countdown to texas

This afternoon I had a pretty awesome conversation with my brother. In a little more than a week, I'm going to see him graduate from college -- he's 32 and it's (obviously) taken him a long time, and probably more than the average person I know what it's like to get that degree after more than a decade filled with hardship and heartache, not to mention snide comments and ill-humored jokes from family members who seem to take joy in seeing my siblings and I fall flat on our faces.

The conversation turned toward what's going to happen when all of us are in the same room, and of course I'm the nexus of conflict there. There's no love lost between my parents, but they've been divorced for twenty years now (and they are both remarried), so any explosive tendencies they had toward each other have been doused by both time and distance. My sister has had her own problems getting along with my father, but since she moved back to Texas, they've been at least able to visit with each other without threatening homicide. Me, though? Well, I'm the one who's not talking to any of them (except my brother). I haven't even seen or talked to my mother or sister for five years, and I've spent a total of four minutes talking to (and two hours in the same room as) my father since September 2001. And even though my brother repeated what he's said to me a million times -- "Sis, you're totally in the right there; I wish I had the strength to walk away after what they did to you" -- he also expressed that he's extremely anxious that it's all going to blow up in some fashion, and that's (understandably) causing him a great deal of anguish.

And then here's where my sobriety comes into play. Rather than being defensive or trying to change his mind or tell him he was silly because I wasn't going to do anything, I remembered what it was like when I was getting married and had the same fears, and I empathized with him. And then I said, "Bro, I know how much this means to you, and I will walk away or walk out of the room if someone tries to start something with me. I want you to remember your graduation day as the one where your big sister came to support you, not the day when you regretted inviting her." And he thanks me, then said, "I have a lot of faith that you'll be the one taking the high road, because I already saw how you did that at Grandpa's funeral." And he also expressed gratitude that I'd be putting his needs above my own -- and, really, they aren't even my needs any more. I've been relieved of any desire I had for retribution toward my parents, and all I can really hope for next weekend is a chance to show up for my brother without them abusing me in the same ways they have in the past. Not likely, since I'm an entirely different person, but I'm sure they will try their best.

Today I'm grateful to be sober because it means I can show up for my brother next week and act like a responsible human being, one who attends important events to support and be proud of her loved ones, and who leaves all the bullshit and garbage outside, where it belongs. And I'm also grateful to have a wonderful brother, who understands how difficult life has been for me, and who can appreciate that I'm working hard to make positive changes. Still, I can't help but laugh at how he said, "We can go out for a few beers to celebrate!" and I said, "Well, you can have beer, but I won't," and he responded, "You can't even have a BEER?" No, dear brother, I can't. But that just means I get to be a better sister to you than ever before. Namaste.

funny about money

Since getting sober, my finances have been slowly straightening out, mostly because I'm not spending upwards of $200 a week (and sometimes much, much more) on alcoholic beverages. But I still have anxiety about money, and I'm not quite sure how to make it go away -- other than the same way I've been able to reduce anxiety in every other area of my life: acknowledge it, and then eat lots of vegan cake and watch bad movies until the bad feelings go away. But that doesn't work all that well, because if there's one way to get fired and fat it's by watching the USA Network 16 hours a day while eating pastries, and it goes without saying that if I'm obese and jobless then my money anxiety will reach an all-time high (which says a lot, considering I spent two months in early 1994 living in my car and eating out of Dumpsters).

In 2007 I made $22k more than I did the year before, which is a significant increase, and if things continue in 2008 as they have been, I'll see at least $10k on top of that this year. Considering how easy my job is, and the amount of flexibility I have in all areas of my life, this is -- I think -- pretty damn cool. I get to sleep in, work naked (or in my yoga pants), spend time with my kids whenever I want, and travel anywhere in the world (as long as WiFi is available, which probably rules out about 90% of Africa, but it's not as though I have the desire to spend $3k on an airplane ticket, and -- besides -- I don't have a passport, yet, because I'm convinced I can't afford one).

Anyhow. There isn't any reason for me to worry these days. In the past, my life was so unpredictable -- I never knew how much money I would spend on a given day, and there were times I really only did have $10 to spend while out and after four cheap beers I'd decide that withdrawing $200 from my account was an awesome idea, because the landlord never cares when my rent is a week (or two, or four) late. And I'd wake up the next day, even broker than before, and have to juggle all sorts of things so I didn't get evicted -- usually calling up The Philosopher and lying about why I didn't have any money so he would lend me some -- and I was constantly anxious about whether I'd have enough money to pay my electric bill much less food.

And thank God that has changed/gone away/whatever. I love the sense of quiet predictability I've been able to cultivate in my life. I am 100% in control and in charge of my faculties at every single moment of my life, and any decision I make to spend money (or not) is made from a place of rationality -- except when I'm in Target, because stepping inside that store renders me helpless and before I know it I've spent $82 when I went in to buy a 99-cent nail file. But I'm still online every day, checking my account balance, and I balance my checkbook EVERY DAY, just to make sure I am doing "okay" financially. [I am guessing this is not normal behavior, but I could be wrong.] And, you know, 99% of the time everything is absolutely fine. There was a recent hiccup when my insurance company accidentally deducted $200 from my account, but I made some calls and got it fixed and it was all good. Balancing my checkbook every day, I do not discover what a horrible job I'm doing, but instead how great I've done lately... so why the freakin' anxiety?

