adolescence

"He's getting tubby," says The Philosopher, referring to Renegade's expanding waistline.

"Oh, I wouldn't say tubby," I reply, straining to remember the last time I saw my son naked, or even shirtless, and I draw a blank. I find myself in a space in which it's embarrassing to get undressed in front of your mother, and I wonder if Renegade is uncomfortable when I walk around the apartment naked, as I have since he was born eleven years ago. If he is, he doesn't say. Maybe I should ask.

The Philosopher tells me that they are going to start exercising together, he and Renegade, in an attempt to get rid of the rolls of fat -- and tiny nubby breasts! -- that are accumulating in the midsection of this boy I barely know anymore. I have to take his word for it; he is the one who lives with my son and can see the changes. Being a part-time parent (meaning seeing him part-time, not turning it off when he's not around) I've trained myself not to notice the differences; thinking about daily metamorphoses only underscores my absence, and it's easier -- no, preferable -- to revel in whatever moments I do have with the boys.

But things are difficult with Renegade. He's at an age when mothers feel an entirely new set of labor pains with their boys; all of the physical anguish and obstacles I encountered pushing him into the world come back in full force, this time wreaking havoc on my heart, this time leaving me wondering if things will ever be as easy with him as they were when he wore a cute little baby blue seersucker overall-and-hat set and we went rolling down a hill in Wisconsin at my company picnic. Back then, a piggyback ride and a popsicle were all I needed to be an awesome mom. Now, everything I do is wrong, and it comes out in little ways. Yesterday, we had an argument over why I wouldn't buy him stickers at the dollar store.

"They're just a dollar," he said.

"I have a philosophical objection to stickers," I replied, even though I really don't.

What it was: I didn't want to buy him something that would disappear so quickly. I'm tired of fleeting moments with the boys, and when they leave I want evidence that they have been in my space. I want toys and books and piles of dirty laundry (even their smelly socks) and perhaps a monument or a shrine that keeps part of them with me. Stickers are things that are stuck in a book or on scraps of paper and then thrown away, and I've had my limit of disposable objects.

But I can't explain that to him, and so he went to the front of the store and pouted and then yelled at me in the car on the way home that I HATED HIM, at which point I yelled back just as loudly a reminder that I'd just special-ordered a $16 CD for him from Laurie's, and WOULD I HATE HIM IF I BOUGHT A CD I DIDN'T EVEN LIKE JUST FOR HIM? (Rebel, for his part, was amused at this little interaction, his participation in which was limited to "yeah, mom!" when I made a good point or "right on, bro!" when Renegade made his.)

Feeling guilty, I stopped at Blockbuster to surprise the boys with video game rentals, but (of course) the selection they had was all wrong, and I was a horribly cruel mother because I refused to rent a game with an "M" rating. I thought a little bit about something I'd heard in a meeting, someone saying that if you hang up the phone with your sponsor and you're not pissed off, you should get another sponsor. Sometimes I think being a mom is like that -- if my kids aren't a little angry at me when conflict occurs, then maybe I'm slacking as a parent. Maybe. This is some pretty hard stuff.

Last night, I told Renegade to find a book off of my shelves to read while I was at my meeting and then before bed. I figured there wasn't much there he could get into trouble with -- yeah, I've got Cunt and a dozen academic books on the pornography debate (and probably even a couple of books about sex), but it's all feminist and pro-women, and he can have at it all. I didn't pay attention to what he was reading when I did get home -- Sweety had stopped by and I hadn't yet eaten dinner and we had a movie to watch -- or when I stuck my head in to say goodnight.

A few hours later, at my bedtime, I went in the bedroom and found Renegade sprawled there in his boxer shorts, his long body taking up the length of a space that used to dwarf him. In the moonlight, I could see the things about his body that made The Philosopher use tubby instead of stout or even sturdy. Around his waist were little puffs that reminded me of baby cheeks that smell like powder and breastmilk, and I could almost taste the doughiness of his limbs, which I imagine would be sweet and a bit sticky, like the sugar donuts I ate at the little donut shop on Spring Road as a child. I wanted to curl up beside him, spooning with my first-born, but he's never been that kind of child -- even when he was a baby, he never could nap with me, always wanting to be alone -- and that made me even more sad. I went to bed thinking of missed snuggles and how awkward this dance of adolescence is becoming, praying for a sign that I'm doing something right (or at least relief from the feeling that everything I do is wrong).

