ok, maybe not

This throat tickle has turned into a full-fledged beast of something that's stuck somewhere between my lungs and my rib cage, and I do believe I need to make a trip to the spa tomorrow before it claims me in its desire to escape through my throat. In the meantime, pharmaceuticals await.

it's a wonderful day in the neighborhood

OK, so it's not entirely wonderful. It's raining, for one, and it's a cold rain (though there are thunderstorms, which add a certain degree of charm). And since it was only drizzling when I arrived at my therapist's office, I thought, I can totally leave the umbrella in the car, except that, well, weather changes over the course of an hour, and when I was done getting my head straightened out (for today, anyhow), it was pouring buckets. I protected my BlackBerry by putting it inside my bra (hey, a girl does what she has to do) and scurried two blocks to my car, where, upon arrival, I was really glad I take Douglas Adams to heart and carry a towel with me everywhere I go. Well, everywhere I go in my car, at least. Bringing a towel in general would be a tad bit cumbersome, and if I've got trouble trying to figure out how to go out dancing with a purse, imagine how tough it would be having to account for a towel.

Rain aside, though, it's an awesome day. Well, except that I have a scratchy throat that seems to be impervious to Airborne and it's the end of the month at work, which means I'll be spending the time between now and 11pm working frantically AND trying to fit in all the rest of the pieces of my life into the day. So I suppose "awesome" might just be the wrong word, except it's not, because I think I've gotten to a place in my life in which, when "bad" things happen (or when I get sidetracked), it's all just another step along the way.

I'm exactly where I need to be right now -- uh, existentially, not that I need to be sitting in my panties and bra with my clothes drying on the radiator while I type on my laptop and listen to a rainy day mix (click here to get it!) -- and there isn't anything I can think of that I'd change about my life... well, the rain and the sickness and the work, to be sure, but that's all stuff that will come and go and is so not worth fretting over. So, then: it's a fabulous day! I may even frolick in the rain before the sun sets. Namaste.

top ten things people (incorrectly) think I do for a living

(These are all guesses I've heard within the past week.)

1. Performance artist
   
2. Hair stylist
3. Musician
4. Actor
5. Photographer
6. Yoga instructor
7. Dominatrix
8. Non-profit director
   
9. Activist
10. Boutique owner
    

I'm kind of sad no one thinks that I look like someone who would do what I do -- or at least they don't suspect it before I tell them. Ah, well. It is better, I suppose, to keep people guessing.

meme, meme, meme!

Saw this meme on the Anonymous Alcoholic's blog, and you know how I'm powerless over memes.

WHAT I WAS DOING...
10 years ago -- I was married to Renegade's dad. We lived in Rock Falls IL (population 9,580), and I worked as the Special Sections Editor for the Daily Gazette in Sterling IL. Among other things, I was responsible for the paper's Today's Farms section, which involved choosing a "Farmer of the Month" -- one month it was a hog farmer, and the smell was so horrendous I threw away the clothes I'd worn there and it took at least a dozen showers to get it out of my nose. I alternated between driving a 1989 Jeep Wrangler lifted and on 35" tires and a 1995 Chevy Suburban, and I had a perm. I was not very happy.

5 years ago -- The Philosopher and I were still together, living in a house in a subdivision in Woodridge IL. I was finishing up my BA, and had just been accepted to graduate school in the MA program for Language, Literacy, and Rhetoric at UIC. I drove a 1999 Ford Mustang, worked as an SAT/ACT tutor, had abandoned my blonde hair for magenta highlights, and wore twin sweater-sets with khaki pants. I was still not very happy.

1 year ago -- The Narcissist and I had just started dating, I'd just returned from one of my regular jaunts to NYC, and I was still reeling/heartbroken from/over the kerfluffle with Mr. Big at The Spot after the Pete Yorn show. I had blue hair and loved my Christopher Blue "Lloyd " jeans, which I often wore with my hot pink patent leather stilettos. I hadn't yet figured out that living on the edge of everything wasn't a sign of happiness but, instead, dysfunction.

Yesterday -- Was wonderful. I went to a meeting, then picked up Rebel and took him to Wicker Park for a writing workshop, and I spent a couple of hours hanging out in the 'hood, browsing in the stores (especially Reckless Records) and eating at Earwax. Even though the Eyebrow Nazi is in Wicker Park, it's been months since I've actually wandered around there, and it was fulfilling to see how different of an experience it was, going to a familiar place as an unfamiliar person. I had on my Spanish print sundress, my green sweater, my denim jacket, and my knee-high boots (and tights) and my hair was, well, I suppose it's magenta and purple and blue in a nice neat swirly burst of colorful joy. I am not only happy, I am content.

FIVE SNACKS I ENJOY

1. Tings
2. Whole wheat pretzel sticks
3. Kettle corn
   
4. Pretzel thins from Trader Joe's
   
5. Mini samosas with mango chutney
   

FIVE BOOKS I LIKE

1. Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs (Chuck Klosterman)
2. Choke (Chuck Palahniuk)
3. Traveling Mercies (Anne Lamott)
   
4. The Gold Cell (Sharon Olds)
   
5. The Sexual Politics of Meat (Carol J. Adams)
   

WHAT I WOULD DO WITH $100,000,000

1. Get completely out of debt
   
2. Buy a house in Lincoln Square
3. Buy a house south of Broad in Charleston
4. Buy a loft on the LES of Manhattan
5. Buy property in the Hill Country of Texas
6. Set up college funds for the boys
7. Quit my job and focus on my writing
   

FIVE PLACES I'D LOVE TO VISIT

1. Lucca, Italy
2. Heydon, Norfolk, England
3. Paris, France
   
4. Rome
5. Athens
   

FIVE PET PEEVES

1. People with no respect for others' personal space
   
2. The gradual abandonment of the subjunctive
   
3. Use of the singular "they"
   
4. People who stand on the left side of the escalator
   
5. My children saying "whatevs"
   

FIVE BAD HABITS

1. I often forget to wash my face before bed.
   
2. I frequently wait until I'm forced to go commando to do laundry.
   
3. I leave garbage all over the place: slips of paper, wrappers, etc.
   
4. I twirl my hair. A lot.
   
5. I leave CDs out of the cases.
   

FIVE THINGS I LIKE DOING

1. Exploring city neighborhoods.
   
2. Going thrift shopping.
   
3. Sleeping in while cuddling.
   
4. Spending the afternoon at the spa.
   
5. Seeing live music in intimate venues.
   

FIVE THINGS I WOULD NEVER WEAR

1. Mom jeans
   
2. Clunky heels
   
3. Tie dye
   
4. Patchouli
5. Floor-length skirts
   

FIVE TV SHOWS I LIKE

1. America's Next Top Model
2. Criminal Minds
3. Celebrity Rehab
4. Look Good Naked
   
5. Intervention
   

FIVE MOVIES I LIKE

1. All the Real Girls
   
2. Shopgirl
3. 2 Days in Paris
   
4. Stranger Than Fiction
   
5. I Heart Huckabees
   

FIVE FAMOUS PEOPLE I'D LIKE TO MEET

1. Anne Lamott
   
2. Sherman Alexie
   
3. Chuck Klosterman
   
4. David Mamet
   
5. Aaron Sorkin
   

I'm supposed to tag people, but I don't much enjoy playing tag, so if you want to do this, please do, and let me know. :)

my dance card = empty

Rev. Gary Davis' I Belong to the Band came on at Earwax while I was eating lunch and reading Other Voices, and I caught myself dancing in my seat, and it felt weird, but I didn't want to stop, and I remembered a woman I met a few weeks ago who said that sometimes she moves to music on the "L" and calls that dancing with God.

I bet God would be a fabulous dance partner. He'd know the tango and how to waltz without stepping on your toes and feel just as comfortable getting funky as he would being punky and would always put his hand on the small of your back when he's leading you back to your seat.

Oh, wait. That's a boyfriend. Nevermind.

i am NOT your objet de fetish

For all the middle-aged men out there, please do me a favor and just stop talking to me unless you really are interested in me as a person, and even then I'm fairly confident I do not want to go on a date with someone old enough to be my father. I am 110% tired of being chatted up by grey-haired men, who talk to me about three things: my tattoos, my piercings, and my hair. And, oh, then ask me how old I am, whether I'm single, and either (a) whether I find older men attractive or (b) if I've ever dated someone older.

I was talking to Top Chef Fan (above, center, along with me and Sailor Girl) at Smilie Lady's game night about how I seem to have become an objet de fetish for middle-aged men who have this fantasy about being with a certain type of woman, and how I thought I was saying "OK!" to go see Cowboy Junkies with Sober Guy as a friend but now he's made me two mix tapes, follows me around constantly at the meetings we have in common, and emails me more than once a day.

[I'm canceling the concert plans anyhow, after confiding in Top Chef Fan that (a) none of this feels right because (b) it seems as though I'm just fulfilling this recently-divorced guy's Suicide Girl fetish or something and (c) -- most important! -- I don't like him, except as a friend, and even then he's kinda creepy. 'Cause, dude, if I want someone to fall head over heels in love with me, IT IS NOT some guy who's approaching fifty and works as an IT guy for a bank and -- even more important -- considers his favorite band to be .38 Special. I mean, that guy's lucky I'd even consider him to be my friend, right?]

But anyhow... Top Chef Fan and I were talking about all of this and how it's really rather depressing to somehow find ourselves in this demographic, and I was additionally wondering out loud if I have "fulfill your fetish fantasies here!" stamped in readable-by-men-only ink on my forehead, and not ten minutes later this real estate developer guy is all over me -- and in the five minutes Top Chef Fan left me alone with said Real Estate Guy (bad friend!), he asked my age, about my piercings, and how many tattoos I had, said my hair was very attractive, and alluded to our age difference. And I suppose he could have just been being friendly, but that does NOT explain his following my every move for the next two hours and even perching upon the arm of the chair in which I was sitting. ("Am I cramping you?" he asks. "You seem to be as far over as possible without being out of the chair, but I want to be close to you." "I think I can hold my own," I reply, turning my back on him to eat more cake.)

Honestly: I'm entirely prepared for getting older and having to get yearly mammograms and wearing orthotic devices in my stilettos and dealing with crow's feet and remembering to wash my face before going to bed and wear eye cream and all that, but I really have entirely no clue how to successfully ward off 60-year-old men without being a bitchy thirtysomething. At this point, though, I do believe I'll just have to take one (or several) for the team, so to speak. Sigh.

happy, joyous, and free

I celebrated six months of sobriety on Wednesday, and since I'll be getting my coin tonight at the Y, I thought I'd give a shout out to all of the folks who have helped me get this far (and, boy, has it been a journey). In no particular order, then:

Without Top Chef Fan spending a couple of hours chatting with me at The Grind about the program and recovery -- and being extremely supportive when I realized I wouldn't ever get anywhere with The Narcissist -- I never would have met...