What I think it comes down to is that I don't think I deserve to have the money I do, to make the money I do, to spend the money I do. Constantly reassuring myself it's all going to be okay is my way of dealing with that sort of insecurity. Still, it needs to stop. I am going to resist balancing my checkbook for an entire week. Gasp! Egad! Can it be done? We shall see. Anything is possible, right?

decisions to be made

I'm moving into a bigger apartment in a few days -- right next door, in the same building, one floor up -- and the plan has always been that Renegade would come live with me, Rebel would visit frequently (and continue staying over on Saturday nights), and I could settle into a slightly more, uh, normal version of motherhood. But recent conversations with Renegade lead me to believe that this may not be the best thing for him, a boy on the precipice of puberty who is terrified of losing the strong bond he has with The Philosopher. He says he wants to stay with me two or three nights each week, but continue living with The Philosopher, and I said we could all sit down this week and talk about it. I'm not opposed to the idea, and I want to do what is best for everyone involved -- and, also, The Electrician is aware of the situation with The Crazy Lady, etc., and so it's not as terrifying, the prospect of discussing with him the possibility of another man pretty much raising his son.

This is a scary thing for me -- am I doing the right thing? am I acting out of his best interests? or my selfish desires for freedom from responsibility? -- but I am positive being sober has put me in a position from which I can do what needs to be done for the right reasons. The thought of not officially living with either of my children is an uncomfortable one -- but maybe that's what's meant to be. Maybe The Philosopher -- as a man, as a father to boy children -- can give them things they need that I cannot. And I need to remember that I am not and will not be abandoning them -- I am a block away; they can come and go (mostly) as they please; I offer them a positive role model of a strong and independent woman who can be a supportive and encouraging presence in their lives. That being said, this is one of those difficult decisions that can wrench a mother's heart.

a bit of rigorous honesty

This may be hard to believe, but for most of my life I've considered myself at least unattractive, if not downright ugly. Growing up, my mother categorized my siblings and me with labels; I was The Smart One, my brother The Talented One, my sister The Pretty One. As a mother myself now, I don't believe she was intentionally trying to limit or pigeonhole us, but a look at the adult lives of my siblings and me certainly proves why I've resisted such (vocalized) labels for my own children: after dropping out of college at age 17, I became a stripper to "prove" I was attractive; my brother has struggled to live up to my parents' expectations for his musical talent (vs. following his own heart); my sister is driven to succeed in the financial world and prove she's more than a pretty face.

When I quit "dancing" I did so because I was tired of the exact opposite of what drove me into the sex industry: no one cared how smart I was, and I found myself arguing about social contract theory and literary criticism with the men who came to see me, which I bet was a bit annoying, a 20-year-old girl with an intellectual chip on her shoulder who wouldn't just shut up, bare her tits, and wiggle her ass. I had crossed from one end of the false looks-intellect dichotomy to the other, and neither side was particularly fulfilling. I didn't quite know how to be smart and pretty, so I did what I could: gained 80 pounds and got married to someone who thought intellectualism was pretentious. I moved to the suburbs, had a baby, lost some of the weight, and pretty much wanted to kill myself.

When Renegade had just turned two, I had had my fill, and told The Electrician I needed intellectualism in my life. To his credit, he sat down and tried to read Aristotle and Kant and Dostoevsky and all the other books that had grown dusty on my shelves, but he couldn't do it, and we split up. Around that time, I met Mr. Big, and when he actually wanted to talk to ME in a room filled with other people, I swore he had to be gay. Why else would someone like that want to talk to someone like me? I ended up having an affair with Fish Guy, starting a long pattern of hooking up with Friends of Mr. Big because I felt he was *completely* out of my league. [Which, I must add, he is totally NOT -- he's just kind of a jerk who only likes Trixies, and we all know how I feel about those sorts of women...]

Fast forward a few years -- last summer, say -- and things hadn't much changed. I had spent several years in a relationship with The Philosopher (whom I never found physically attractive) because I figured that was the best I could do. And then when I did find people who were physically attractive to me, I always happened to hook up with the ones who were horribly dysfunctional because, again, I didn't think I could do much better. When I started dating (if you can call it that) Emo Boy, e.g., I was convinced he was out of my league because he was attractive and a punk rocker, even though he was a pothead alcoholic unmedicated bipolar cutter. Wtf?

It's been the past couple of weeks during which I've realized this has significantly changed over the past seven months. I look at myself in the mirror these days and (for the most part) I actually think I'm pretty. When cute guys talk to me or ask me out, I (again, for the most part) am flattered but no longer puzzled as to what they would possibly want with someone like me. This is what I primarily went to therapy for seven months ago -- to build up my self-esteem -- and it amazes me at how doing that has permeated my entire life, and even more so how other people (both men and women) have responded to this change in my character and how I carry myself.

The best side effect of this relatively newfound self-esteem isn't that I get to talk to all sorts of cute boys (ha ha) but, rather, that it's tremendously easier to set boundaries once I realized that I had every right (and responsibility) to do so. I'm easier to get along with, because I'm not so worried about who's going to hurt me -- I'm choosing better people to be around -- and I know when to walk away (or when to refuse to enter a bad space to begin with).

When The Narcissist and I first got together, I remember feeling that I felt like a better person around him -- prettier, funnier, sexier. I suppose I was, in some sense, but it should have been a red flag (beyond the dozen others) that a relationship with him was a bad idea. Being alone (for the most part) the past few months, I've come to a place I've been seeking out my entire life, for as long as I can remember: a place in which I actually like myself and think I'm an awesome beautiful intelligent kick-ass person. Everyone always said that once I learned how to do that, the good guys would follow. That seems to be the case, and it's ironic that all of these good things come just when I realize I don't need any of them to be happy or feel good about myself.