This morning, I woke up before Renegade did, and I noticed he'd chosen The Kite Runner last night. When he was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, I asked if he liked it so far and -- while I wondered if I should warn him about the violence and the fear in the story -- he said, "It's great, mom. You've got some amazing books here I want to read."

I think we're going to be okay.

the best-laid plans...

I didn't make it to Welles Park before work this morning, but I do believe I have a valid excuse. I ate so well yesterday and took in so many of the right nutrients that when it was time for bed, I couldn't sleep. I tried at 1am, 2am, and 3am, and then finally was able to meditate my way into dreamland around 4am. Sweety called me at 8:05am for my morning wakeup call, which was good because I didn't particularly feel like waking up to my alarm at 7:33am.

And then I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself for making it to school at 9:15am, which meant that I could saunter into class rather than nearly having an asthmatic fit from running up the stairs and down the hallway to be only four minutes late... but I turned off my car, and went to grab my stuff and... the stuff wasn't there. Yeah, I arrived 15 minutes early at school without any bags, books, or teaching materials. I rushed home and my cat was sitting on my stack of stuff on the couch, giving me one of her classic know-it-all looks. If I hadn't already done a fourth-step on her, I might have felt a bit resentful.

Now, I'm going to finish my Fiber One bar, go back to teaching (we're taking a break right now), stop off at Welles Park, pick up the boys, cram lots of work into the afternoon while they fight over video games, and then commence to have a wonderful evening filled with meetings and fellowship and snuggles with Sweety. If, that is, I can stay awake that long. Namaste.

My New Braunfels

Slice of Pink has put a call out into the blogosphere for supplements to Real Simple's My Hometown feature, which offers inside information on cities across the US -- but there are only 14 featured, which leaves thousands unaccounted for. I haven't lived in New Braunfels for 18 years, but I did grow up there, so I offer you...

My New Braunfels: Vegan Mama

Age: 34

Occupation: Web Editor & Adjunct English Instructor

I've lived here for: I don't live in NB anymore, but I lived there from 5th grade until I left for college.

I live here because: We moved there because my father was transferred for his job with the telephone company.

My neighborhood: McQueeney

My favorite restaurant: The Gristmill River Restaurant

If you go to this restaurant, be sure to order: The Jack Daniels pecan pie

My favorite museum: The Sophienburg Museum; it's small, but it offers a fairly interesting account of the history of the Hill Country.

My favorite tourist destination: It's a toss-up between Prince Solms Park (where there's a tube chute that spits out into the Comal River) and Landa Park (which offers paddleboats, nature walks, spring-fed swimming holes, miniature golf, and tons of other awesome stuff)

Best insider spot: The top of the Canyon Lake Dam at sunrise or sunset -- it's a spectacular view

My favorite area: Gruene, even though it's often overrun by tourists, Gruene Hall (the oldest dance hall in Texas) and the Gruene General Store are as close to old-school Texas country music culture as you'll find anywhere

Best place to go shopping: the Downtown Antique Mall -- not too overpriced with good finds every time I visit.

When you visit, don’t forget to pack: A hat to keep the sun out of your eyes.

But leave room in your suitcase for: salsa, jams, and other pantry items from the Gruene General Store

The one local cuisine you should try when you’re in town is: breakfast tacos at Librado's Mexican Food

The best way to get around: Driving

If I had to describe this city in one word, it would be: Germanic

I tell my friends to stay at: The Faust Hotel

The one thing most outsiders don’t know about this city is: NB is home to The John Newcombe Tennis Ranch, where top-seeded teens train, and they go to high school with the "regular" kids in town (though they aren't allowed to play on the school's tennis team)

They say “Virginia is for lovers.” So fill in the blank: New Braunfels is for old-school nature-loving cowboys

somber thoughts

Rebel burst into tears tonight, hysterical about how much he'll miss me when I'm dead.