The Attorney, who initially was just someone to chat with about being the adult child of an alcoholic, but after she encouraged me to consider recovery myself, it was off to the races. She supported me through those first early weeks of sobriety, when I felt as though I were going crazy and wouldn't last another five minutes, much less 24 hours.

The first couple of months would have been even more intolerable without Anima Sola's support. The most memorable time was when Renegade was caught shoplifting at Target (when I had, I think, 37 or 38 days), and I called her up saying, "I am going to get drunk in about five minutes," and she said, "No, you're not. Come hang out with me and Pilates Mama." And the three of us sat in Pilates Mama's house from around 8pm until 1am, talking about our frustrations and fears and, at least for that night, I didn't drink because I had friends who loved me, and I drove home with the afterglow of being touched by grace.

Writing about the past six months would be incomplete without mentioning Slavegirl -- to whom I've become extremely close since June, when she stood by me through one of the most difficult points in my entire life, without being asked, and with so much compassion and love. And she's been there through my sobriety, too, pointing out along the way when I'm making good choices that never would have occurred to me before, while also keeping her mouth shut while I make the mistakes I need to, the sort that teach me a lesson without devastating me. Indirectly, also, The Master (Slavegirl's beau) has been there, too... because without his love for Slavegirl, I don't think she would be in such an awesome place to have helped me so much.

Museum Maven has been my sponsor for the past four months, and it's been, well, interesting. She's pretty hands-off, as far as sponsors go, but she's also pretty tough when I need her to be. And she definitely calls me on my shit, which I totally need.

Way over on the west coast, San Francisco Man has helped me numerous times over the past year, not only with my early sobriety but also with reminding me of my worth as a human being when I realized it least.

Back here at home, Sax Man has been -- and continues to be -- a positive force in my life, and I imagine we'll be friends for a long time to come, as I am officially between 78% and 87% funnier when I'm around him. My best memory of him is when I called him when I had 89 days and he was in Denver and I was in my apartment (on Christmas Day, which was quite emotional, after seeing my family for the first time in years), and he recited "How it Works" to me pretty much by memory.

Online, there are a few bloggers who have been helpful in my sobriety, either by supporting me and what I write or offering me space to get out of my own mind: Smussyolay, Nilsa, Candi, and the Anonymous Alcoholic have been the most helpful.

And then there are all the people I see regularly at meetings: Sailor Girl (who's a close third to The Attorney and Top Chef Fan in being a constant source of support), The Bouncer, The Handsome Architect, The Ad Guru, Crazy Hair Lady, Kindly K, Beard Boy, Surfer Guy, Sober Mama, Montana Man, The Gay Theologian, and dozens of other people whom I don't know well enough to assign them names.

I'm also indirectly grateful to my brother, Texas Boy, who hasn't so much done anything as he has just been proud of me for making these changes in my own life -- and he's probably the one person outside of the program (given that he grew up in the same environment) who can truly appreciate how difficult it's been for me to break free of a lifetime's worth of bad habits.

***

It's amazing to me how much larger everything in my life has become over the past six months. A year ago, when I was going through a rough time around the anniversary of my grandmother's death, I was hard-pressed to find anyone who was very supportive -- everyone had their own things going on, or just weren't emotionally available for me -- and when disaster struck last May/June, I was surprised that Slavegirl would actually help me; who had ever done that for me before? My life itself was small, as small as it had to be for me to feel as though I could control everything, without ever possessing the ability to do anything remotely approaching control. I defined "freedom" as a lack of responsibility, connection, and trust. I didn't know what happiness was; the best I could say was that it was a lack of anxiety, or an absence of fear, or relief from sadness -- and it always came from external sources, never from within.

Worse than all of that: I didn't think I deserved any better. I felt damaged, defective, and insane -- and on my worst days in early sobriety, I would constantly ask myself why I was crazy enough to think things would ever change. But every single one of those people listed above -- and dozens of others -- would tell me to keep moving on, that it would all make sense and come together eventually, and that they would hold my hand along the way. And it was through their support and love -- and working really damn hard on myself, in ways that have been both challenging and liberating -- that I have been able to redefine "freedom" and "happiness" and come to have a deep faith in grace as well as develop an enduring sense of hope.

I realize this all sounds probably a bit hippie-dippy and way too, well, happy-sappy for me. In a sense, it is, because I'm still bitter and sarcastic and ironic and a tad bit devilish -- I don't think that will ever change. But here's what has changed: I'm not afraid to be happy now. I'm not afraid to frolick or dance in public (without being drunk) or skip down the sidewalk or stop to watch squirrels play in the trees or just stand in the middle of the sidewalk to feel the air and take in the smells of my neighborhood. I've stopped being so self-conscious, so hyper-aware of what other people think about me, because I know (a) I'm going to be okay, no matter what external things happen and (b) I'm a pretty darn awesome person. It's the past six months -- and working a program, and accepting the help of all those people, and allowing grace into my life -- that have allowed me to become the person I always wanted to be but just didn't know how. It is nothing short of amazing, and I suppose the more I encounter people who knew me "before" the more I will be amazed.

***

I'm going to New York City in a week, the first time since I've gotten sober. I had been going every two or three months since 2006, but stopped once I came into the program, telling myself that I had to wait until I had six months. I used the city before as a place to escape to when life in Chicago became too intolerable, a place where I could go to pretend I was the person I wanted to be when I was back home -- but "back home" was filled memories of heartbreak and failed opportunities and dashed hopes and horrible relationships and, well, a LOT of problems. As it turns out, I didn't need to travel anywhere to become that person -- I am that person now, and I will be that person whether I'm in Chicago or New York or Montana or Canada or three thousand miles away from wherever I started. And even though I quite pointedly avoid talking about "boys" here, there's someone I'll be hanging out with while I'm in the city, and the idea that I could even be doing that in a self-affirming and productive way (as opposed to running rough-shod through someone's life, more akin to a cyclone than anything else), without any pretense or assumptions or expectations beyond living in the moment, is exciting.

***

This is way longer than I wanted it to be, so I'll leave with this: I'm certain that my life, from this point on, will be fairly amazing. The only regret I have is that it took me thirty-four years to figure out that the only thing I needed to feel happy and joyous and free wasn't anything someone or something else could offer, and it was something I've been carrying around my entire life: me. Namaste.

aliens have invaded my home

Because it was only $7.99 on clearance at Drugstore.com (who, for whatever reason, now sells children's games), I bought a Cranium Giggle Gear Mega Mask along with a spur-of-the-moment order of hair pomade, cuticle cream, eyeshadow, and mascara*. It includes alien, bug, and monster parts, along with this voice transformer thingie (I'm sure there's a technical term for it, but I wouldn't know) that simultaneously makes them sound extremely awesome and become terribly annoying, which I suppose is the hallmark of any children's toy worth purchasing. This is why I spend a great deal of times on my headphones listening to iTunes while they are playing here -- if something serious is happening or there is a skirmish they cannot resolve themselves, the volume level increases to the point where I notice, but otherwise it's a continuous lesson in compromise and conflict resolution.

Rebel was the funnier of the two when he first put on the mask, because if he pulled it up high enough that his ears weren't squished, it was smashed his nose, and in order to avoid smashing his nose, his ears were hurting. Therefore, he was walking around with the voice transformer sounding like an alien saying "discomfort! discomfort! discomfort!" (No one ever said my kids aren't nerds.)

The mask fit Renegade much better, and in fact he probably could have spent all afternoon trying out various things to say, many of which involve scatalogical humor and therefore amuse me much less than they do his younger brother. I think the first thing that made me realize I would never, ever understand men was the fact that all boys seem to have a thing for poop, fart, and pee jokes -- and anyone who spent even five minutes of his childhood fascinated by these things would forever be at least 5% incomprehensible to me.

* I run out of toilet paper on a regular basis, but have enough makeup to offer makeovers to every woman within a two-mile radius of Lincoln Square. This is remarkable only in that I spend less than five minutes on any given day applying makeup and often don't wear much of any. Ah, well.

half o' a whim day

Before I set out on Whim Day March 2008, I of course needed supplies. And, since I was running late (as per usual), that consisted of digging through my trunk for my emergency stashes of Kashi TLC bars and Pellegrino water. Or, in this case... just taking one of each from the groceries I've been too lazy to carry upstairs:


Usually, I take Lake Shore Drive to Lower Wacker when I go to UIC, but on a whim I decided to take Irving Park Road to the Kennedy. And promptly ran into a traffic jam caused by a partial lane closure thanks to our friends at Nicor:


This looks more like the town I grew up in than the near southwest side of Chicago, aka "University Village." Uh, village my ass. But, yeah, these are the cobblestone streets I mentioned in my last blog:


The view of downtown from the parking garage on Maxwell Street was pretty sweet today. This is what I saw at approximately 2:30pm -- yes, I left the doctor's office at 2:30pm when I had an 11am appointment -- and it was so pretty I stopped and just kinda stared for a while:


And then I decided to stop by First Slice Cafe for a piece of pie and a salad and black bean tamales (to go, since I'd spent an aeon at the doctor's office). I love the lettering on the signs:


After which I sat down with a salad on my lap in an attempt to work:


And I wanted to take a bath -- and, in fact, I'd run a bubble bath -- but somehow I got sidetracked (hey, funny things can happen when a gal's walking around her apartment naked) and instead I high-tailed to the Eyebrow Nazi:


And climbed up her staircase while amusing myself with the thought that she sure has things figured out, being in such an unassuming place while offering such a fancy useful service:


After rushing home to put on makeup and scooting to a meeting, Sober Mama and I went to the Old Town School of Folk Music, where these two little girls started everyone out with the dancing:


At intermission (or is it only called an "intermission" for a play, and with music it's a "set break"... ah, I digress), Sober Mama and I decided to leave early because I was exhausted... but a woman named Carla who we'd met earlier in the evening took our picture:


After driving Sober Mama home (and encountering this odd minivan driver who tried to inspire me to road rage, and then I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw his passenger snorting coke off the dashboard...), I made it back to my humble abode:


And went to the bathroom, but since I can't/won't show you photos of that, here's one of me in my bathroom:


In retrospect, I should have just devoted an entire day to Whim Day and not tried to fit it in around all sorts of other obligations, but it was still fun doing what I could to capture my spontaneous side.

things that make you go, 'huh'

My doctor's office moved about a year ago, a penultimate moment in the UIC takeover of Maxwell Street and its environs, turning it into "University Village" -- an urban version of a strip mall with the requisite $459,999 townhomes sitting on land that was the ghetto (and, before that, where my Italian great-grandparents probably hung out with their neighbors). I don't much like this area now. And it's not as though I particularly liked it 15 years ago (it actually rather scared me), but at least it was authentic. Later, when I post photos of Whim Day March 2008, you can see what it looks like now -- cobblestone streets and all. Ick. But anyhow...