All of these things have come up in conversation over the past few days with The Green-Eyed Boy, whom I've only recently met but we've been seeming to get along famously, which he says is because I appreciate his sense of humor and I'm so laid back (I say it's because he doesn't think I'm a dork when I have one of my moments of gullibility). We've been chatting about how cool it is to learn how to make friends in sobriety and do all of these things that we never thought were possible, including learn how to love ourselves and set boundaries and realize we are completely 100% kick-ass people, a fact that has to be independent of being loved or accepted by any other person if it has any immutability at all. And, yes, I still have my days when I'm lonely beyond all comprehension, but even when I'm in the midst of that existential longing for something I can't name... well, even then, I have something I didn't have before, which is the knowledge that I love myself. Namaste.

travels in lincoln square with rebel (or: conversations illustrating the, uh, highlights of parenting a profoundly gifted five-year-old child)

At The Grind, trying to decide what to order
"We should get the zucchini bread instead of the vegan cake because it's a better source of Vitamin C."

At the Old Town School of Folk Music, in the Different Strummer store
"Rattles are basically maracas, so why do people think babies are so stupid they can't just call them what they are?"

At the City Mouse, during storytime
"I hate it when adults skip words in stories because they're too lazy to read all of them. Why not pick a story with fewer words? At least then you're not lying to kids."

At Costello's, listening to the acoustic guitar singer guy
"I'm tired of hearing the Beatles every time we come here. Can't the people they pick on the weekends be a little more original?"

At Multiple Choices, encountering a Cubs nutcracker
"Even if they haven't won the World Series in 100 years, it's a Chicago thing, ya know?"

At Potbelly's, to the sixteen-year-old girl face painting
"I'll take a Superman logo, but this is much less sophisticated than what I'm used to."

At Eclecticity, encountering the stuffed animals
"Don't they encourage people to continue to treat animals like objects?"

At Laurie's Planet of Sound, talking to Adam Fitz about Obama
"Obama is winning. Some people like Hillary, but she's only won one primary recently, in Pennsylvania. And she's been making up stories, so I don't trust her. I heard it on the nightly news last week. And Colbert was talking about it too. If I could vote, I'd pick Obama."

***

My life is just one adventure after another, and I feel blessed to have Rebel in my life -- every day he amazes me, and then the next minute he's skipping down the street and asking if I'll hold his hand and skip along. How wonderful it is to have a constant reminder that despite all the knowledge and intelligence and chaos and uncertainty in the world, we all need to take time to skip along in the sunshine holding hands with the people we love. Namaste.

a better day, all around

Didn't get to bed 'til 4am and had to wake up by 8am to teach at 9am, and then have been running all day -- filling pain prescriptions, taking the boys to the dentist, trying to grade papers -- but I still feel better than I did yesterday. Or at least I feel pretty today, and that's something, especially since my feet are killing me, which is what I get for going to a show and standing for three hours last night.

yes, i have issues

Sign No. 12 that I am still in need of therapy: I'm still confused when someone attractive is interested in me and/or asks me out on a date. I mean, I think I'm pretty darn awesome, but I guess I continue to think that I'm only pretty darn awesome to me, my friends, my brother, and my kids. But anyone else? I keep waiting to be told I'm on some dating version of Candid Camera and the cute boy will say, "Nah, I was only joking" and I'll go back to being pathetic, fat, ugly, and lonely -- while everyone else laughs at how gullible I must have been to think that HE would be interested in ME. I need to be kind(er) to myself.

iiwii

I'm sliding backwards, and I don't quite know how to stop. No, I'm not drinking, and I haven't gotten hooked on my pain medication. But I feel as though I'm in the midst of an emotional relapse, and a bunch of the old Crazy Lady thinking is creeping back in. And I'm slacking off at work -- there's so much stuff that needs to be done and papers that need grading -- and the clutter is multiplying in my living room. And there's that whole loneliness thing, too, which turns the rest of my life into a bas-relief version of reality, where I feel everything about 74% more than usual.

And I hate being the blogger who whines, but -- damn it! -- I feel like whining today. Or, more accurately, I feel like crawling into my tub and taking a nap after crying myself to sleep. But I promised my friends last summer that I would stop taking naps in the tub after they worried I would drown myself (I vehemently disagree, since I like to think I would wake up if my head were submerged under water, but from time to time I do relent to the good will and concern of others) and, besides, there's all that work stuff that would still be there when I woke up.

I know the solution is straightforward:

I need to eat. My "diet" yesterday consisted of two bottles of Pellegrino, two peanut butter granola bars, two pieces of toast, a slice of cheeseless pizza, a bottle of "all-natural" black cherry soda, and six little styrofoam cups' worth of weak coffee with powdered creamer and sugar.

I need to just start. Once I make the initial decision to get back to work, it's easy to get into that groove. But getting started is the hardest part.

I need to sleep. Going to bed at 3am and waking up at 8am isn't working that well. Granted, one of the reasons I'm waking up at 8am is that I can't get back to sleep, but I could at least try, rather than getting up and reading my Google Reader or seeing who's emailed me in the five hours since I was last in front of my computer.

I need to stop getting so invested. I'm caring too much about the outcome of things lately, which makes me anxious. I need to live in the moment and stop wondering where life will take me.

I need to keep working on my fourth step. And, yeah, everyone warned me I would enter this slump when I started, but of course -- in my infinite "I am a program SUPER STAR!!!" silliness -- I ignored their admonitions.

I need to foster contentment. No, I'm not in New York, and I wish I made more money, and I need to lose 20+ pounds, and I want everything to be fixed RIGHT NOW, but I have everything I need to survive (and then some) in my life at this very moment.

I need to be grateful. Things are so much better now than they were seven months ago, a year ago, three years ago, whenever, and that's something. Actually, that's a LOT.