I wish he were stupid or naive or believed in fairy tales, so I could tell him I'll live forever and he won't ever have to miss me that much, but he's smart and sharp and he can see through myths as though they were water, and all I could do was hold him and fight back my own tears and stroke his perfectly shaped head, saying, "I know, honey" in the softest special Mom voice I could muster.

"I'll have a mom-shaped hole in my heart," he said through the sobs, and I thought of the Wilco lyrics that talk of a God-shaped hole, which made me realize the exact enormity of the loss Rebel fears. And he's right. Every person we love and then lose takes a piece of us with them, and it just has to be the case that moms -- and dads -- take away some fairly significant chunks, more spiritually akin to limbs or organs than fingernails or skin cells (or even earlobes, without which we'd do just fine). And what can I say to that? Nothing, really. All I can do is hug him and wipe away his tears and try my hand at empathy, which isn't particularly hard because thinking of those parent-shaped holes terrifies me, and I'm thirty-five years old and don't even particularly like my parents all that much.

There are times being a parent is exceptionally rewarding, and others when it's completely exhausting. This latest bedtime scene has been a bit of both; I'm spent and headachey and not sure if I did or said the right things, but I think what matters most -- what has to matter most -- is that I was there for the hugs and the wiping away of tears. And, of course, that I used my softest special Mom voice.

small farewells

Sometimes the smallest things are the hardest to let go, a fact that strikes me at the most inopportune times. I have few reminders of my serious relationships: I've sold four engagement rings, and I have a tendency (if not an outright plan) to leave behind photo albums and wedding gowns and baby pictures. It isn't that any of these things are intrinsically unimportant, only that with the end of the relationship has come (in my mind) the end of those things making a difference. Why hold onto a wedding gown -- or the $2,000 album in which the gown (and I) played a starring role -- when the marriage has died?

And so, strewn in boxes throughout my apartment and also in those hidden in my front closet, I have Polaroids and snapshots and negatives of a handful of life's events that have marked past relationships: births and funerals and weddings and elopements. But these are few and far between, and it is only occasionally -- and on purpose, as I know exactly where they are -- that I happen across these relics. What are more plentiful -- and tear more at my heartstrings, for odd reasons -- are little things from short flings that never quite took flight before they fizzled for one reason or another.

For instance, in my bathroom, I have the address label that was attached to a newspaper that was used to wrap The Time-Traveler's Wife, given to me by an indie music journalist when I visited him in New York City (I doubt he realizes I saved the label after unwrapping my gift). In my pantry, I have a small jar of Marmite -- a yeast paste which, apparently, Brits spread on their toast -- that TPVG presented to me as a small token of his time spent in England. In the box of things I brought home with me from South Carolina, there is a crumpled paper towel that once served as a makeshift bouquet holder for red licorice a lover brought me as a present. The other day, I opened up a book only to find a card given to me on a second date by someone with whom there was never a third. And in my jewelry box, I have a skull pendant necklace purchased for me by a now-infamous Web pioneer, whom I dated for a short time and who was with me when I got my first tattoo (two small skulls).

It boggles my mind why I hold on to these little scraps of things that might have been, when I've been so quick to abandon things that other (perhaps more reasonable) people wouldn't think twice of leaving behind. How is it that I see that address label (with the journalist's name on it!) every time I take a bath, but the only evidence I have of a $45,000 wedding that resulted in a child and a two-year marriage is a handful of fuzzy snapshots taken by my tipsy mother? It could well be that I hold on to these small things because at least they are things that might have been, could have been, would have been, if only... whereas the long-term relationships are certainties, facts, absolutes, immutable, definite failures. Or maybe each tiny memento is an escape hatch, yet another way I weasel out of commitment and full vulnerability by keeping alive the knowledge that there are -- and always have been -- other opportunities out there should the current one collapse.