I actually DID like the idea of the doctor's office relocating. The old office was on the west side of campus, by the hospital. Before that, they had a branch office on the east campus in University Hall, which was quite convenient - but for any non-medical student, the west side of campus is inconvenient and the parking sucks and it's just kind of depressing (it hovers on the edge of a different ghetto). And the new office is part of this ugly gentrified area, but there is also $2 parking and less riff-raff hovering around waiting to "wash" your windshield with water and newspapers when you stop at a light. So I kinda like it. And today I realized another reason why, besides the superficial stuff.

The old office was the first public place I entered after I found out I had a brain tumor. The Philosopher and I had been at the hospital earlier that morning - Rebel was having surgery to correct a congenital curly toe (a real condition, I assure you!), but he'd come down with pinkeye the day before and the surgeon would only operate if we promised to bring Rebel in to get that treated immediately after surgery. And we were waiting for the discharge papers to do that when I got a phone call from the head of a brain injury study in which I'd been participating. She asked if I could come see her right away. We were right next door, so I could. And did, leaving The Philosopher alone with Rebel and Renegade, telling him I'd meet them at the doctor's office (these places were all basically in the same building).

I went to the neuropsychiatry unit thinking they'd figured out why I was tired all the time or why I had memory problems or why it was becoming increasingly difficult to move my left hand. These were all complaints I'd had for years, but they got worse after I suffered a traumatic brain injury in the fall of 2004. And I suppose they had figured out the 'why' of all those things, but I wasn't at all prepared to hear that I couldn't continue to participate in the study because I had a brain tumor.

I think my initial reaction was to laugh, even though it wasn't particularly funny. I don't remember much about being in that office after that point. I don't remember going into the elevator and then walking over to the doctor's office. I do remember laughing when I told The Philosopher I had a brain tumor. And I remember that he didn't touch me - no hug, no knowing squeeze of the arm, not even a pat on the leg - and instead told me to get a magazine and read on the other side of the doctor's office so I could process the information without the kids bothering me.

To be fair, we weren't really "together" then, nor had we been for a while. I told him I wanted out in May 2004, spent the summer separated, came back after the car accident, and half-assed tried to make it work (which basically amounted to not dating other people, but still not wanting to be with him). If not for the car accident and then the brain tumor, The Philosopher and I would have been done in 2004.

In that respect, he deserves some credit, credit for staying to take care of a woman he loved but who didn't love him, and who in fact took advantage of both those facts. All along I was quite resentful that he didn't do more, but should have I expected that he would have? Would I? I would not. But I was thinking about this last night while chatting with jj, and he mentioned (and I paraphrase) that NYC can be a lonely place to be when you're single (or something like that, I think) and I said that there's only really one time I've felt truly lonely, and that was the day I was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Most of what I remember about that loneliness has to do with spending a Friday afternoon and evening wandering around Lincoln Square, since The Philosopher said I should go see a movie or go to the bookstore or something to process what I'd learned. I left stupid messages on everyone's voicemail I could: "hey, it's me, guess what? I've got a brain tumor...okay, talk to you later..." No one called me back that night, which made me even more lonely, and I saw Wedding Crashers at The Davis because the only other option I hadn't yet seen was The Constant Gardener, and I knew I didn't have it in me to see that. The theatre was filled with couples on date night, and that was mildly upsetting, but mostly I felt as though I was in a bubble stuffed with cotton and no one else could see how sad I was and I could only see the world through fluff and puffs and none of it could possibly be real. Except that it was.

That evening ended with my coming home to find The Philosopher asleep on the sofa. I suppose I have had a pattern of getting involved with men who are completely unavailable when I need them most: The Electrician had me drive myself to the hospital when I had a miscarriage because he wanted to sleep in; The Wannabe Physicist left me the same day I made a horribly difficult decision in my life; The Narcissist told me I was being selfish when I was sad about the anniversary of my grandmother's death and was curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing. In retrospect, all of these things were terribly painful in the moment - but they were also partly of my own making, a reasonable and natural consequence of seeking out people who couldn't help but treat me any other way. And the next step after that was to seek out men who promised me that they were different, when what really needed to happen was for ME to change. Until I did, I'd continue to find myself I situations in which I needed someone who just wasn't able to be present and accounted for. And I think I've arrived at that place now - I don't seek out dysfunction anymore, and I feel a sense of lightness and joy in the core of my being. I used to think I needed a dark side to everything, or at least that I needed to be dangerous, either through my own actions or by getting involved with men who could - and often did - snap at any moment.

How this relates to the doctor's office: the idea of going back to that old place is intolerable. I don't even know who the woman is anymore who would laugh at a horribly scary diagnosis, who let herself be pushed away in such a terrifying moment, who let other people control her range of movement and allowed them to tell her what should reasonably be expected. It's a blessing to be in this new office where, to be sure, there are still unhappy things that have happened. But what it doesn't have are any ghosts I don't choose to keep around.

I have six months today, and I can say with all of my heart and soul that my life has never been so wonderful, and if it takes going to this Godforsaken pocket of gentrification to realize how far I've come, how not-lonely I am today, how much love I am able to give and receive, and how blessed I am, well...that's grace, too, isn't it? Namaste.

whimsicality on the horizon

My friend Brandy has this thing she calls Whim Day, where she follows her fancies once a month for an entire day and takes pictures along the way. And even though I have to work (for a few hours) and have appointments (the doctor + the Eyebrow Nazi) and have a commitment at a meeting (in Andersonville) and have post-meeting plans (dinner + Dan Boadi & Ghannata with Sober Mama in celebration of my six-month anniversary)... well, other than all that, tomorrow I'm following whatever whims come my way. And I'm taking pictures. Be prepared.

i want to bottle this feeling and save it for a rainy day

It's a beautiful day. My windows are wide open, a breeze is blowing, sun is streaming in, the radio is singing yummy tunes, a vegan lasagna is in the oven, I've got an entire case of Pellegrino in the fridge, I'll be in New York City in eleven days, and I'm perfectly content with the state of the world, as crazy and unpredictable as it is. There is absolutely nothing more I could ask for at this very moment. Well, except for a little bit of cuddling and a back rub. Still, everything will come in good time, and that's good enough for right now. Namaste.

twenty-five things for which i am ill-prepared

1. Renegade has begun to wear deodorant
2. Because he needs it, and
3. Asked if I would buy him breath mints at Trader Joe's,
   
4. Which I did, and
   
5. Recently said whatevs
   
6. As though it were completely grammatical, and
7. Purposely hung back in line at Navy Pier so he could play the fast-pitch game with two tween girls (rather than two second-graders).
   
8. I have grey eyebrow hairs, and
   
9. I'm paying the Eyebrow Nazi an extra $10 to dye them on Wednesday.
   
10. When I am stressed or angry, my mouth looks like my mother's did when she was thirty-four and stressed or angry, and
    
11. It doesn't look any better than it did in 1987.
12. I've passed into the age range in which men with 20-year-old children are asking me out, while
13. Most of the people I find attractive are younger, which means
    
14. I may be a cougar without even intending or realizing it, and
    
15. In any case, I still feel about fourteen years old when it comes to navigating anything remotely relationship-py.
16. Rebel is a better dancer than I am, and
    
17. Did a disco dance yesterday while saying, "mama, put on my funky shoes"
18. In a Barry White-ish voice, and
    
19. Gives me a look that says "how stupid are you?" when he says something in Greek that I don't understand.
20. Sometimes I fear that every single one of my exes is going to be engaged or married before I even have sex again.
    
21. The freshman students in my classes in the fall will, on average, have been born in 1990.
    
22. My "little" cousin, whom I babysat from infancy, is getting married this summer.
    
23. I'm supposed to wear reading glasses now, and
24. I actually try to pretend they make me look librarian-sexy, but
25. They don't.

happy spring equinox

I'm three days late (talking about the equinox, that is), but I've been busy. I don't celebrate Easter (or Christmas), but I do like to at least acknowledge the equinoxes and solstices, if for no other reason than I enjoy saying solsticial and equinoctial with complete abandon. I don't really celebrate them, though. For Winter Solstice, the boys each get one meaningful present (or I take them on a short trip, since I'm of the mindset that they're much more likely to remember going somewhere than they are what stuff they got when they're looking back twenty years from now). The Autumnal Equinox is cause for heading to Welles Park for a brisk exploration of the playground, perhaps the last picnic of the season, and the Summer Solstice is time to finalize plans for our annual summer travels (this year, it looks like a road trip to California and back along the old Route 66).

For the Spring Equinox, though, there isn't much I do with the boys -- The Philosopher has this rather, um, philosophical thing he does with them, talking about being reborn and going on a complex (plastic) egg hunt with all sorts of interesting rules and configurations, something I always pretty much rolled my eyes at when we were together, so by now I just let him have his fun (and today's his 35th 36th* birthday, too, so more power to him). Besides, it gives me the space to have my own Spring Equinox special time... and today that has consisted of sleeping with the windows open and the blinds up, waking up naturally from the sunlight, reading in bed for half an hour, taking a steamy bubble bath while listening to the Is Chicago/Is Not Chicago mix jj made for me, shaving my legs (it's, uh, been a while), giving myself a facial, and meditating on all the changes I've made in the past year.

And so that's where I am, listening to I Saw a Hippie Girl on 8th Avenue streaming through the speakers, an equinoctial breeze coming through the windows, the smell of strawberry bubble bath lingering on my skin, sunlight illuminating my day with happiness. I'm grateful to be alive, I love the person I am becoming, and here I am, busy cultivating the life I've always wanted out of joy. Namaste.

* The boys just corrected me on this, and I was all, holy crap!, they're right...

hiatus

There are a million things to say tonight but none that are coming out the right way, so I'm going to remain silent for the time being. Namaste.

real vs. ideal

The first night I spent with The Wannabe Physicist was quite unusual. I had been hanging out with/dating this guy named Chris my first semester of college, but then I met The Wannabe Physicist -- who was Chris' best friend and used to fool around with Chris' older sister, who was like 25 when he was 16 or something -- and of course I fell madly in love (or whatever it is that 17-year-old girls do). And instead of doing the responsible thing, which (probably) would have been to sit down with Chris and break up with him gently, I did what later became my modus operandi for more than a decade: I stopped by, told him he was the most annoying person I'd ever met and I couldn't stand to be around him for another second, and walked out, leaving him crying and heartbroken (hey, no one ever said I was skilled at relationships). And waiting for me in front of the dorm was none other than The Wannabe Physicist, who had borrowed Chris' car. And we proceeded to drive the brokenhearted boy's car downtown, where we spent all night cruising the streets, going up and down Lake Shore Drive, swinging at the playground by the lake near Belmont Avenue, eating powdered sugar donuts, and drinking Mountain Dew.

