts of The Philosopher from this vehicle, and I'm having a difficult time doing that, considering every time I get in it I feel resentful about how he racked up the miles on it. And Sax Man asked me tonight if I wanted to get a new car because The Philosopher got a new car, to which I said Good question! and I think the answer is both "yes" and "no" but -- either way -- not at all for the reasons he might have asked. But anyhow. Who knows if the application will be approved or not... but I checked the payoff balance on my existing loan and it appears as though I finally owe about $1,000 less than I could get as a trade-in, so there's that working for me. We'll see.

8. Finally, for anyone who has ever doubted by sanity because of the size of my stiletto collection, I think you owe me an apology. Or at least your envy at how great my orgasms are because of all the workouts my "pleasure muscles" are getting. Ahem.

principles of relativity

I heard this song (Fast as I Can by Erin McKeown) on Pandora.com, and it spoke to me. I especially like the line You don't look the way I have dreamed of you... it reminds me of the episode of Sex and the City in which Carrie asks her Vogue editor how she's managed to have it all, and the editor says, the key to having it all: stop expecting it to look like what you thought it was going to look like. And that's what I've been struggling with myself, so this feels rather relevant.

Tonight woke I, a strange bed
Strange bedfellow strange
Tonight, found I, a strange bed
A strange bedfellow strange

Said it to me, oh you'll be alright
Oh said it to me, oh you'll be alright
In a strange bed, in a strange bed
The bedfellow strange

Said it to me, what they've always said
Said it to me, what I've always heard
You're gonna make it, you're gonna make it
You're gonna make it, girl

You're gonna make it, you're gonna make it
You're gonna make it, girl
Girl, you sleep with success
Girl, you sleep with success

Well tonight, slept I have in the beds of middle America
Life off the fat of the man
Oh, now I'm going to go out tonight
I'm gonna try, try to make it
Live I, as fast as I can
Live I, as fast I as can

Oh, and I said to it, success
I didn't recognize you at first
But then I said to it, success
You don't look the way I have dreamed of you
Dreamed of you

We're not strange, said success
To find me here to tonight
We're not strange, said success
So what say you to a bargain?
Twixt you and I, success in life
What say you to a bargain?
Twixt you and I, success
And success it said to me

Forget about the beds of middle America
You don't need the fat of the man
Now why don't you sleep with me tonight
That's all you've got to do to make it
And I, as fast as we can
And I, as fast we as can

Oh and then I said to it, success
I couldn't love you if I tried
Oh, and then I said to it, success
I couldn't love you if I tried
And I've tried and I've tried and I've tried

Something about success that lies
Something about success that lies
Lies next to me in a strange bed
In a strange bed, bedfellow strange

today: otherwise known as a suck-fest

And by suck-fest I mean "a comedy of errors that could only have been more unfortunate if someone had carjacked or mugged me, and at least then I probably could've laughed at myself rather than thinking the entire day had been a complete waste."

It all started when I took the kids out to lunch and they got in a fight in the backseat over the lexical differences between discomfort and uncomfortable. While I'm rather excited that my children are intelligent and/or educated enough to both (a) beat my ass at chess and (b) have a theoretical discussion about vocabulary on the way to a vegan lunch at the Chicago Diner, the brouhaha nonetheless inspired me to wonder whether being raised by a philosopher and a literary theorist is actually a positive thing or is, instead, dooming them to a life of not being laid until they are at least thirty-five years old. And I probably would have been less sensitive to this had I not been woken up this morning by Rebel discussing (rather loudly) the difference between vegetarians and vegans with Dusters and Renegade. I mean, can't they just wrestle and call each other names like normal children? Sigh. I'm surrounded by dorks, but instead of feeling like I did in high school (vowing that when I grew up and "made it" I'd be done with dorks!) I'm actually experiencing this mixture of reluctant acceptance and amused irritation. I mean, there is an upside to this: if my kids aren't getting laid until they're thirty-five years old (at least), there's a good chance I'll be emotionally ready to handle the idea of them having sex by then.

Anyhow. Then I went to chair the 6pm meeting I normally attend -- since the regular chair was (presumably) at a Super Bowl party. And of course less than ten people showed up... and the person giving the lead (invited by ME to do so) was seven minutes late. Not terribly late, but late enough to make me wonder what had possessed me to ask someone to talk who walks in at least five minutes late to every meeting. I suppose it's progress that I looked to see what *I* had done to cause this unfortunate situation, but I was still a bit peeved until this person started talking and ended up bringing the late arrival directly into focus as part of working the steps and it was all good and actually rather inspiring. And I also heard an awesome comment -- someone said that being in the program taught him that being late is just that: being late... not cause to beat yourself up or even feel entitled to be late (because you're so important) or whatever... and it occurred to me that lots of life's screw-ups are like that. Nothing is the end of the world -- it ALL just is what it is, right?