I need to cry. There's a tendency for me to bottle everything up, and not to allow myself to feel fear or sadness or loneliness or whatever. But you know what? One of my best friends in the entire world is having surgery in 90 minutes. I am lonely. I'm scared, I'm unsure how I'll handle many aspects of my life, and everything feels so, well, tenuous these days. Why the hell wouldn't I cry?

On that note, I'm off to pamper myself just a bit, crying and all. Yes, it still feels like an emotional relapse, but I know enough at this point in my recovery that it, too, will pass, if I just get out of the way and allow it to happen. That being said, after I cry my heart out, I'll be getting to work, grading papers, and hitting two meetings for the third day in a row before checking in on Anima Sola and then going out to the movies with a friend. We'll see how it all ends up.

a prayer for a friend

A good friend of mine, Anima Sola, is having surgery tomorrow to remove one of her ovaries, the sort of thing that I remember my mother's friends dealing with when I was a teenager, and my mother was the age we are now. She has been there for me through so much -- brain surgery, the back-and-forth with The Philosopher, the tortured months with The Narcissist, the loss of my pregnancy, my early sobriety (including when Renegade was caught shoplifting), and a million other ups and downs over the past four-plus years. She has approached my weaknesses with benevolence and applauded my strengths, and even though I believe the early years of our friendship were a bit rocky, the past year has seen much growth and love.

I have a deep faith that she'll get through this just fine, but I'm scared -- scared for her, scared for her girls and her lover, scared that maybe this is the beginning of things being different for all of us, scared at how much we've all had to grow up over the past couple of years, scared about the biopsy I'm having Thursday, scared at what it means to lose little parts of ourselves along the way, scared of how much it hurts when someone I love is facing something so big.

It's no secret I'm an atheist, but I'm an atheist who has learned how to pray (in her own way), and today and tomorrow and for many more tomorrows I'll be praying for Anima Sola, and it's only fitting that she's one of the few people who have taught me just how important grace and faith and a love of the divine are in my life. Namaste, my dear friend.

renegade thrifting

Renegade needed shorts, so off we went thrifting. On the way to Village Discount, he asked, "Mom, why do you have snakebites?" And it took me a second to realize he was asking about my piercings, so I said, "Uh, because I like the way they look." (It was probably wise not to respond with, "They make kissing a lot more enjoyable.") I also asked why, and of course it's because his friends wanted to know. "It's not like, normal, for a mom to have blue hair and piercings and tattoos," he reminded me. "Does it bother you?" I asked. "No," he said. "I think it makes me more popular with the girls." Sigh.

***

You know how secondhand stores aren't allowed to sell certain baby products that might have been recalled, such as car seats? There should be a similar law for women's clothing; all "tapered" or "relaxed fit" women's pants and jeans should be automatically rejected, thus allowing for a much more stylish thrifting experience for women across America.

***

In line at Village Discount, a woman behind me struck up a conversation, then asked if she could interview and film me for a documentary project she's working on about mothers. Of course, I obliged (getting filmed on Clark Street = the highlight of my day!), and I made a new friend -- she's definitely hip mama material.

***

Stopping off to see Rebel after thrifting, and presenting him with a toy I'd bought him, he said, "Mother, your hair looks rather stylish today." My reaction, after thanking him, was wondering what the heck is wrong with my five-year-old child. I mean, this is not normal language, right? Though it was pointed out to me at my meeting that it's very interesting that a child would think pigtails are stylish, which made me smile.

***

I scored big time myself at the store: two skirts, a dress, a cute purse, capri jeans, green capri pants, and a bunch of books for about $18. Yummy, I say.

this is what being alone feels like

We're all lonely for something we don't know we're lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we've never even met? (David Foster Wallace)

Sobriety has taught me to feel things that were once shadows on the walls of my many caves: happiness, joy, contentment, peace, accomplishment, love. But it has also led me to other sensations I once dulled with liquor and men and constant movement; it teaches me the true nature of sorrow and loss and fear and, lately, loneliness. In the past, I felt lonely and I would do something: find someone with whom to drink or have sex, shop until I had no money left, eat 'til I was well past sated.

These things are no longer options (nor do I want them to be), and I am left with the same feelings I had when I was fourteen, the ones that came when I would lie in my bedroom late at night, tired of reading yet stricken with insomnia, aching for things I couldn't name, sad for reasons I couldn't comprehend, believing that just one connection with another human being would make everything okay. But Texas was a lonelier place than most for me, and even if such a person existed -- and I am not certain he did -- I doubt I could have noticed.

Fast-forward twenty years, and I have more tools than I did then. I have friends and children and both past and potential lovers. I have financial stability (mostly). I live abundantly, with nice furniture and electronics and Calphalon pans, vibrators hidden in my bookshelf and dresser drawers and bathroom. But ghosts of my entire adult life roam the streets of Chicago and its environs, specters that haunt my movement and remind me of missed opportunities, ruined chances, drunken missteps, other things I damaged just by being me.

To be honest, there are plenty of chances for this to change, both in my future (and in the present), but that doesn't much help on a Saturday night when my son rubs my arm while we're watching a movie and I think about how much I'd rather be snuggling up on my couch with a man. And there are men, too, or, rather, chances for men in my life, but they are all slightly off: too old, too young, too not-what-I-want, too far away. And none of those things are necessarily obstacles, but they are there with me on a Saturday night.