It stands to reason that there was a good deal of talking that night. I suppose there was some canoodling, too, but (a) I had just turned seventeen, and I hadn't yet found my, uh, sea legs (?) in regard to relationships, (b) I was still in "sweet Texas girl" mode and therefore 1500% more shy than I am now, and (c) I was feeling extremely guilty about breaking up with Chris and tooling around the city in his car. So while I don't specifically remember, I'm guessing it was a fairly chaste evening. What I do remember, though, is a conversation that would come to haunt me until about four days ago. But even "haunt" isn't quite the right word. It's more that the conversation has been hanging in the back of my mind, informing my decisions, whispering to me when I least expect it, cropping up at inopportune moments, coloring the way I view the world, and generally annoying the crap out of me.

The Wannabe Physicist had this theory about the world -- and possibly he still does, but I wouldn't know since I haven't seen or heard from him since 1996, a fact that sometimes bothers me, because even though we were horrible for each other, it might be interesting to meet up with the person I would've been married to for sixteen years now had we not gotten divorced. But I digress. His theory was simple: everyone had an Ideal Person and a Real Person that existed (figuratively) in his or her world. The Real Person was the person you are every day, who experiences all of the things that you experience on a daily basis. But the Ideal Person is the person who made that green light after all, who didn't break up with The Perfect Guy, who turned left instead of turning right, who went to the other college... you know, the person who didn't do all the things you regret doing, now that you know better. And it was The Wannabe Physicist's reasoned opinion that life was such that we will always wonder what The Ideal Person is doing, how our lives would be so much better if we were closer to The Ideal Person, and how that exact tension and intrinsic disconnect is the driving force behind every single thing we do and each decision we make. And so this dichotomy is the heart and soul of The Wannabe Physicist's "real vs. ideal" philosophy, and it is an idea that has caused me no small amount of angst over the past seventeen-and-a-half years.

Yesterday, when I blogged about obligatory atheism, I mentioned (a) my abandonment of The Wannabe Physicist's "real vs. ideal" philosophy and (b) a spiritually transcendent experience I had driving southbound on Lake Shore Drive while listening to Love of Diagrams at 1:42pm Wednesday... as if the two events were discrete and neatly packaged apart from each other when, in fact, these two things happened at approximately the same time, give or take a couple of tracks on Mosaic. Specifically, I was driving down Lake Shore Drive and, in quick succession, six things happened:

(1) My car tells me it is 44 degrees outside;

(2) I open the windows a bit because it's nice outside and I like the feeling of fresh air but no so much that I'm going to mess with what was shaping up to be a Good Hair Day;

(3) The odometer hits 999, then 1,000, then 1,001*;

(4) At a volume of 40** Pace or the Patience comes on, asking:

The pace or the patience?
Can I give it to you?
The pace or the patience?
Days they come and days they go.
Little too far and a little too slow.
Days they come and days they go.
The pace or the patience?
You came in with flying colors, you came in.
Well, can I give it to you?

(5) Followed by At 100%, which informs me that:

Things look better at a hundred percent.
Things look better.
What could she possibly, possibly have to say?
Things look better at a hundred percent,
things look better already.
Things look better at a hundred percent
Course I'm better.
So much better.

(6) And at the exact moment At 100% ended, something my sponsor said to me when I finished my first step by telling her my dramatic and tragic story popped into my head:

Now that you've shared this with me, it's all in the past. You don't have to tell those stories to anyone else except me ever again.

Now, this may seem like an average afternoon in my life since, after all, I (a) spend a lot of time driving down Lake Shore Drive, (b) open the window quite a bit when the temperature deigns to rise above 40 degrees, (c) pay close daily attention to my odometer, (d) listen to a LOT of music, (e) see my life in 97.3% of all song lyrics, including those sung by Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand, (f) spend a lot of time thinking about things my sponsor has said, and (g) tend toward the more introspective end of the "how much do I think about myself and my problems" spectrum, but all in all, the convergence of these six things left me feeling reborn.

Between the lyrics and the recollection of what my sponsor said, it occurred to me that I no longer have to be constrained by all the crappy things that have happened to me or feel guilt over things I may or may not have done or even make either one of those things part of the stories I tell or the person I am or the person I want to become. As my therapist pointed out to me today, all of those things needn't be any more or less meaningful than the fact that I completed third grade, and coming to that realization has been remarkably liberating, so much so that the only way I can describe what happened at 1:42pm on Wednesday is that I fell head over heels in love with myself, and even now, fifty-six hours later, I'm on that kind of high you get after you've kissed someone for the first time, or are sitting in a movie theatre wondering if he'll hold your hand and then he does, or you're drifting off to take a nap while cuddling with someone yummy, or, well, all those moments when you experience pure happiness and you realize that being content isn't something that happens to you; it's something we find through grace and hope and possibility and sitting on the precipice between what has happened and what is yet to come with great anticipation.

And so there I was in the car, falling in love with myself, with Lake Michigan on one side of me and the Chicago skyline on the other, and The Ideal Me just kind of withered away. It was as though I could see her sailing into the horizon, or disappearing in the puffy clouds, or evaporating and escaping out of my barely-open windows. She was a shadow I'd kind of just begun to accept, a permanent albatross around my neck, her spectre tingeing my world such that I always felt as though I either had to catch up to someone I was not or apologize for not trying harder to do so. And so all the stories I shared, all the times I warned potential lovers that I'd demolish their lives (and then, largely did), all the instances of wanting to prove how damaged I was as an offering of evidence that I'd had enough, all the abuse I took because I thought that's what I deserved for being The Real Me... those melted away, and for the first time in my life I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and know that I deserved to be loved, and not in a half-assed way by people who would hurt and abandon and take advantage of me (which isn't really love but dysfunction masked as affection)... but by me, and with that realization came another closely related one: I'm fucking awesome! And seriously, I think this is going to be a life-long love affair that will never grow stale. Namaste.

*We all know how much I love odometer palindromes & milestones.

**I refuse to listen to the radio in volume increments other than fives.

obligatory atheism at home?

I was going to blog about my recent (and quite under-the-radar) abandonment of The Wannabe Physicist's "real vs. ideal" philosophy, and then I was going to blog about the spiritually transcendent experience I had driving southbound on Lake Shore Drive while listening to Love of Diagrams at 1:42pm Wednesday, but then I took out the lease I signed today for my new apartment, and under the "additional agreements and covenants (including decorating and repairs), if any" section, I realized I had agreed to the following:

1. Rent due on first of each mont.
2. To move in or out of this apartment only thru the beck door entrance.
3. Barbequing is prohibited anywhere on the premises.
4. No god allowed in this apartment and building.

I think I can figure out what a "mont" is and where the "beck" door is located, and I'm okay with no BBQ, and I can overlook the poor syntax (as my landlord is from the Ukraine), but it comes as a substantial disappointment that I can no longer invite God over for cake and coffee.

it's all a matter of time

Nilsa posted this on her blog, and I loved it so much I'm doing it, too!

Ten seconds ago I was playing Scramble on Facebook.

Ten minutes ago I filled out an online form for a moving quote.

Ten days ago I ate Tabasco pie for the first time.

Ten weeks ago I saw the Poi Dog Pondering Acoustic Quintet at the Hideout.

Ten months ago I took a pregnancy test that turned up positive.

Ten years ago I edited and wrote (among other things) the Today's Farm section at a newspaper in western Illinois.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Ten years from now I'll definitely be living in New York City.

Ten months from now I'll be rekindling my love-hate relationships with Chicago winters.

Ten weeks from now I'll be planning Renegade's 11th birthday party and wondering how it is I am old enough to be the mother of an eleven-year-old boy.

Ten days from now I'll eat lunch at Earwax Cafe and browse the CDs at Reckless Records and shop at the thrift stores while Rebel participates in a Grossology writing workshop at 826Chicago.

Ten minutes from now I'll be putting lunch in the oven and hopping in the shower.

Ten seconds from now I'll watch the reveal on Ten Years Younger.

mystery of the universe no. 263

I don't have much time to blog today, since I'm behind on about 82 different deadlines, but I'm about 75% of my way through Killing Yourself to Live, and I'm wondering the same thing I was about three-quarters of the way through Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. Which is: Why isn't Chuck Klosterman married? [And, by extension, why isn't he married to me?]

on the bright side

So there's a slight chance The Philosopher will vacate the house by April 30th (I gave him one last opportunity to do the right thing), but I'm at the point where I'm kind of hoping he digs his heels in and stays. This new apartment (the larger one in my current building) is making me feel as though I'm moving into an apartment for the very first time -- I'm scouring Craigslist furniture ads for unique pieces and I'm planning how I'll funky up the bedroom and what artwork I can add to my collection and which walls I'll paint what color and... well, it's a remarkable opportunity to express my personal style and a blank slate with which to do so.

And transforming the house into "my space" is entirely possible, too, so even if The Philosopher leaves (of which there's about a 3% chance), I won't be crestfallen... but it will be a little bit harder, considering that all my "stuff" has been there for three years. Moving into this new apartment, I'll be able to sort through things both in my studio and at the house, and I'll have high standards because the new place is smaller than the house (duh!) and will only bring things with me that I really love or that really matter. Dare I say I'm actually excited?

funny how that all works

Over the past few days, I've been feeling no small amount of stress over my housing situation. The Philosopher has decided that he doesn't particularly feel like moving out of the house, and so I've been scrambling trying to find something suitable (as I refuse to stay in a studio for another year). And my list of "wants" is quite long: in Lincoln Square proper (bounded by Western, Lawrence, Damen, and Montrose); eat-in kitchen; heat included in rent; hardwood floors; claw-foot bathtub; and within my budget ($1500 a month or less). And, yeah, there are tons of those types of places, in some respects... though, in another respect, there's the problem of my not-so-great credit and trying to explain why I maintain two addresses right now and coming up with even more cash on the spot while I wait to get my security deposit refunded... which could well be a couple thousand dollars, if not more, while I'm simultaneously trying to scrape together money to hire a family attorney so I can get THAT situation straightened out. This whole thing has spun me into an anxious tizzy which, in case it's not obvious, doesn't feel all that great.

So last night I went to a second-step meeting and talked about God stuff, and today my sponsor and I officially finished my third step by, uh, praying together (over the phone), and I've spent a LOT of time meditating and trying to let go of this issue, because I figured that it would all work out eventually. And so that's where I was at today when I was driving home from my Saturday meeting and got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize, so I let it go to voice mail, and then I checked it and it was my current landlord telling me that one of his long-term tenants had -- out of the blue -- decided to move in with her boyfriend and so he has a one-bedroom apartment for rent (in the same building I live in now, just one "address" over), and would I like to take it?

I called back immediately and just got back from looking at it, and I'm taking it. It's not two bedrooms, which I would have preferred (with the boys probably coming to live with me eventually and all), but it's about 750 square feet and includes a nice-sized eat-in kitchen (large enough for my table + a small television with PlayStation for the boys), a living room that's about the size of my living room now, and a decent-sized bedroom. And there are lots of built-ins (which I love!), hard-wood floors, lots of closet space, and -- the best! -- a claw-foot tub just like the one I have now. And the best part is it's only $875 a month, which is almost half of what I'd budgeted for rent and not that much more what I'd be paying for the studio if I stayed ($705).