Part of me thinks I should keep going along as I have, with these tokens strewn about my life, because what's it really hurting? Sure, every time I walk into my bathroom I think about New York City and wonder if I've made the right choices (or the wrong ones for the right reasons) -- which, I suppose, I'll never know. Every time I open my pantry, I feel a bit of guilt over attempting to enter into a pseudo relationship when I had only a few weeks of sobriety, which couldn't have been a good thing for anyone by any stretch of the imagination. And all those other little things... well, they are little, but there are also quite a few of them, and they add up when I'm walking from one end of my apartment to the other.

There's a small chest I bought a few weeks ago, and it's mostly empty, and I've decided it's going to be the new home for all of these tidbits of my mishaps and misadventures and (perhaps) missed callings and/or missed opportunities. I'm not ready to leave all of them behind -- and I don't know that I should expect myself to ever want to do so -- but I also don't think it helps me much to encounter them so regularly. Having A PLACE for them seems to be a nice middle ground. Maybe. Really, I'm just guessing at this whole thing. I do know I'm going to miss that address label in the bathroom. And even the Marmite on the second shelf of my pantry. But I'll know where they are if I want -- or need -- to remember.

grace is not gone

It occurs to me not infrequently that it is by refusing to compromise myself for love that I receive more of what I want and need. Begging has never gotten me anywhere, or at least nowhere I wanted to be, and growing hoarse screaming that I deserved better only left me voiceless. Love is a policy, not a feeling, I heard years ago, a line in a movie, but it is only the past nine months that has me understanding what it means to do things not because I want to but, instead, because they are the right things to do. And in doing the right things, I become the sort of person who wants to do them, finding what I've been seeking by doing the least intuitive things, which then become habits.

Early in recovery, the Prayer of St. Francis resonated with me, though I couldn't say why, then nor now. I do know, though, that as my nine-month milestone looms, I have learned that

it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned

because that's just how it works. I cannot articulate any logic that explains why being selfless has given me everything that motivated my previous selfishness, nor can I explain how offering love and forgiveness and compassion to others has allowed me to receive those same gifts. Also: I do not know how it is that I practically crawled into a church basement almost nine months ago and today I can walk with my head held high and fall asleep every night knowing that -- at least for the past 24 hours -- I have kept my side of the street clean.

I am often asked how, why, and when these things happened, and I am not lying when I say I do not know. They just have. And that's what the miracle is, I think, of which countless people in the program speak: that grace enters our lives when we least expect it and, even better, it sneaks in through the cracks we didn't even know existed when we aren't even paying attention. Undeserved blessings are neither a fantasy nor a myth; I know, because they enter my life every single day. Namaste.

that person

When I first moved into my apartment building, I was overjoyed at finding such a wonderful space only a block north of where the boys lived. Renegade's old enough to walk back and forth by himself, and it's easy enough for me to go and get Rebel or have The Philosopher bring him over. But since The Crazy Lady has moved in there, it's becoming a bit, well, uncomfortable.

It's not necessarily her living there that's the issue -- I've come to terms with that, and if she wants to marry The Philosopher, she can have at him. Believe me -- I was engaged to him three times and obviously could have sealed the deal if I'd wanted to. No, it's more that on a daily basis I see the changes happening -- the new patio set in the backyard, the flowers on the stoop, the interior decorating she's doing, and (the hardest) driving by and seeing her playing in the backyard with Rebel. I suppose what it really comes down to is that she actually *is* the person The Philosopher always wanted me to become, and even though I've come to terms with the reality that any hope of me being or becoming that person was completely ridiculous and misplaced (on his part), there's still a tiny little voice deep inside that -- from time to time -- peeps up and squeaks out, "You're a failure because you couldn't become that person."

Now, I KNOW "that person" is someone that is not me -- she wears sweater twin sets and gardens (wearing flowered cotton gloves) and has expensive matching furniture and highlights her hair and speaks in soft dulcet tones and wears size two jeans and is generally, well, sweet. "That person" is at home in suburban strip malls and shopping centers, and her idea of vacationing means hiking or antiquing or visiting Door County for the weekend. "That person" never has ragged cuticles, stray nipple hairs she forgets to pluck, dirty dishes left in the sink for a week, or adult acne, and she never goes commando because she hasn't dropped off the laundry for more than two weeks.