This isn't a story about wanting sex or love or a man. It's a tale of wanting to matter to someone other than my children and my cat, and not knowing if that will ever be the case. Or maybe I just miss my grandmother today, and it's a delayed reaction. Whatever it is, it's going to be okay... but part of being okay is being honest when I'm not 100% there.

fingers crossed

I'm 92% sure I'll be living in New York City for the entire month of August. I've found a chance to swap apartments with a guy there, and, well, why wouldn't I? I'll probably bring the boys with me for about 10 days, depending on what the babydaddies think of the idea. The Electrician will likely take the path of least resistance and be fine with it, but knowing The Philosopher, he will say "yes" and then change his mind to "no" but proceed to play martyr for the next two years about how much he's had to sacrifice because of my "whimsical and irresponsible propensity for traveling." Whatever the case, I'm super super excited, even more so because jj tells me the apartment is convenient to Penn Station, which is where a gal would go -- hypothetically speaking -- should she desire to be whisked away to Fire Island to spend time on the beach with a cute boy. Mmm. The summer is already shaping up to be quite delicious.

all about me

Top Chef Fan sent this via email, but I'm answering it here because it's Friday and I'm fresh out of ideas for blogging, which may have to do with how little sleep I've been getting lately.

Four jobs I have had in my life:

1. Bookstore manager
2. Accountant
3. Stripper
4. Graphic designer
   

Four movies I would watch over and over:

1. Reservoir Dogs
2. All the Real Girls
3. I Heart Huckabees
4. Shopgirl
   

Four places I have lived:

1. New Braunfels TX
2. Kaukauna WI
3. Rock Falls IL
4. Chicago IL
   

Four TV shows I watch regularly:

1. America's Next Top Model
2. Criminal Minds
3. CSI: New York
4. Survivor
   

Four people who email me (regularly):

1. Sax Man
2. Top Chef Fan
3. Anima Sola
4. The Philosopher
   

Four of my favorite foods:

1. Pad thai with tofu but sans egg from Spoon Thai
   
2. Pumpkin curry soup w/bagel chips from The Grind
   
3. Avocado tacos from Garcia's
4. Yam fries from Zen Palate
   

Four places I would rather be right now:

1. Charleston SC
2. New York City NY
3. Denton TX
4. Lucca, Italy

Four things I'm looking forward to:

1. Moving into my new apartment
2. Returning to New York City next month
3. Summer & visits to the beach
4. The semester finally ending
   

time to take a lov-ah?

Anima Sola is having surgery in a couple of weeks that's, well, not the kind of surgery you schedule when you're nineteen and have all the time in the world not to worry about things. And we were chatting recently on Gmail and she says she's also scheduled her first mammogram, and I say, "Are we supposed to be having those at our age?" and she says, "Yeah, starting at 35," and all of a sudden I realize I'm really, really not in my 20s anymore.

I sound like a freakin' broken record on this whole aging thing, and truth be told it surprises me more than I realize most of the time, but then things like this crop up and all this stuff comes to light. And I still don't remember to wash my face every night or use the eye cream I spent $35 on. Except now I notice my pores are enlarged, and I do a Google search to find out why, and it's because I don't remember to wash my face every night and even though since I've been about nineteen I've figured "no damage is permanent, right?" it turns out that it actually kinda is, because once those little pores get stretched out it's kinda hard to shrink them. Unless, of course, you're nineteen.

It would be terribly stereotypical to lament "the wasted years" and express disappointment about how, when I was a teen-age girl -- reading Sharon Olds' poetry and fantasizing about the wonderfully erotic and sensual adult life I would have (with a lov-ah or two) -- I thought so many things would have happened by now, including those I promised myself I'd have by the time I turned twenty-five: a PhD in comparative Russian literature, a fluffy white dog, a fantastic house complete with a "real" library (rolling ladders and all). Besides being stereotypical, though, it would be inaccurate to say I'm upset -- either about wasted years or the lack of a dog, house, library, PhD, and/or a lov-ah (or two). Getting older is more akin to waking up one morning and thinking, "Hmm -- my fat pants have been loose lately; what if I try on my skinny pants?" and you do, and they fit, and then you hop on the scale, and you've lost 22 pounds without quite knowing how.

I'm not upset. I'm just a bit startled as to how this could have happened.

twenty years later

"How squeamish are you?" asks the nurse as she prepares to change the week-old blood-soaked bandages on my feet.

"Not at all," I say. It's been twenty years since I'd seen my mother's finger dangling from her hand after my father had crushed it beyond recognition while I watched, and I've seen even more of the same since then: compound fractures, friends beaten by lovers, stabbings and shootings and plain old violence.

"I can tell you've been icing yourself," she says. "Most people come in all bruised, confused that not following directions has a negative affect."

"I follow directions well," I say. "Especially when pain medication is involved."

And I watch the unraveling, feeling a bit as though I am on Extreme Makeover: Podiatric Edition, though I am surprised when I am left alone, feet exposed, in the room, waiting for the doctor, and I almost faint from the dizziness and nausea.

"It's normal to take pain medication for up to three weeks," the doctor tells me when he sees I am distressed. "I can give you more if you want."

"That won't be necessary," I say, because I still have 60 Vicodin and 20 Percocet, enough to do whatever it is will need to be done. If he can just cover my feet, so I don't have to look at the stitches and wonder why my toes feel as though they are attached to someone else's limbs, that will be enough.

The pain increases exponentially after my toes are manipulated and rewrapped -- What color bandages do you want? the handsome doctor asks. Pink, I say -- and driving home brings even more discomfort, mostly physical, with each depression of the clutch, but also mental, images of my mother's finger flashing back as I think of how foreign my toes looked. I wonder how she recovered from that sort of pain, and for a moment I wish I could ask her.

eight years & random thoughts

An interchange with my therapist this morning:

ME: With all the home decorating shows and looking at paint chips and being excited about my new apartment, I feel as though I'm turning into the stereotypical single woman in her mid-30s who lives alone with her cat and buys frilly bed linens.