Whew. What a load off of my mind... and, of course, it all got resolved the exact moment I got out of the way and stopped trying to run the show.

depends on how you define "worst"

There's this thing people say in the program -- "The worst day sober is better than the best day drinking" -- but it's taken me until recently to fully appreciate what that means. It's no secret to anyone who reads this blog that the past few months have been a roller coaster ride; getting sober is hard, and it's harder than I ever would have imagined -- harder than anything I've ever done in my entire life, and considering I went back to school and work only two weeks after having my skull sawed open and a brain tumor removed from my freakin' head, that's saying a lot.

But anyhow. I've been thinking over the past few days about how much I've changed since September, and I think it's safe to say that I'm only about 12% the same. Of course, in that 12% resides all of my character defects, insecurities, anxieties, fear of conflict, resistance to change, and intolerance of bad drivers, slow walkers, and stupid people. No, I'm not perfect, not even close -- even though I hold on to this completely far-fetched idea that one day I will be Perfect and being Perfect will make me Happy, I'm at least sober enough to start to realize that such beliefs are, well, silly at best.

But anyhow. I'm only 12% the same (with an error margin of 0.5% in either direction), and sometimes I like to wallow in that sameness rather than taking a trip over to the other 88% of me (plus or minus 0.5%) and reveling in all the freakin' awesome things I am doing now that I'm the New and Improved Me (or, as I prefer to call myself, Me 2.0 -- version 2.5 will be in stores this fall!). I look back at the person I was six months ago, and I can't even imagine what must have been going through my head to allow me to make the decisions I was making -- Staying in an abusive relationship? Going along with The Narcissist's talk of marriage? Continuing to bankroll my ex-lover? Taking the path of least resistance in all of my affairs? Who WAS that woman?!?!

I don't really think that -- as far as my feelings go -- that my worst day sober is better than my best day drinking. If we're going solely on superficial feelings, I had some pretty darn good days out there, especially after I'd been at the bar for a couple of hours and had found some random guy to pay enough attention to me that I actually felt attractive and worthy as a human being. And let me tell you -- that was much better than sitting in my bathtub at 2am praying and crying and wondering when I'll ever find relief from my pain.

What makes that program bromide true, though, is that my worst day sober IS better than any day drinking -- because even a bad day now brings with it a whole host of other things, the least of which is the knowledge that I am making good choices, doing healthy things, surrounding myself with positive influences, seeking out growth and change and progress in a reasonable and rational fashion, and -- most importantly -- setting personal boundaries and being honest with people when I need to hold firm to them.

So I realize that I might give the impression that my life is a miserable mess and I hate myself and I don't know how I'll ever live through another day -- and I suppose that's 12% accurate. But even through all that pain, well... I guess all I can say is that this is what just shy of six months sobriety looks like. For now -- for tonight, at least -- I'm over in the 88% part of my brain marveling at how blessed I am, how grateful I am, and how much of a miracle it is that grace has taken me this far. Namaste.

happy thursday!

It's 47 degrees outside, I watched King of California before I went to bed last night, I slept until I awoke naturally (at 7:58am, and then at 10:02am), I've got my windows open, I had an awesome chat with Sax Man last night (and woke up to hear a wonderful voice mail he'd left for me on Google Talk), I'm gorging myself on reality television (two episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker, followed by the Real Housewives of New York City), and I'm making myself a yummy lunch (fennel & vegetable paella, vegetable bouillabaisse, and fruit salad with kiwi, blood oranges, and apples), but... I'm still swamped with work, and I may have to skip class today (not only because of time issues but also because I have $4.17 in the bank and no gas in my car, no money on my CTA card, and no money for parking*), and I can't (comfortably) do laundry at the house because Crazy Lady is camped out there for the day, and my apartment is a mess (a state of existence accompanied by the absence of motivation to clean, put away laundry, or take out the garbage), and I still haven't showered, brushed my teeth, or gotten dressed.

To solve the problem of the obvious disconnect between the state of the world (it's 47 degrees outside!) and my attitude, I believe it's best to start at the beginning. And so I'm off to shower and brush my teeth. Namaste.

*All because the huge multinational corporation for which I work can't figure out how to migrate their payroll services from one facility to another and, therefore, my paperwork -- which I have mailed, overnighted, and/or faxed four times -- was misplaced.

the ballad of peter pan

The past 24 hours, I've been getting back on track, doing all the things that I'm supposed to have been doing all along: working, eating regularly, feeding my cat, doing the dishes, meditating, relaxing, taking time for myself. And it feels good... but then I get frustrated and wonder why I can't have all the things I've BEEN doing -- going out, spending time with friends, having fun outside of my apartment -- and still keep on track. I feel sometimes that I try to push my sobriety too hard... it's like when I was twelve and wanted to start wearing makeup and my mom asked "Why are you in such a hurry to grow up?" and of course I rolled my eyes at her because she obviously didn't understand the allure of mascara and eyeliner. But it's the same way, now, with sobriety... I keep doing things and making decisions that I suspect are best left to people with WAY more time than I have, leaving me overwhelmed and profoundly lost.

And in a deep, almost-desperate way, that's how I feel: lost. There are days I feel completely content with my life and who I've become and others when I just don't know what direction to take or what I need to do to find relief. People ask me, "What do you need? What can I do?" and the answer is always the same: "I have no clue." I'm scared by the prospect that I don't know how to take care of me while engaging with the world at large -- and even if that's only a temporary thing, something that can and will change after I have more time in the program or do my fourth step or whatever other milestones come along, it's not easy to swallow. Intellectually, I want to be able to go out in the world and make connections with people and enjoy life on life's terms... but emotionally, that's not working out so well, as a lot of the old anxiety is coming back and I feel grumpier than usual and I'm slacking off on my work (until the past 24 hours) and my first instinct is to crawl into bed and stay there for about 17 hours with my cat sleeping on my feet (which feels awesome).

The solution is, I suppose, a handful of things with which I have little to no experience: taking care of myself, putting my needs (and my sobriety) first, being honest about my limitations, respecting my own comfort level, pushing aside this niggling feeling that by doing these things I am disappointing people or being unkind to them or not being that great of a friend. And I need to be kind to myself, which is another one of those things that seems almost impossible because it's so entirely unusual.

I was tired yesterday and took a really long nap with the windows open and my cat slept on my feet and I think I snoozed from about 6:30pm until almost 9pm -- and when I woke up, I was able to be really productive and did a ton of work until around 4am. And before I did go to bed, I prayed and meditated for the first time in a while. But I also didn't make it to a meeting, and I didn't chat with Slavegirl, and I was distracted when Sax Man called me, and I didn't sign on to Google chat at all because I didn't want to talk to anyone... and I felt guilty about the nap. And I realize this is all me -- this anxiety, this stress, this idea hanging over my head that the solution is to isolate because all I'm ever going to do is disappoint people and then get angry at them because I'm slacking off at work because I don't know how to be an adult human being displaying the characteristics of a responsible person being kind to herself.

(I think) I need to be alone for a while, but (also) I don't know how to do that. I do know how to go to a meeting tonight and talk about this, and call my sponsor, and pray/meditate more, and keep plodding along. I just wish I were further along. I wish I had it figured out, how to take care of me and interact with the world without feeling as though I'm going completely insane. I wish I were more sober -- and isn't that the most ridiculous thing in the world? I think one of the wisest things my mother ever said to me applies here, "There will be all the time in the world to do all those grown-up things. Enjoy being young while you can."

does this mean *i* am the lunch lady?

I was cooking lunch (white bean dip, crostini, pepper crackers, penne with red pepper pesto) and whipped out one of the compartmentalized plates that I bought from Target a few weeks ago and it struck me that I was happy... and not because of the yummy food or having the windows open to air my apartment out or the sound of the "L" wafting inside every ten minutes or so... it was the plate. Because I HATE it when my food touches. So thank you, Target, for making me happy today, even if I do feel somewhat like a kid eating in the school cafeteria.

warnings for future reference

Ever since you were a baby
You've been trying to grow up
But that's nothing that a therapist can cure
There's an unconfirmed report
Or could it be a cruel hoax
That death is just the punchline
To a tall tale told
At the speed of normal

(John Wesley Harding, "The Speed of Normal")

It's been years since I've spent any significant amount of time in hospitals and doctors' offices and waiting rooms and ERs, but the last couple of months it's been one thing after another: my knee injury, Renegade's broken finger, ultrasounds of my mysterious ovaries, Rebel's long overdue five-year-old checkup (complete with the trauma of inoculations), finally dealing with my feet, and (of course) weekly sessions with my therapist. And I'm at the orthopedic surgeon's office again, now, and there is a long delay, and the waiting room is filled with the worst sort of curmudgeons: old people with aching joints, bad knees, creaky hips, and (the worst) a combination of loud voices and complete obliviousness to the fact that they are in public talking about incontinence, prostate cancer, and erectile dysfunction. And it's not as though I'm any less frustrated by the fact that we're all seemingly stuck here waiting for a surgeon with a God complex (imagine that!), but -- much more important -- I'm too busy having panic attacks and chest pains over the swirling mess my life has become -- rather surprisingly and quickly -- over the past week.

But that's not entirely true. I feel as though my life is in disarray, but really it's just my internal world that's taken on the shape and color of a firestorm or duststorm or sandstorm or (really) all storms in general: chaotic, shifting, unpredictable, and uncontrollable -- be they red or green or brown or grey, they are all just a fucking mess and if my brain were like Herman's Head and had little people arguing up there they'd all be holding on for dear life by now -- or rendered deaf, dumb, and blind by all the noise. But what my therapist pointed out today is that my life is actually quite all right by anyone's standards, and it's just because *I* feel all out of sorts that I *think* it's all falling apart. By all outward appearances, I'm doing fine: I bathe frequently, dress in clean clothes (often quite stylishly), get my work done (mostly), call people when I need to reach out, show up when and where I am needed, keep on track with my meetings (for the most part), and participate in relationships (even if it's been with a fair amount of irritability and impatience as of late).

"But it feels so crappy!" I declare during therapy.

My therapist smiles in that way she does (so saccharine that my almost-violent response to it is quite irrational and disproportionate) and says, "Welcome to life."

And I have the same reaction I have when my sponsor tells me I'm doing a bang-up job and I want to strangle her for it: "Isn't there a book I can read or a pill I can take to make this all go away?" And of course she laughs at me and asks if I'd like for her to teach me some relaxation exercises. "There's room enough on the floor in here," she says. Uh, no.