You would think that "that person" is a figment of my imagination, but she isn't. The Crazy Lady -- despite her history of mental instability (which, I admit, tempers the above laundry list of seeming perfection a tad bit) -- displays most, if not all, of the qualities of "that person" (I haven't seen her nipples, so I cannot attest to any stray hairs). The end result is that while I most certainly do not have any desire to be with The Philosopher (sometimes I get nauseated just looking at his face), The Crazy Lady kinda pisses me off. Because while in the past I'd run around saying -- to anyone who would listen -- things such as, "Can you BELIEVE the person he wants me to become? She's not real! She's a caricature of a woman!", I now run around thinking, "God damn if he didn't find someone who's exactly perfect for him." Which is absolutely fantastic for him (he was starting to drive me bonkers with all the guilt-tripping about how he'd wasted his youth waiting for me to -- poof! -- magically change...), but leaves me feeling a bit, well, less than... if "that person" was possible, then why couldn't *I* become her?

Face it, though. That's a pretty stupid thought process. Thankfully, I am not (nor, really, have I ever been) particularly been known for my brilliant thought processes, so I suppose I can forgive myself for my crazy thinking. And it's only one step past realizing I'm crazy-thinking to then step back, pause, and set myself on the right path, back on the beam, do the next right thing, blah blah blah. The problem, though, is that the thought process it took me 500 words to explain right now is something I face, oh, at least twice a day, when I drive past the house and see the flowers or the fancy patio furniture or the little froggy pinwheel in the front hard.

I'm pretty darn skippy happy about the person I am, ragged cuticles and stray nipple hairs and all. I've come to terms with the fact that I will never, ever wear size two pants (unless I'm, like, dying of cancer, and that's not exactly the ideal circumstances under which I'd be all, "Woo hoo! Wearing size two!"), hate sweater twin sets, DESPISE the suburbs, and speak in anything BUT soft tones. I'm not brash, nor am I a bitch, but I'm enthusiastic and intense and I have plenty of things in life I'd rather be doing than gardening, including dyeing my hair blue and figuring out where and when I'll get my next tattoo. Reminding myself of how happy I am to have found my true self, though, is sometimes hard when -- on a daily basis -- I am faced with an explicit reminder of all the times I promised The Philosopher that I would and could change, and also of all the times I did not.

This isn't really a matter of feeling guilty that I cannot be someone I am not, but instead realizing how difficult it must have been for The Philosopher, and how much I must have hurt him with my false assurances and misplaced promises. We both probably should have known from the beginning that I could never give him what he wanted and needed, which was basically a sweet suburban woman who would look up to him as a hero (and those were his actual words to me within the first few hours I met him). I knew from the very beginning I could never be that person -- I have an explicit memory of being at his apartment in Knoxville, Tennessee, and going to the bathroom, where I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "I will never love him the way he wants to be loved, but I am going to try, and I am going to ruin him in the process." But I stepped out of that bathroom and proceeded to do just that anyhow.

At any point along the way, The Philosopher could have left, so I'm not sitting here saying "oh, poor him" and excoriating myself for my wrongs. That's not the point -- but it is pretty darn harsh to come to the realization of how much I did put him through. He might have stayed, and that's his deal, but I still did some pretty horrible things that I always pushed aside or excused by saying, "Give me another chance. I'll change. I promise." He didn't have to believe me, but I also didn't have to make assurances I knew were empty.

And so, even though things are uncomfortable being so close to that situation, it's good for me to remember on a daily basis that I am not a failure because I have not lived up to other people's ideas of what I could or should have been; it is a sign of my strength and hope that I have the courage to be a different person, one who is honest and has integrity. Most of all, I'm grateful that I no longer hurt and lie to people and drag them through the wringer for my own selfish purposes. And if that means I have to go through this weird thought process twice a day for the time being, that's fine by me.

coloring with rebel

"You're yummy," I say to Rebel as he nuzzles up against me while I try to work in my big brown chair.

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"It means I love you impossibly much," I reply.

"Oh," he says. "It's like you're feeling purple."

"Purple?"

"If colors are feelings," he explains, "then purple is the feeling that you love something or someone so much that you can't ever get enough."