Nonetheless this realization (or re-realization, since I make it on a thrice-daily basis, at least) flew out the window when I hurried to get to AMC Loews Pipers Alley by 7:20pm to see Charlie Wilson's War only to be told, upon my arrival, that, uh, Charlie Wilson's War isn't playing at AMC Loews Pipers Alley. And a quick check of my BlackBerry OnDemand service verified that yes, indeed, it's playing at Webster Place. Sigh. This should have been a sign to leave immediately, but instead I saw the new Woody Allen film. And yes, there were other films playing at Pipers Alley, and I would have seen I'm Not There, except the Sax Man and I are seeing it probably on Tuesday. Or The Savages, but he and I are seeing that tomorrow night. And I already saw Michael Clayton, like, uh, weeks ago, when it was at The Davis, 'cause who, really, can stay away from a George Clooney movie for very long? (Not me.) So I suffered through the insufferable Woody Allen movie, and had it not been for Ewan McGregor looking all spiffy and sounding all yummy with his accent (though are those warts or moles or WHAT on his forehead?) and surfing the Internet/reading blogs/answering email on my BlackBerry, I probably would have fallen asleep.

Even worse than the Woody Allen film was getting my parking validated and thinking, Oh, please, how much could validated parking be on a Sunday night? and realizing, uh, shit, it's fifteen dollars. Note that this is only a ONE DOLLAR DISCOUNT from the regular parking fees. And even at the AMC River East -- which is in the MIDDLE OF DOWNTOWN CHICAGO -- validated parking is only between $6 and $8, depending on when you visit. And so I've decided that if I didn't already believe The Gold Coast was filled with pretentious overpriced fuck-me business establishments, I do now.

And so I drove home, feeling abandoned by Woody Allen and raped by Pipers Alley, and I come into the house and I take off my boots and tights and panties and realize -- holy crap! -- I forgot my phone in the car. And while I'm not technically addicted to and/or unable to function without my phone, (a) it needed charging and (b) I'm not so sure how it would fare in this snowstorm/cold weather in the car lonely and alone all night. But since I definitely wasn't going to put my tights back on, I just threw my boots on and donned my long winter coat and walked outside, going not only commando but bare-legged as well (and, uh, I haven't shaved my legs for almost three weeks). And things were going fine until I decided to not get into my car but, instead, lean over to get my cell phone and not only did I fall over and my skirt get hiked up while I was fallen over, but then some guy drove by in an SUV and deigned to roll his window down and say Nice view! in the one-point-four seconds I was in that compromising position.

So, yeah. A suck-fest. I'm just glad that tomorrow is another day.

this is my (frustrating) life

Two weeks ago:
Sent an email to The Philosopher explaining that I have a play to review for work on Saturday, February 2, and that I'd be picking Renegade up at 12:30pm for such purposes and would pick Rebel up after the play (around 4pm) since it's for ages 12 and up (i.e., inappropriate for five-year-olds, even five-year-olds smart and sophisticated enough to be in second grade).

One week ago:
Sent an email to The Philosopher reminding him about the play and the timing, including as it relates to Renegade and Rebel.

Yesterday:
Had detailed conversations with (a) Renegade about the timing for today and (b) The Philosopher, reminding him of the timing for today. Both nodded their heads and said Yes, yes, shut up already, I'll remember! when I asked them if they were listening.

Today, 12:16pm:
In a voicemail, The Philosopher says, Renegade tells me you are picking him and Rebel up to take him to a play, but I have a vague recollection that you told me something different but I took his word for it and I don't really know anything about any of this, so call me back right away to let me know what's going on, because I made plans without the kids.

Today, 12:17pm:
The following conversation ensues:

Me: This is why you need to NOT listen to Renegade.

The Philosopher: Oh, so you're not taking both kids?

Me: No, the play is for kids ages 12 and up, so I'm already pushing it with Renegade.

TP: So what time would you be back to get Rebel?

Me: The play starts at 2pm and is 90 minutes long.

TP: So you'd be back around 3pm?

Me: 90 minutes means it would end at 3:30pm.

TP: Oh. Well, can I drop Rebel off with you at 6pm? That's when I'll be back from what I'm doing with The (Maybe) Crazy Girlfriend.

Me: Can you drop him off at Slavegirl's house? We're having a sleepover again tonight.

TP: I don't know if I want to, because last time you didn't listen to me about his bedtime.

Me: Just drop him off there, ok?

TP: Sure, but in the future can you let me know about these things in advance rather than the day it's happening so I don't make plans?

Me: If you check your email you'll see I did.

TP: Whatever.

Me: Sigh.

I am not kidding when I say this happens AT LEAST once a week. And if I didn't have the email messages in my "sent" folder I might think I was losing my mind. But then...

Today, 12:25pm:
A voicemail from Renegade, in which he says, Mom, if you haven't left yet, then call me back because I don't want to go to the play with you because what Pop is doing is much cooler.