Last week Sax Man and I were hanging out and I don't quite remember what he did but -- as I recall -- I snapped at him and told him I wasn't in the mood and he stopped and I proceeded to feel quite guilty for at least half the time we were together that night, so eventually I apologized and he pointed out that perhaps I had an inaccurate perspective of what I actually sounded like, as he hadn't experienced it as snippy. And I'm not silly enough to think this is the case *all* the time, as I know myself well enough to realize I can sometimes become an irritable and unpleasant person...but it's interesting for me when I realize that making neutral statements about my feelings causes me to feel like a bitch extraordinaire, experiencing normal stresses of life makes me feel like a complete failure as a person, and coping with difficult situations makes me think I should find an old bomb shelter and curl up there with a good book and come out in about 42 years. Maybe I'd at least lose a few pounds that way, which definitely isn't going to happen if I keep on eating vegan cake and organic peanut butter cookies for dinner because I'm so stressed and "deserve" a treat.

All this is swirling around in Thought Storm Central (i.e., my head) and Renegade snaps me out of it when we get called into the examination room and he says, "I can't believe how horrible those old people out there were!"

Of course, I'm busy blogging and just nod my head and say, "That's kinda how old people are."

"When I am an adult and you're old, please don't act like a dork," he says in response, and quite adamantly at that.

"Do you think I would?" I ask." And what do you even mean?"

"Like most people when they're old they say dorky things like 'dang' or 'that's junk' instead of swearing," he says. "And they're fucking* embarrassing, too."

"And do I embarrass you now?"

"No," he says (after thinking for what I would argue is a smidge too long), "I'm just offering up a warning for future reference."

And in that moment, what I think isn't that he's a silly boy (though he is) or that I love how he makes me laugh (though I do) or even that these snippets of conversation don't come as often as they used to (because they don't) or that they will probably become even more infrequent (because they will) but, rather, that I'm happy to have Renegade in my life. He is so unlike me, yet so very much mine... and at the best times possible, he gives something solid to hold onto during those swirling storms which inspire so much panic. Maybe what I need in all areas of my life are a series of warnings for future reference. But who knows? After all, I'm a little bit crazy.

I'm reminded of the Little House on the Prairie books, where Pa strings a clothesline (or something like it) between the barn and the house, so that when there's a blizzard he can hold onto the rope to get back and forth between the two. And that's how I feel these days -- panicky and scared and pretty fucking cold here in my blizzard, but also knowing there's a lifeline out there somewhere, and if I can only find it, I'll end up OK. I don't know if it will be the house or the barn, but it will be safe. It just has to be.

*yes, he swears around me, and I'm entirely OK with that

joy is a better fertilizer than fear

My last two posts have been of the somber sort, and I realize it may seem as though I'm a depressive kind of gal, perhaps Chicago's very own Sylvia Plath or Charlotte Perkins Gilman or (God forbid) Emily Dickinson. But that's so not true! Because even when I'm stuck in the crawlspace, I'm pretty darn happy, as irrational and contradictory as that sounds.

Back in October I went to this women's meeting in Lakeview. It wasn't the meeting I'd been looking for (there were more than one at that church that day) and I was 35 minutes late (or, I would have been 20 minutes early for the meeting I wanted), but I stayed because I'd been in the program at least long enough at that point to have heard things such as "you're only late for your first meeting" and "you'll find what you need wherever you end up." That, and mostly I was too embarrassed to stand up and walk out after I realized my mistake. But in the 25 minutes I was there, I heard something that I'd forgotten until RIGHT NOW, when I was wondering how it is I can be miserable and happy at the same time. And I remembered how there was a woman there that day who said that the program had taught her that emotions were wacky things, and it was entirely possible to be antsy while content, happy while sad, frustrated while serene -- maybe not all of those things about the same topic (that, uh, WOULD be crazy) but definitely we experience a wide range of feelings about various things going on in our lives, and so while I might be ready to cut my arm off because I'm feeling so out of myself, at the same time I have a large number of things in my life that make me happy, and happy just because.

I've been thinking a lot lately about something I heard at the Dead caucus this year (paraphrased):

I want to see what happens when I cultivate a life out of joy.

And, yeah, I want to see what happens when I do that, too, because cultivating a life out of anything else (e.g., fear, insecurity, depression, or a million other negative emotions) doesn't cause much of anything to bloom (except maybe those bushes that produce pricklies).

Today, then, I have a blossoming list of things that are helping me grow my life into something more tolerable than what it's been for nearly thirty-four years:

1. Black-with-white-polka-dot rain boots
   
2. Hot pink patent leather stilettos
3. Dancing with Rebel, or watching him dance
4. Black tights and a black miniskirt
5. Pellegrino water
6. Roasted red pepper soup with oyster crackers
7. Apple turnovers, apple blossoms, and apple slices
8. Dark roast coffee with raw sugar
9. Vegan cake from The Grind
   
10. Strawberry bubble baths
    
11. Back rubs, snuggling, cuddling, spooning
    
12. Being grumpy around someone who gets it
13. Staying up all night to write essays
14. Live theatre
15. Oddball revues
16. Indie movies and music
17. Diners
18. Beaded curtains
19. The color pink
20. Laughing (esp. with Sax Man)
21. Going to the spa
22. The Russian Tea Room
23. Scavenger hunts
24. Watching Renegade make a face 100% the same as his dad's
25. Makeup brushes, mascara, and face cream
26. Blue Post-it Notes
27. Hanging file folders in funky colors
28. Clearance end caps at Target
29. Storytelling
30. Blogging

And that's just a partial list, less than a month after hearing that whole joy thing. I have high hopes for the future, even if I am in a cynical and not particularly brilliant place right now.

kahlil gibran (reprise)

Driving on the Kennedy, I found myself stuck behind a Hummer brandishing one of those "preventing violence" license plates, further confirming my hunch that the only drivers who buy those plates are ones who actually inspire violence. And then I got home and my cat was being even more bizarre than usual and I actually said out loud to her, in a very stern voice (because I believe she can totally understand what I am saying, even if she is rather fickle and pretends she does not), "If you do not go lie down, I am going to kill you brutally." And I was more than 80% serious when I said it.

I have this character defect of intense self-doubt -- or at least I suspect I do, because I haven't yet arrived at that portion of the program during which I get to articulate the things that are wrong with me (that phase of my spiritual development begins tomorrow, and I'd be sarcastic if I said I can't wait). And to say "doubt" is a mild characterization. What really happens is something more along the lines of seriously questioning my own sanity every time I find myself embroiled in conflict (especially with The Philosopher), at which point I retrace my steps and try to figure out how I could have said something better or been more clear or exhibited infinitely virtuous qualities because, had I DONE all of those things, the conflict never would have happened, right? Well, no. Not so much.

The problem is that I'm stuck there right now -- the mental equivalent of a dirty musty crawlspace that, once you're inside, there sometimes isn't enough room to turn around and get out, so you sit there kinda stuck for a little while trying to figure out if you can slither out backwards or if your perception of the proportions is just off by a bit and you really can wiggle around and get out frontwards after all.

For the most part (as much as possible), I know what got me into this cobwebby mess, and I really, really hate spiders (especially of the spiritual malady variety), but I'm stuck. And maybe it's not a crawlspace at all but a deep ravine without a belay or up a creek without a paddle or between a rock and a hard place or a thousand other metaphors people use to describe that feeling of being at the end of your rope (there's another one!) and not knowing how much longer you can hold on before it just becomes a matter of deep, deep faith... letting go, that is.

I get that letting go thing, I really do, but what I don't get is finding space when I feel the walls are closing in, seeking out spiritual breathing room when I feel suffocated, and -- in the words of that woman last night -- listening to my heart when my head is so, so loud. Over the past five months (and then some) I've learned a hundred ways (maybe more) to do the next right thing, work the steps, reach out for help, pause when things get too intense, make room for more meetings, speak my mind, express my feelings, and (all of the above) stay sober. But I've only learned maybe one or two ways (if that) to keep myself out of that crawlspace... and I can't remember them, which makes me wonder what the point is of trying to catch my breath.

Really what I'm feeling is a horrible combination of sunburn and headache and asthma attack and skin-crawling anxiety and bee stings and back pains and... well... all those intolerable feelings that don't necessarily make me want to drink -- I do not in the least crave the taste -- but absolutely leave me wanting to do something -- ANYTHING -- to make all this crap just get the hell out of my head. And I know it's as simple as being as honest as possible about what I need and want and brave enough to say those things out loud -- even in the face of not wanting to disappoint people or be overly testy -- but there are times I don't know how to do that. No one ever taught me how to pay attention to what I need to not feel suffocated or crowded or buried alive, and the idea that it's my responsibility to keep on top of that now is more than a bit overwhelming.

Rebel came over today, the first time since the heated "discussions" with The Philosopher last night (plus an email from him that would have been an entertaining example of how to use logic and grammar in the most convoluted way possible had I not already been making plans to kill my cat and Hummer drivers). And when Rebel got here and settled in to playing PlayStation, he paused the game for just a second, and the following conversation transpired:

Rebel: I almost cried at recess today.

Me: Why?

Rebel: I missed you so much that I felt a hole in my heart.

Me: I cried a little bit today because I missed you, too.

Rebel: You did?

Me: Yes, I miss you quite a bit.

Rebel: That's okay, mom. We miss each other because we love each other so much.

Awww. It reminded me of how, almost a year ago, I wrote this blog about how I missed my grandmother way too much, and I invoked some Kahlil Gibran, who said

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

And (duh!) I think this proscription applies not only to grieving that which has been lost but also -- just maybe? -- in a weird way to the things in our lives that make us weep in general, be it out of fear or sadness. So maybe it's the case that when I cry for Rebel in the middle of the day, I'm not missing him but bringing to fruition all the happy times we do spend together. Or when I'm stuck in that mental crawlspace, I feel like crying because I'm scared at all the delightful things that are going to happen -- delightful, but TERRIFYING things -- once I can get my act together to stop sitting among cobwebs in dirty dingy spaces.

I suppose this is the point where I say, "More will be revealed." And I certainly have faith that it will. Namaste.

i'm having spiritual growing pains

The idea of faith is a very large chunk to swallow when fear, doubt, and anger abound in and around me. Sometimes just the idea of doing something different, something I am not accustomed to doing, can eventually become an act of faith if I do it regularly, and do it without debating whether it's the right thing to do. When a bad day comes along and everything is going wrong, a meeting or a talk with another drunk often distracts me just enough to persuade me that everything is not quite as impossible, as overwhelming as I had thought. In the same way, going to a meeting or talking to a fellow alcoholic are acts of faith; I believe I'm arresting my disease. These are the ways I slowly move toward faith in a Higher Power.

(March 6, Daily Reflections, p. 74)

On a weekly basis (more often if I deign to call her more regularly), my sponsor reminds me of how, in the Big Book, a spiritual experience is defined as making different choices and taking different action. It's not a burning bush (which, actually, recent research has alleged Moses only saw because he was high on drugs) and it's not some thunderbolt of lightning (for most people) but, rather, a spiritual experience of the "educational variety" that causes many people in general -- and alcoholics in particular -- to realize they've had a spiritual transformation.