THERAPIST: Do we need to start bringing a mirror into therapy to remind you what you look like?

***

My grandmother died eight years ago today. This year has been easier than years past, but there still isn't a day that I don't miss her. Mostly I get sad when I think about how much she would have loved seeing Rebel and Renegade grow up. And she never even met Rebel, a fact that reminds me that an entire little boy's lifetime has passed since she's been gone.

***

I measured my new apartment today. This involved going to Target for a tape measure, and I didn't quite realize how paralyzed I would feel by the pressure to decide between 12' and 16' lengths. Nonetheless, the measuring itself went well, and I'm starting to get a better idea of how I'll arrange things to my liking. Really, as long as my vintage Formica table fits in the eat-in kitchen, everything else is pretty much negotiable. And it does, so there you have it.

***

My feet still hurt, but I'm able to drive. Or at least I've been driving. Ability is a matter of perspective, I suppose.

***

I'm going to the doctor next week to find out whether I have cancer and, if so, whether I'll be keeping all of my internal female organs. It's funny how I don't want any more children, but the idea of having the option taken away from me isn't settling so well. Also, I think I'm way too young to be dealing with this. I've already had a freakin' brain tumor -- hasn't the universe screwed with me enough over the past few years?

***

Looks like another trip to NYC is in order for May. More details soon, or as soon as I figure them out myself. Knowing me, this may be at the last minute.

***

Texas is little more than three weeks away. It's funny, but I've never been to Dallas, nor have I been to Denton, which is where my brother lives and also where I'll be staying with my brother's friend Tim (and Tim's wife, Amy), whom I met when his band toured here last fall. And there are promises of lots of good live music -- knowing my brother and Tim, I'm sure I will not be disappointed. I'm a little less enthusiastic about running into my mother, father, and sister.

***

I've done so little work over the past week that I'm ashamed of myself. Today is the day to get back into the swing of things. Although it's almost 2:30pm and I haven't even opened my work email, so perhaps that's ambitious of me.

***

I'll spare you the details of how I accomplished the task of shaving my legs last night, but suffice it to say that it wasn't particularly attractive. The end result, more so.

***

It's time to come clean: I've been watching Rock of Love 2 all along. And I was oh-so-happy when Ambre won, but mostly because Daisy made me want to strangle random 25-year-old rock groupie strippers with fake breasts and bad, bad eyebrows. Seriously, she was a bitch.

***

There has been an overabundance of pie consumption in my household over the past 72 hours. If this continues, I may need an intervention.

a sleepy saturday

I've spent 90% of the day in bed or on the couch. I mostly slept until 4pm, on and off, allowing for reading and watching home remodeling television shows on HGTV. All I've had to eat is dark chocolate and Pellegrino. I'm still in my fluffy pink bathrobe. The windows are open, it's misty outside, and there's a cool breeze wafting toward me. There is the presence of an absence; he knows who he is. Still, there are airplanes.

surprises

I've given it a lot of thought, and I have to say: my craniotomy in September 2005 was easier to bounce back from than this foot surgery. That's not to say brain surgery was easy, because it was not! But the past few days have sucked... I can't walk without being in pain, the pain medication itself renders me incapable of doing much of anything, and I can't drive... all of which means I'm completely isolated in my apartment, dependent upon other people to bring me things and take me places, and on top of it all I am half-dazed most of the time. Not that I'm complaining -- my friends are awesome and they are all stepping up and helping me out and doing all those wonderful things friends do when they are called upon for help. I just wasn't expecting that it it would be this difficult.

reconsidering my deadheadedness

Maybe it's being hopped up on narcotics (wheeeee!) but I've been thinking 'bout a conversation I had with jj over the weekend about whether I'm a Deadhead. So, then:

Indications That I May Actually Be a Deadhead

• I sold jewelry in Dead parking lots across the Midwest in the summers of 1992, 1993, 1994, and 1995 (until Jerry died, and his last Dead show was also mine)
• I don't actually know how many shows I've attended, but a ballpark guess is somewhere between 50 and 70
• I had my first psychedelic drug experience at a Grateful Dead show. In the rain. After someone handed me something and I basically said, "Why not?"And the guy who took me -- who would end up being my first husband -- said, "What the fuck did you do THAT for?" when I waited, oh, about half an hour to mention what I'd done. (It was the best trip I'd ever have, btw, and it's the one that makes me wish it were safe, legal, and, uh, sober, to take psychedelics.)
• I like beards and scruffy facial hair and hippie boys.
  
• I once owned and wore an ankle bracelet made out of bells. And liked the way it jangled when I danced in the parking lots.
  
• I still think the best burrito in the world was one I had in a Dead parking lot in 1992.
  
• I have a fondness for Ford Escorts because of how many used to be on Dead tour in the early 90s.
• I've been to three Rainbow Gatherings.
  