An hour later, he nuzzles up to me again, this time letting me kiss his soft bubble cheeks and smell his little-boy smells -- a mixture between beach air and grass stains -- and follow it up with an enormous hug.

"You're yummy," he says.

"As are you," I reply. "And you make everything purple."

He smiles a shy yet impish little-boy smile, and I know that even if things turn red or green or blue (or black), I will always have the afternoon in which my son taught me what purple feels like.

unusual

This morning, for the first time in at least six years, I called my father to wish him a Happy Father's Day. The conversation was a bit odd, and it didn't go the way I thought it would, but it was just fine. The phone call wasn't about me -- it was about a daughter calling to wish her father a wonderful Sunday, and I'm sure he hung up with my goal accomplished: to let him know I was thinking about him and, despite everything, he's still my dad. Today I'm grateful to be able to show up in people's lives not for my own selfish reasons but for the right ones -- and, really, 99.9% of the stuff that happens in the world has absolutely nothing to do with me.

wisdom to know the difference

Arriving home up the back stairs this afternoon, hot and sticky from two hours stuck in traffic on I-94, I hear a bird. I look up and see a wren flinging her small body against the skylight, trying to escape. Remembering how my brother once caught a bat in his attic apartment using a towel or a tennis racket or something, I call Sweety to ask for advice on the possibilities. "Nothing," he says, "not without hurting her."

Thinking he is wrong, I plead my case to The Philosopher when I pick up Rebel for the night.

"There's a bird stuck in my back staircase," I say.

"There's nothing you can do," says The Philosopher, "Except make sure to leave a door open somewhere."

I panic.

"But it's three floors down," I say. "How is she supposed to know to fly downstairs?"

"She might not," he acknowledges. "But there really isn't anything you can do without hurting her."

Rebel cuts in and starts telling me a story about bugs who can escape through keyholes, trying to make me feel less culpable for what I imagine will end up being the beginning of the story of how I buried a bird who ended up dead on my back porch beneath the skylight after thousands of failed attempts to escape.

I have things to carry up and down those stairs, work that should be done -- this evening -- that entails lugging boxes and bags and odds and ends through that back staircase. But every time I think I'm ready, I look out my kitchen window and see the tiny bird perched on the staircase, anthropomorphized into a sad little creature desperately begging me for help everyone tells me I should not and cannot offer.

Then there is my cat, who knows the bird is there, who is all but salivating every time I tiptoe to the door to see if she has managed to escape after all. Her cat food isn't good enough, the attention I give her isn't affectionate enough, the water isn't wet enough... it's that bird she wants, not me or my man-made food offerings.

And so here we are, an odd lot: a little boy sleeping down the hall, the aftertaste of stories of escaped bugs on his lips; a tortoiseshell cat who ambles every few minutes to the back door, where she sniffs and yowls and appears generally restless and inconsolable; and a thirtysomething woman who grapples with the unmanageable aspects of nature, and of life.

Both Sweety and The Philosopher are correct about the bird, but I find them difficult to believe because I do not want them to be right. I desperately desire to be able to save all living things who live in pain or frustration or terror or just plain confusion. And I've managed to check this instinct in myself when it comes to people, for the most part. I can get a phone call from The Cute Carpenter in which he admits he has relapsed badly and hang up and realize that I can no longer associate with him for fear of losing my own sanity and serenity. People... well, people I've figured out I can neither save nor redeem. But can it really be the case that I've developed a codependent relationship with the animal kingdom?

As with everything... action can change my thoughts but not vice versa. So what will I do? I will get on my shoes, and I will bring the things up and down those stairs that I need to bring up and down those stairs. I have no other option than to sit here in my apartment and stew all night not only about that poor bird but also all of the things I cannot get done because of that poor bird -- but both "the poor bird" and "all of the things I cannot get done" are constructs of my imagination. Or, more accurately, by framing them that way, I am making the choice to see them as impossible and unmanageable.

Really, I need to accept that I can't do anything about the bird. (It is not likely that either Sweety or The Philosopher are lying to me.) I don't need to deny that her situation breaks my heart -- just as The Cute Carpenter's relapse does -- but restricting my own life and actions because I can't do anything is just a tad bit ridiculous. Probably. Just don't ask me right now what I'll do if I wake up tomorrow morning and the bird is dead on my back porch.

i wish...