Today it occurred to me that it's really fucking easy to go around saying, "Yes, indeed! I've had a spiritual transformation because look at all the things I've been doing differently! Look at all the new and healthier choices I've been making!" when those things and choices involve taking out the garbage before it starts to smell, washing dishes before science experiments begin to grow on them, bringing my clothes to the laundry before I run out of thongs and have to wear one of the two pairs of granny panties I own, and taking a shower every day. I've made remarkable progress in housecleaning and personal hygiene since I stopped drinking -- for which we should all be grateful -- but I'm not doing so well when it involves dealing with living beings that aren't of the feline variety (and, truth be told, I'm not having all that great of a relationship with my cat right now, either). But it also occurred to me that maybe -- just maybe -- I'm actually doing just fine and I just think I'm not doing so well is because those other people are trying to fuck with my head. And, given the people involved, it's not an entirely ludicrous idea.

Things went badly with The Philosopher today when I told him I'd seen an attorney, and it was after he followed me outside of the house and down the street to continue a conversation I thought I'd ended, and after he informed me that Crazy Lady is moving in with him (yes, that's right, into the house for which I pay half the rent) and, oh, yeah, they're engaged now, that I finally made it (five minutes late) to my meeting. But before that, during the conversation I thought had been over, all my thoughts became muddled and confused and I started doubting myself and I really thought I must have had a screw loose when I saw an attorney because who the hell am I kidding to think that anything will ever change?

And so I went to the first meeting that I quite nearly cried throughout, and when it was my turn to share I basically said all of what I said above and then ended with, "I'm just going to go home and take a bath and pray my ass off" -- a phrase I heard in last night's meeting, the meeting I'll be the new chair of for three months starting in April, a meeting where many, many people think it's entirely appropriate to applaud me regularly for what a strong program I work and how great I look and how much progress I've made... and while that makes me feel pretty good, I guess, it also makes me feel -- on days like today -- that no one really knows what's happening in my life and maybe this is another one of those instances where I'm able to fool everyone else into believing I'm doing just fine when, on the inside, I'm really, really fucked up. [I shared this with my sponsor half an hour ago, and I'm a little disappointed that she laughed and didn't at all agree with my self-assessment.]

So all this was going through my head at the meeting, where I'd think about The Philosopher and how he always muddles things and maybe he muddles things because he's right and how is it that people of the non-philosopher variety can think I have my shit together and maybe he's onto something when he accuses of me of being a horrible person and the whole entire world is wrong about me and he's right and what the hell am I thinking believing that anything is ever going to change for me? And while all of this is going on, and I'm battling tears and trying not to just break down and sob -- which, no doubt, would have been quite messy and I would have run into that whole snot backing up into my parietal lobe kind of thing -- this woman I've met maybe twice wrote something on a napkin and passed it to me:

Trust your heart -- your head is lying to you.

Oh. My. God. Literally. What she wrote didn't make me want to cry any less -- in fact, it made me want to sob regardless of who saw and how shocked they would be at just how much snot my body can produce, which I swear makes me a complete freak of nature -- but it sure did put an abrupt end to my little pity party. And the reading for the day (that quotation up above) all came together and I realized that just by showing up I was making spiritual progress, that being there and sharing what was going on was my act of faith for today, the one thing I could do to bring me closer to my concept of God.

And I was reminded of how, earlier today, I needed a break and so I whipped out Anne Lamott's Plan B (which Sax Man graciously retrieved for me from the Walker Bros. Pancake House, where I'd left it on Monday) and had started reading her essay "sincere meditations," where she talks about David Roche, the pastor of the Church of 80% Sincerity, and recalls seeing him speak, saying,

We in the Church of 80% Sincerity do not believe in miracles, but we do believe that you have to stay alert, because good things happen. When God opens the door, you've got to put your foot in. Eighty percent sincerity is about as good as it's going to get. So is eighty percent compassion. Eighty percent celibacy. So twenty percent of the time, you just get to be yourself.

Again: Oh. My. God. And Lamott goes on to mention that Roche believes unconditional love is a reality, but with it lasts only about eight to ten seconds at a time, and so he says, "We might say to our beloved, 'Honey, I've been having these feelings of unconditional love for you for the last eight to ten seconds.'" And for a third time: Oh. My. God. Because maybe it's okay for me to be fucked up 20 percent of the time and have it all interspersed with eight to ten seconds of pure joy -- those moments where I'm not annoyed by people and it all seems to make sense and I feel I'm doing A-OK -- because that's just what life is. Uh, you mean, I don't have to have it all figured out and be on track 100% of the time?

And so it occurs to me that this whole THING today is a spiritual experience requiring way more growth than I thought I could possibly handle, but I CAN handle it -- I just don't know it yet, and I don't know how it's going to happen, but it's not my job to know any of that right now. It reminds me of when I was in labor with Rebel and went from 3cm to 10cm in an hour when it's supposed to take a lot longer than that and the anesthesiologist didn't have time to fix my epidural and I suffered through eight more hours of labor and birth without pain medication and I didn't quite know how I was going to survive, but the only other option was giving up and I couldn't do that because there was a baby depending on me to be strong enough to just suck it up and do it. And so I did, even though I was in pain and I was scared and I had absolutely no fucking clue how on Earth it would ever, ever be over. And, this time around, I've got a lot more than a little baby depending on me -- because, really, if I'd given up then, a C-section would have solved all my problems... but there really isn't such a thing as a C-section for a spiritual malady.

This is the point, then, when I surrender, when I accept that my head is doing crazy things and it's my thinking that gets me into trouble and makes me confused and causes me to think about throttling The Philosopher when I just need to stay on my own path and do the next right thing and wake up every day with a clean slate. I'm grateful for that note on the napkin from the meeting -- it's sitting in front of me right now, and it's going to be my mantra and my prayer and my guide and whatever else it needs to be to get me through this night and out of my head and into the gentle embrace of whatever it is out there that's gotten me this far, whatever it is that's taken me to the place where I am stronger than I think I am. I can do this, as long as I stop thinking I know how.

my new superhero name is 'the peach'

I've come across a few things about dating in the 84 blogs I follow on a daily basis through Google Reader. Yes, dating, which I'm not doing -- I prefer to call it "exploring" -- but I decided nonetheless to visit OKCupid.com to take the Dating Persona Test (introduced to me by Nilsa). The Philosopher as of late has taken it upon himself to remind me all of my perceived flaws, insecurities, weaknesses, and hot-button points, so why not be 100% honest with the entire blogosphere about the reality of my Dating Persona -- which, I'm guessing, will NOT brand me as a heartless horrible mother who doesn't pay bills she doesn't owe to begin with. Here we go...

The Peach
Random Gentle Love Master (RGLM)
Playful, kind, and well-loved, you are The Peach. For such a warm-hearted, generous person, you're surprisingly experienced in both love and sex. We credit your spontaneous side; you tend to live in the moment, and you don't get bogged down by inhibitions like most women your age. If you see something wonderful, you confidently embrace it. You are a fun flirt and an instant sweetheart, but our guess is you're becoming more selective about long-term love. It's getting tougher for you to become permanently attached; and a guy who's in a different place emotionally might misunderstand your early enthusiasm. You can wreck someone simply by enjoying him. Your ideal mate is adventurous and giving, like you, but not overly intense. Your exact female opposite: The Nymph; Always avoid: The False Messiah; Consider: The Loverboy, The Playboy, The Boy Next Door

Reading through the other male personas, the vast majority (OK, all) of my past relationships have been with The Mixed Messenger, The Manchild, and The Vapor Trail.

Funny how none of those personas show up on my recommended list. And by "funny" I mean "concrete point of evidence no. 972 that I've been dating the completely wrong type of guys." I'm happy to say The Exploratorium seems devoid of such seedy characters.

foot, foot, feet

Some folks have expressed concern about my whole podiatrist situation (aww, thanks!), so here's the deal:

(1) I have a Morton's neuroma on both feet. This is a nerve that under normal circumstances is -- at most -- 2mm wide. Being an overachiever in all things (including, apparently, biological things over which I have absolutely no control), the nerve is 6mm wide in my right foot and 8mm wide in my left. The remedy? (a) Cortisone shots and (b) cutting the deep transverse metatarsal ligament in each foot, thereby giving the nerve a little room to, uh, breathe (?) Should this not work, I will have a second surgery to remove those nerves altogether. What I want to know, though, is why I keep getting benign tumors (or things called benign tumors)?

(2) For as long as I can remember, I've had hammertoes on the fourth toe of each foot, and it's only recently I've been bothered by this so much to want to get them taken care of. Well, I'm now going to have a phalangeal head resection (aka arthroplasty), which -- as I understand it -- is basically cutting the tendons for those toes and removing part of the bone (to make my toes shorter).

(3) The second toe on my right foot has a tendon that's too tight and causing that toe to creep up against my big toe, which is rather painful, and so that tendon is getting snipped, too.

So, then, surgery is scheduled for April 8th, at which point at least my feet will be a little less tense, with all those tendons snipped and all. Sax Man is driving me to and from the surgicenter, and -- based on notations on his Google calendar -- I suspect I'm in for a day off of my feet (duh!) filled with pampering. Meanwhile, I am choosing to completely ignore Slavegirl's comment about how perhaps this means I need to retire my stiletto collection...

and, yeah, the podiatrist looks like an even sexier version of dennis miller...

When I was 13 and my dad first started openly seeing my stepmother (as opposed to sneaking around and lying about having an affair, which may or may not have been the case), she would regale us with stories of leaving her job at the telephone company (out in "the field," which was unusual for a woman), hopping in her Cadillac, and heading to Neimann Marcus, where she would show up all dirty and disheveled but still drop serious cash on clothes and makeup and perfume, much to the shock of the salespeople, who would almost uniformly ignore her because of her appearance.

When I first heard these stories, my reaction was pretty much, "Boo fuckin' hoo. Maybe if you took a shower after work and looked like a normal person who hadn't just spent eight hours going in and out of manholes and crawl spaces, they would treat you better." Of course, though, that was during the time in my life in which I believed that the path to self-acceptance was blending in -- not necessarily everywhere, but in a reliable and predictable fashion -- and if you weren't accepted (or catered to, as the case may be), it meant *you* were doing something wrong. And, truth be told, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that this is still something with which I struggle on a semi-regular basis, though not as overtly nor as consciously as when I was 13 (thank God!).

I'm sitting right now at the podiatrist's office -- located smack dab in River North, with Mercedes clogging up all the metered spots and gourmet coffee in the waiting room. This is definitely not the sort of place that takes public aid or KidCare, which until six months ago (along with the student insurance at UIC) was what I'd had for health coverage pretty much since 1993, with a few blips here and there when I had a job offering an HMO. But now I've got "real" insurance, along with an equally real adult problem involving my feet and possible surgery, blah blah blah. And so I went online last week and found this place and was quite shocked when I realized it was in my network and so I made an appointment.