Reasons I've Shied Away from the Label

• I mostly sold the jewelry because (a) I made a crapload of money (which, of course, I then used to buy drugs and tickets in the parking lots...) and (b) the cute hippie boy who'd become my first husband was doing it.
• I also went to the shows mostly because of the boy, and (a) I couldn't tell you half the lyrics to half of the Grateful Dead songs all Deadheads know and (b) my favorite songs are still the ones from American Beauty, which I suspect makes me more of one of those sorority girl Deadhead wannabes than an authentic kind of anything. And, also (possibly more relevant), I spent my WINTERS in mosh pits at punk shows wearing dark clothing, short skirts, and combat boots, getting my glasses broken and my teeth chipped, and I can't entirely reconcile the whole "Deadhead" thing with the "mosh pit" thing, though I suppose for a young girl rebelling against anything there was to rail against, it does make a certain amount of sense.
• I also did a lot of drugs NOT in Dead shows and Dead parking lots (albeit, during that time period, it was always with people I *knew* from Dead tour...).
• Lots of boys other than hippies have that look, as I am very happy to have learned with the recent rise of hipsterdom, though I must say that hipsters are only about 12% as much fun as hippies.
• I have no rationalization for the ankle bracelet, other than I like shiny things.
• And the burritos? Well, they were fucking amazing.
• I also have a fondness for Ford Escorts because this artist friend of mine named Ron Spring drove one (uh, on Dead tour...) and he also lived in his parents' basement (last time I checked, when he was 35) and made all sorts of psychedelic art that he'd give to me for packs of cigarettes (I still have one painting in my possession) and we had an extremely tepid love affair (mostly conducted while high on various substances) when I was 19 and 20 (and he was 31 and 32), which was weird and cool at the same time, and I think it actually verified/cemented/validated (or whatever) just how much I love facial hair on a guy.
  
• And the Rainbow Gatherings? Also for the aforementioned boy who became my first husband, further underscoring just how much of my life has been spent chasing after cultural phenomena in order to get laid. Or loved. Or something like that. Because, you know, I pretty much hate camping, though I will do it if there is an air mattress (or a cute hippie boy) between me and the ground.
  

Whatever the case... I think I should probably reconsider my aversion to the label itself. I suppose I never thought of myself as "A Genuine Deadhead" because I couldn't recite concert dates and tell you what show Jerry fucked up x, y, and z song on because he was messed up... or, rather, I can't engage in the delightful debates over whether his fucking up on x, y, and song was horrible or transcendent because, you know, I really just went for the music and the drugs and the atmosphere and how amazingly awesome it was to dance along with a thousand other people and close my eyes and see videos and lights and colors in my head, the exact way I wanted them to be, while there were cute hippie boys as far as the eyes could see and, just as much I was dancing with thousands of them, they were dancing with thousands of me, and it was -- just for a while -- the only place in the world I wanted to be. In spiritual experience then, I suppose I should finally allow myself to be counted in.

grateful for not being an actual drug addict

You know how on Intervention, when you're watching people shoot up heroin, and they take a hit and then they have that look on their faces and the next thing you know, they're, like, falling off of the couch, and you think to yourself, "How on Earth could anyone take drugs and then not even realize they are falling on the floor?"

Well, I'm not an addict, but I found out the answer to that question today after taking two Vicodin because my doctor gave me strict instructions to take it every 4-6 hours for the next two days because "you do NOT want to feel that pain," (and when I started to feel a twinge of it earlier, I totally knew what he meant...) and I was trying to get work done -- today is deadline day! -- while my head was swimming and I was drifting in and out of puddly-ness, and wouldn't you know it? The next thing I knew, I woke up with my head on the keyboard of my laptop, resulting in something like

,....................tg fyhhhhhyhujhngbgftvbp yth gyhyhujhngb hyhujhngb oiwtySdn akfgyfvs hfagkfn EIOugbd dg,glipw yrjeghffUSFGHdsddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

on the screen. I will never again wonder about those folks on Intervention. I get it now.

the water is running

Somewhere between getting lost finding my car in Economy Parking Lot E and arriving home with tears streaming down my face, I came to an illuminating yet puzzling realization: at the very same time I am emerging mostly-whole from being completely heartbroken from so much pain for so very long, I am entirely ready to be completely honest and open and, therefore, expose myself to the possibility of a great deal more pain and heartache. I'm too old to be crying like this. I think it's time for a bath.

and so it goes

I didn't actually think it would be any easier to leave New York City this time around, but I certainly didn't expect for it to be so difficult. Usually I cry in the bathroom at LaGuardia, not in the car as it pulls away from Brooklyn to whisk me away to the airport.

More than any other time I've visited, this time I got a taste of what it might actually be like to live here: concerts and parties and theatre and movies and dinners and bagels for breakfast and the New York Times in bed on Sunday morning, noodles in Chinatown, the swift breeze on the Brooklyn Bridge looking out at the Statue of Liberty while curling up in the arms of a cute boy, the same one who's been on all of the other aforementioned city adventures.

It doesn't seem quite existentially fair, the fact that I'm stuck in Chicago. And "stuck" isn't even the right word, because I do not feel as though I'm being punished by going home or as though my life there is in any way incomplete. I'm happy in Chicago, and it's where all my friends are, where my children live, the place that houses every joy and accomplishment I've seen in my adult life (I'm choosing for now, to forget that it's also been home base for all of life's disappointments and failures as well). The women who supported me through my brain tumor and my break-ups with both The Philosopher and The Narcissist are in Chicago, not to mention that it's where I got (and continue to get) sober.

It used to be that I went to New York to find part of myself that I didn't think existed in Chicago, perhaps A-plus-something, or (more likely) A-minus-lots of things. I became a different person in New York, probably a similar transformation to the one I'd undergo when heading into the city from the suburbs and The Philosopher would say, "I don't like the person you become when we come downtown," and I'd be thinking that I didn't much like the person I became when I left.

But that didn't happen this time, and beyond having a remarkable weekend (plus a day) with an equally remarkable person, this trip (and the coming-home) is more difficult than usual because I'm the same person coming and going. Nothing has changed, and what makes it hard is that with this realization comes another: it's at least half true that waiting nine years until the boys are out of high school was mostly an excuse, a story I told myself because I didn't feel entirely ready to make such a big change. Yes, it is true that the boys keep me tethered to Chicago. But it is also true that they are tethered to me, and I am an adult, who can make choices, and things can be worked out, and it is entirely possible to leave Chicago without abandoning them.