...I had read this post a year ago, though I probably wouldn't have been able to recognize its relevance to my own life. I don't what's more pathetic: the fact that my life was so chaotic or that I couldn't recognize it myself. Either way: I'm grateful to be reaping some rewards from all the hard work I've done in therapy and the program over the past nine months. Today, my therapist said I should pat myself on my back. I didn't entirely agree until I came home and found that above-referenced post in my Google Reader and it dawned on me: Holy crap! She's right. Life is great, isn't it? Namaste.

once upon a time...

...I was a cheerleader. In 1984.

small pleasures

The Green-Eyed Boy made me a mix CD. It's definitely not the first time anyone's made one for me, nor is it the first in a long while, as I have many friends and acquaintances who enjoy sharing music. But it's certainly the first one that's meant something for a very long time, if for no other reason than it's completely out of character for him. He's the sort of guy who will pay for dinner or give me an extra satellite radio or walk me to the security line at the airport... but this definitely took me by surprise. As a result, my heart melted just a little bit more this afternoon.

simplicity, ease, and rilke

Even though I stayed up until 2am working and woke up at 7am (to lounge in bed for an hour and a half before deciding to get up and take a shower), I feel pretty awesome today. The Green-Eyed Boy and I are taking a trip to Milwaukee later this week, where we'll get to stay in a frou-frou hotel suite and explore the city (research for my job). He and I had a fairly wonderful conversation last night -- nothing huge or important or about "us" in the least, but we each had a chance to open up a little more and grow closer as a couple. I can't help but thinking of Rainer Maria Rilke:

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

and

Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky.

This relationship is quite unlike anything I've ever experienced before, and I'm saying that from a completely sober and non-emotional place, not as some lovestruck schoolgirl marveling at the butterflies in her stomach. More than I feel safe and loved and beautiful and giddy and at peace and comfortable with surrender and vulnerability, I feel completely and utterly as though I fit into someone else's nooks neither having to change my own shape nor chisel away at his. Everything is so simple and easy that had someone told me this story six months ago, I would not have believed such simplicity and ease could exist in my life. But it can, and it does, and later this week, we're taking this show on the road. Namaste.

not my preferred kind of day

There were plenty of things I planned to do today, but what was definitely NOT on the agenda was bursting into tears for no discernable reason while driving down Ashland Avenue to take The Green-Eyed Boy home. Now I've got an emotional hangover, I still can't figure out why I cried for a couple of hours this afternoon, and this is all I've got the energy to blog. Namaste.

finding joy in rainstorms

"Here's the deal," I said. Rebel looked up, waiting for the plan. "We're gonna walk home in the rain. But we're going to have a fabulous time doing it. We are going to have fun."

He looked skeptical, then smiled. "Let's do it," he said.

I took off my glasses and put them, along with my phone, in the waterproof section of my bag. The woman standing next to us, under the overhang, at The Grind looked skeptical as she held her tiny dog, who was whimpering at the distant thunder. Rebel and I, though: definitely not skeptical.

The rain was hard, and cold, and within seconds we were completely soaked. People were lined up along Lincoln Avenue, huddling under the overhangs and waiting in doorways for the rain to pass. We, though... we had fun. We embraced the rain, the wetness, the feel of our clothes sticking to our bodies, the slushy sounds our feet made when we walked. We splashed in puddles -- we were already wet; what did it matter? -- and stopped to touch the thick branches of a tree that had half-fallen over the sidewalk and neighbor's yard. About halfway down Eastwood, we stopped running and started laughing -- that giddy sort of laughter that bubbles up from within and is hard to stop, even if you wanted to, which we didn't.