And, you know, I *knew* where this office is going in, so it isn't as though I should have been surprised that it's like this, and -- really -- I'm not...but what I *am* is a bit taken aback at how there are subtle things happening that make me think about those experiences my stepmother had.

On the inside, I still pretty much feel as I did 20 years ago, when I had a Demi Moore ala Ghost haircut and wore baggy clothes and had horribly unkempt eyebrows and looked probably like quite a few outcast nerdy girls living in middle Texas without much direction from her mom re: makeup and/or looking polished. I've come a long way from *that* girl, and I even think I've been able to cultivate a sense of personal style and my own "look" -- especially over the past year -- but it's not as though it regularly occurs to me that I'm not that same girl from 20 years ago. And so when I'm sitting in a fancy doctor's office waiting room and I get funny looks from a guy in a $2000 suit wearing shoes that cost more than I make in a week who leaves to get in a car-service car...well, it takes me a minute for it to occur to me that hey! that guy was making that snarly face at ME! and another minute for me to figure out why...and it's not as though I look all wild and crazy and out there, but I suspect rainbow-colored haired people with lip piercings and tattoos and wearing Chuck Taylors and a skull hoodie aren't the regular clientele here.

But, you know, it amuses me more than anything, because I *have* come a long way in the past two decades (if nothing else, I don't base my hairstyles on mediocre movies starring Patrick Swayze) and I don't really give a damn who thinks I belong where. I have insurance, I have a good job, I have a kick-ass sense of style, I'm an awesome mama, and -- most important -- my feet are (apparently, since it seems I may need "reconstructive surgery") just as fucked up as they would be if I waltzed in here wearing Manolos and Chloe. Namaste.

to do (or, a list of things I've failed to accomplish)

This vegan cake -- chocolate with "buttercream" frosting -- from The Grind is so yummy I want to get married just so I can have an excuse to eat as much of it as possible. Something makes me think it's a better idea to visit The Grind regularly.

In June I'll have lived in Chicago for a total of 26 years (18 as an adult, 8 as a child), which means approximately 75% of my life has been spent in or around the Windy City (I am choosing to ignore the nine months I spent living down the street from a cheese factory in Kaukauna WI as a statistical blip). And it occurs to me -- thinking about how last summer was the first time I'd ever been to the beach here -- that there are plenty of things I should finally do before I turn 35 and begin my mid-life crisis, which, yeah, I know, probably doesn't officially start until I'm at least 40, but -- seriously -- we all know how much I enjoy lingering inside existential crises.

Museum of Contemporary Art
I'm sure this is a shock, but I've never been to the MCA. In fact, I've only been to the Art Institute three times (and once was for a scavenger hunt, so it's not as though I spent a good deal of time perusing its collections). In fact, I've spent about ten times as much time wandering around art museums in New York City than I have in my own city.

Chicago Symphony Orchestra
Actually, I've never seen any symphony anywhere. Well, that may not be true. I have vague recollections of a school field trip to some concert in Corpus Christi, but if I can't remember it, does it count?

Joffrey Ballet
The ballet is one of those things that I've wanted to attend for quite some time, but I seem to have had the misfortune (ok, so that's a euphemism) of being involved with and/or marrying men who hated even talking about the idea of the ballet.

Lyric Opera of Chicago
So I'm a cultural moron. Let me defend myself by saying that I grew up in an intensely blue-collar family in which my parents owned a grand total of five books between them, and three of them were Leo Buscaglia books my mother bought when they were getting divorced (when I was 14). Nonetheless, I think going to the opera is probably something I should do before existential angst takes hold of my soul and refuses to vacate its premises until I buy a Harley and travel cross-country wearing leather chaps or something else that seems entirely inappropriate but nonetheless explicable within the context of having an extended irrational mid-life crisis.

DuSable Museum
This is on the South Side, and we all know how frustrated I get about all those confusing streets down there, but I suppose I should put aside my fear of unpredictable urban engineering and learn a thing or two about African-American history, no?

Chicago Shakespeare Theatre
There's a theme here... yeah, I've spent what adds up to probably a half-decade of my life slithering around dive bars (and worse) and can tell you first-hand what the toilet of the old Village theatre looked like 'cause I threw up in it so many times, but high-brow culture? Uh, sure... Ahem.

Frank Lloyd Wright's Robie House
I looked in the windows of the Robie House once, when I was on a date with a medical student from the U of C who was so predictably boring it was difficult to stay awake. But I don't believe "looking through the windows" counts as visiting, so add this to the list.

Lillstreet Art Center
I've been talking for decades about taking a pottery class, even though I hate getting my hands dirty, so perhaps that's not the smartest idea, but it's still gonna happen before I turn 35. End of story.

Chicago Lakefront Path
I have seen people walking, jogging, and riding their bikes down this path, but I have never done so myself. In fact, this perhaps should be expanded to "never riding a bike in Chicago" -- a sad, sad fact, since I've actually owned a bicycle since June 2006.

Chicago Botanic Garden
At least this is far enough away that there's an understandable reason I haven't been there yet... well, that, and I'm not really a nature type of gal. But it's probably still worth forcing myself to get in touch with my (deeply, deeply hidden and possibly nonexistent) inner hippie.

Wrigley Field/The Chicago Cubs
OK... brace yourself... I have NEVER been to a Cubs game. (I've been to see the Sox exactly twice, once with the pre-Wikipedia Jimmy Wales and once with a group of folks from grad school.)

The Peace School
Yeah, okay, I need to relax from time to time. Between pottery classes and my acting lessons, I'll head down Lincoln Avenue to get my zen on.

National Museum of Mexican Art
Perhaps it's because I spent so long in Texas, where "art" comes in two forms (cowboy "sculptures" and Mexican), but this museum doesn't appeal all that much to me. Nonetheless, it's something I should see and do and to which I should succumb.

Piven Theatre Workshop
I doubt anyone realizes that, way back when, I happened to be a somewhat talented actor with a great deal of promise, until my parents pretty much squelched that possibility by refusing to drive me to rehearsals at the repertory theatre of which I'd been accepted as a member. Ah, well. It's never too late to pretend I know how to act!

chic-a-go-go
OK, so this is more one of the things I should do as a responsible mother who claims to be as hip and urban as they come...

And I am sure there are more, but I have to leave some things to do after I turn 35 and before I turn 40, right?

i miss her most while sitting in diners at lunchtime

It's the eighth year now that March brings not only a slight thaw (inevitably followed by last-gasp snowstorms) but also intuitive recollections of the last weeks of my grandmother's life. She's been gone -- to where, I wonder? -- for almost the same percentage of my adult life that she was alive, the better part of a decade that has entailed learning both how to live without her and how to live, period.

Renegade was two years old when she died. I was still married to his father, though we lived 200 miles apart and I had long since demanded a divorce. The Philosopher and I had just begun a relationship, I worked as a newspaper editor, and I drove a 1989 Toyota 4Runner whose catalytic converter fell off three weeks before the funeral. I didn't have the money -- $700 -- to get it fixed for some time, and it ended up entirely appropriate that the proverbial black sheep of the family (or perhaps its prodigal daughter) would enter and exit the funeral proceedings with all the quietude and grace of a herd of noisy water buffalo.

All the things I remember about that time are about as unclear as possible without disappearing into the haze of unlit memories, but that doesn't mean I don't miss her just as much as the day I called the hospital -- a day after my last visit, during which the woman whose birth name was Anunciata would hold my hand and forgive all my sins toward her -- only to hear my uncle say in a voice choked by the strain of holding back unthinkable sorrow, "She's gone."

Each Spring, then, brings the same, not necessarily the same intensity of raw grief exposed to sunlight but always the identical and acute awareness of this remarkably huge hole I have in my heart that is the precise shape of every discussion and argument and tearful outburst associated with twenty-six years of trying to convince myself that the woman who loved me most (and of that I have little doubt) wasn't precious. Call it the folly of youth or foolishness or just plain mulishness, but more than missing her pizelles and crocheted afghans and the smooth feel of her cheek when she kissed me goodbye, I miss having the chance to realize (and tell her) all of the things that made her wonderful to call my own.

And it's always something different that brings this all to the surface. It might be the smell of homemade pasta sauce or the taste of soup or seeing an old woman with the same stature -- or even just looking through my wedding pictures and remembering how I said something really dumb to her in the receiving line (basically, "Oops! I did it again!") -- but it's always in March and yet it always surprises me.

This year, it's eating lunch in diners and coffeehouses and average restaurants, where I am running into a preponderance of old lady friends gathered into booths and around tables, telling stories of their youth and exchanging tips on grocery sales and doing whatever else it is that old ladies do when they get together with the friends who have seen them through all the things my friends and I are struggling with these days.

When I was a teen-ager and spent a few weeks each summer with my grandmother, she'd get together every week with her old friends at the Rainbow Restaurant in Elmhurst. I don't remember if they ordered food or dessert or just coffee (I don't even recall whether *I* ate anything) but I can picture in my mind's eye exactly the shape of my grandmother's mouth when she was laughing at something her old friend Bobby Vale said and the way her eyes would twinkle when they shared stories about when their children were young and life was both less and more complicated. And I know in my own life I am cultivating that kind of history, fostering relationships with the women who will sit with me for cake and coffee in my golden years, but what I think when I see these old women now isn't at all hope for the future but, instead, a sadness that my grandmother isn't here to see that I'm finally on the right track. And there really isn't any way to fix that, other than saying it out loud. But I do think I'm grateful she died in the early Spring, because it's a grace kind of thing that I'm forced to think of being reborn at the exact same moments I'm mourning all of the things I won't ever be able to change.

you know what they say about thumbs...

When Dusters and Rebel get together, strange things are bound to happen, or at least odd conversations abound. I mean, think of who their mothers are, and it's not a huge surprise, right? Given that any chat Slavegirl and I have inevitably turns to talk about sex toys, masturbation, BDSM, and/or past sexual exploits, it's no wonder...

On the way to Elk Grove...

Dusters: Mine is bigger.

Rebel: No, mine is bigger.

Dusters: No, MINE is bigger!

Rebel: MINE IS!!!

Me: Uh, what are you guys talking about?

Rebel: Thumbs!

Slavegirl: Dusters' is longer but yours has more girth.

On the way home from Elk Grove...

Slavegirl: Dusters runs around saying "I like sperm" and I keep telling him "sperm WHALES"

Rebel: You know what would be funny? If you said "sperm well" and it was a well full of sperms.

Dusters: Sperm WHALES.

I think it's safe to assume these children are a slight bit odd. Although it's also a sure bet they have absolutely no idea why Slavegirl and I find them to be so hilarious. Which is a good thing.

weather forecast

Partly fatigued. Lows in late afternoon, napping possible, with energy levels steadily increasing after dinner. Crying extremely unlikely. 100% chance of laughing by midnight, possibly with danger of lost bladder control. Neck rubs, cuddling, and Dance Dance Revolution on the horizon, with strong probability of warm fuzzy feelings.