Today, 12:26pm:
The following conversation ensues:

Me: So what's the deal?

Renegade: What is it that you're taking me to again?

Me: The play at that place where they have those workshops you like.

Renegade: Because I don't want to go. I want to go to Chinese New Year at Navy Pier with Pop.

Me: Well, uh, they've had these reservations for us for a month.

Renegade: Can't you go by yourself?

Me: Uh...

Renegade: Or are you going to force me and I can build up resentment toward you in a big-time way?

And then my cat hears the sound of my heart sinking and/or breaking, and I just tell him to go, and to make sure The Philosopher packs overnight bags for them both.

Today, 12:30pm:
Realize this is what happens when I have a child with someone who's been this way since the moment I met him, which was two years -- and two breakups and one extended separation -- before I got knocked up with his kid. Though I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of my kids spending a day with The Philosopher and The (Maybe) Crazy Girlfriend when the kiddos were supposed to be with me, this is just what it is... and I've canceled going to the play so I can do what I should be doing anyhow: working and eating chocolate. Yes, chocolate is a necessary ingredient in today's recipe for serenity. And I'm okay with that.

what it was like

I talk a bit about brain surgery, and I thought it would be interesting to post a photo of me taken in the hospital on October 1, 2005 -- the day after I had a craniotomy to remove a meningioma from my frontal parietal lobe. I now have an indentation in my head -- a flat spot, if you will -- where that large scar is... the "bone flap" (which isn't really a flap at all, but kind of like a piece of skull they lift out, then place back after the tumor is removed) settled in a little bit and didn't fuse evenly with the rest of my skull. It's kind of freaky, but it's also kind of neat to have a flat spot on my head. It makes me a bit quirkier, and I need all the quirky points I can get.

five hundred...

This is the 500th post on my blog, which is kind of weird to contemplate. When I started writing it, I didn't even know about my brain tumor yet, and here I am more than two years later and that all seems like a lifetime ago. But I don't particularly feel like writing today -- I had a heart-wrenching phone encounter with my brother last night -- so how's about some random stuff?

1. I was asked out on a date this morning by a guy in a Lexus SUV who stopped in the middle of Leavitt Street and rolled down his window to chat while I was scraping snow off of my car at 8:34am. It wasn't just a drive-by query; he chatted for a bit and then was all, Uh, by the way, might you want to go out to dinner with me sometime? Of course, I said no (who goes out with someone who randomly stops on the street in the middle of a snowstorm?), but I keep scanning my mental database wondering if perhaps he's someone I know from meetings or work or school and I just forgot and so it's not really some random wacky guy but, instead, someone who has admired me from afar and took it upon himself to be slightly quirky and semi-romantic by stopping to ask me out. Although maybe I need to remember -- for the millionth time -- that this is my life, not a movie, and these things don't happen to me. And, really, the idea of anyone "admiring me from afar" is more creepy than it is endearing.

2. I do not want to go to school today, but since I'm only allowed six absences throughout the semester and it's only week three and I've already used up two of them, I'm not sure it's a good idea to stay home. I might, though. And who cares if I use up all of my absences right away? That just gives me incentive to go for the rest of the semester...

3. I'm super excited about the sleepover with Slavegirl and The Master on Saturday night... and Sax Man is going to come along, too (uh, not for the sleepover) for dinner and watching The Forbidden Zone, which is such a funny movie it almost makes me forget how -- every single freakin' time we watched Fantasy Island -- my dad would tease me about how Hervé Villechaize was my boyfriend. Yeah, THAT got old really quickly, and I was only like eight years old.

4. There is a virus infecting Chicago, and its name is Bank of America. It was bad enough when they displaced the Christmas tree lot at Lincoln, Ashland, and Belmont to build a BofA, and even worse when Filter and Swank Frank were kicked out of Wicker Park so BofA could set up shop, but now the infection has spread to Uptown, where BofA is opening a branch at Lawrence and Broadway. I can't help but notice that all of these new BofA locations are suspiciously close to Starbucks branches, which leads me to believe that Starbucks and Bank of America are part of the 21st Century Illuminati. I'll be okay, unless one crops up in Lincoln Square, at which point I'm gonna make like Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory and start booby-trapping my apartment. Which I may do anyhow, as someone from the U.S. Department of State spent 24 minutes on my blog yesterday.

5. It would be really nice to eat something other than soup, but this piercing is a real pain in the ass. Or lip, as it were. I hope I'm feeling up to eating at Karyn's tonight. Oh, heck, who am I kidding? My lips could fall off and I could have bloody lipless mouth-stumps and I'd still be up to eating at Karyn's.

6. It can stop snowing any time now. Though I am glad I bought a nice pair of knee-high boots, 'cause my toes are keeping nice and toasty. And my apartment is soooo warm. Yummy.

OK, back to work now. Namaste.