In a sense, then, coming and going this time around feels as though it is part of my recovery, yet another realization that the only thing preventing me from living the life I have always wanted is ME. It's a tough, tough thing for me to come to terms with. But since I just signed a lease for a year, and coming back here for weekends on a monthly basis is definitely a possibility for now...well, I have some time. I will say that I'm returing to Chicago thinking that it won't be another nine years I'll be staying. Namaste.

day three

Nothing has changed since yesterday in terms of my reasons that I shouldn't be blogging, but the cute boy is reading on the couch, again, and so I'm blogging, for a while, before going off to take a nap in a much-too comfortable bed. Last night was most wonderful: walking to the Film Forum to see Godard's Contempt, reading The Time-Traveler's Wife while jj went home to Brooklyn and came back with a change of clothes, then laying in bed drinking Pellegrino and eating strawberries. And it's been a fabulous day -- breakfast in bed (bagels and coffee and more strawberries) while reading the New York Times, napping while jj watched the Mets game, the Whitney Biennial, dinner at Candle Cafe (including a dessert of vegan marble Bundt cake and soy chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream), and now we're back at the condo for a while... we were going to see the Dodos at Mercury Lounge, but they're sold out, and so the evening is a blank slate. I'm sure whatever happens, it will be at least as fabulous as the past 72 hours. Namaste.

day two

The condo is still wonderful, the neighborhood hasn't changed, there's a breeze wafting in through the windows (along with the requisite city sounds), and the cute boy is behind me on the couch, reading Nabokov. There are even fewer reasons to blog tonight. Namaste.

friday bye-bye

I'm in New York City in a fabulous condo in a wonderful neighborhood with a cute boy in transit to spend time with me, so why on Earth would I be blogging? You're right. I wouldn't. See you tomorrow. Namaste.

a little better

I'm almost done battling this illness, but just to make sure I am victorious in time for my NYC trip, I'm heading off to the spa after a conference call for work. They have a eucalyptus steam bath there, and any time I've ever been sick, it's been instrumental in helping me feel better. I figure a few jaunts in there, alternating with a few sessions in the sauna, should be enough to whip my sad body back into shape.

Being sick has made me realize two things: (1) I like living alone and (2) I kinda don't like living alone. Contradictory, I know... but nothing like getting to a low point to realize all the pluses and minuses about my situation. On the plus side, there's no one I have to be nice to when I don't feel like being nice. I can not take a shower for three days and look like crap without feeling self-conscious. I can sleep from 6pm until 2am and then spend three hours watching bad television before going back to bed without worrying about disturbing anyone. The down side, though: there's no one to pamper me, rub my feet/back, run a bath, go out to the store for Gatorade, feed the cat, give me a hug, or cuddle.

You'd think this would have occurred to me some time before now, seeing as how I've been living alone since December 2006... but I guess I come to realizations slowly. Either that, or I haven't been this sick since then. Whatever the case... the spa awaits, and I'm going to relish every minute of that. Namaste.

it's quite mysterious

I broke down and went to the ER this morning around 5:30am when I couldn't sleep -- despite taking Tylenol PM -- and I was in a lot of pain. I have no idea why I still didn't get out of the ER until 8:30am when I was the only person there, but whatever. I got to take a nap in the examination room and, before that, watch two episodes of Saved by the Bell (a show which I will never understand) in the waiting room. I got antibiotics and a prescription for Vicodin for the pain, since nothing else is working -- and even the Vicodin doesn't get rid of it; all that happens is the pain becomes tolerable. The weird thing is that no one really knows what is wrong with me -- my symptoms don't match up for the flu or a cold, and the strep quick-test came back negative... though the same thing happened last year and it turned out I had a strain that doesn't show up on the quick-test, which is why they've given me these antibiotics (which should kick in my tomorrow, if the past is any indication of the future).

What sucks, though, is that I have a lot of work to do -- papers I promised my students would be graded and returned by Friday at 9am; this list I've been assigned at work; newsletters to edit, etc.; cleaning house so that J. won't be appalled by my apartment when she stays here while I'm gone; dropping off my laundry; and getting course materials to the substitute teacher for my class Friday. Given that I took a five-hour nap this afternoon, I'm hoping I can get a few of these things knocked off tonight, get a good night's sleep, and then wake up feeling a bit better and ready to get all the rest done. But I'm going to have to cancel going to the movie premiere tomorrow night, and it doesn't look good to see Rachel Ries at the Hideout, either. I'd rather be well rested and feeling better for NYC, though, than go to that show... it's not the last time she'll be playing around town, and I'm sure she'll understand why I didn't go.

at least the sexy voice is something

I do not have a cold or the flu or strep throat or bronchitis or pneumonia but, rather, garden-variety laryngitis, which pretty much sucks. But my voice sounds super sexy (either that, or I sound like a woman with throat cancer) and the Tylenol + Mucinex seems to be whipping things back into shape -- 'cause I'll go to NYC with a sexy voice without complaint, but going with a sore throat or a cough is simply intolerable and unacceptable. I'm drinking about eight bottles of Pellegrino a day (my average is usually one) trying to stay hydrated, but the down side is that I've peed six times already today. I should probably eat something substantial, though. I don't remember if you're supposed to starve or eat when you've got a fever or cold, but whatever the case I'm fairly certain no one's out there recommending a diet of dark chocolate bars and sparkling mineral water for sick people. Time for some soup while I watch bad television and avoid work for a little while. Namaste.