And we kept up with our giggles, into the courtyard and into the foyer and up the stairs and into the entryway of the apartment, where the water pooled under our feet and Rebel said, "Before we dry off, let's take pictures, so we can remember this," and so I dripped my way across the living room to get the camera and took the photos, some of which we'll see years from now and think, "That was the day we had fun in the rain."

it is = it is

Walked outside the college today and into the faculty parking lot, where I saw my car had been... booted. It's been a while since I've had that feeling of my heart sinking, but I think I handled it reasonably well... called the number on the window sticker, took the Red Line down to Addison, then hopped on the Addison bus over to the city revenue office to set up a payment plan for my tickets. It was a pain in the ass, but nothing to get too worked up about. I knew this would come sooner or later (as a city employee, I'm not supposed to have unpaid tickets* -- and I've been getting Official Warning Letters threatening wage garnishment), so I can't be too angry they found my car when it was, uh, parked in a city lot.

The Green-Eyed Boy is coming over in half an hour -- he chairs a meeting tonight, and afterward we're off to Sex and the City. Did I mention how awesome it is to have a boyfriend willing to see that movie with me? Now, I'm off to shave my legs... ooh la la!

*bribes, ghost payrolls, and patronage are OK, though

junebug

When I wake up tomorrow, I'll be the mother of an eleven-year-old boy. Don't ask me how that happened, because I don't remember a thing. What I do remember is that a year ago today, I learned not only how much love my friends had to give but also that my they would be there for me long before and long after any man came into or out of my life. What I hadn't yet learned was that abusive tendencies don't magically disappear and change comes from sincere action rather than empty promises.

Today's not a sad day -- more so I'm wistful and quiet and somber, a personification of the grey sky and misty air that follow a cool rain -- but, rather, a time to meditate on all of the gifts I've been given since I spent a summer allowing myself to be battered and beaten down. They are infinite, and I am grateful. Namaste.

stress (or: procrastination bites me in the ass)

My comprehensive exams are due at 10am, and I'm only one-third done. I start teaching summer classes at 9:30am, and my syllabus remains unwritten. I am seriously craving chocolate, but there is none left in the house. [I've even raided my kids' leftover Halloween candy.] I just gashed my shin open on a picture frame when I was digging through my closet to find the books for the class that starts tomorrow, and I can't find any Band-aids. The medication for my back still isn't helping with the pain, but it is making me dizzy and feeling as though I'm wearing the wrong prescription glasses.

If I didn't need the money (from teaching) and this weren't my last chance to pass my exams, I'd have given up hours ago. I suppose it's a good thing I need the money (from teaching) and am not particularly willing to flunk out of my graduate program after going thousands of dollars into debt and spending three years of my life getting a second master's degree.

not-so-manic monday

After The Green-Eyed Boy dropped me off at home, I realized I had to make a bank deposit, so I walked up to the bank. And as long as I'm already in Lincoln Square proper, I thought, I might as well pop into Eclecticity to get some incense. And as long as I'm already shopping, I might as well head into Hanger 18 and Enjoy, An Urban General Store. And since it's right next door, I should probably stop to eat a late lunch at Cafe Selmarie.

And so this is how I find myself having spent $70 and waiting on a salad and sweet potato fries 90 minutes after leaving the house "for a few minutes" to go to the bank with my comprehensive exams yet to be written and a ton of work to do. Some people might call this procrastination. I prefer to call it "I really do work better under intense pressure." It remains to be seen whether I'm fooling myself, but even if I am I'll be doing it with yummy smelling incense, new artwork on my walls, and a fully sated appetite.

attitude adjustment

While I was soaking my poor back in the tub this morning, it occurred to me what an ungrateful attitude I've had lately. I have a boyfriend who spent four hours in the ER with me, drove me to the pharmacy, stayed with me at home until he was sure I had eaten and would be OK for the night, and is picking me up in a little while to take me to a meeting, and I've been irritated that he lives in a three-quarter house where he has a curfew and has to ask permission to spend the night?

I guess this is what it's like to have a boyfriend who does all the things someone loves you is supposed to do without being asked... and since I've never really had that before, it's baffled me. I've fallen back -- just a tiny bit -- into my old attitudes, where I held onto small injustices because they were all I felt I deserved to mention... when in fact it was the HUGE things that weren't happening, the HUGE things that should have been red flags for me to get the hell out of those relationships, the HUGE things that hurt me the most but I couldn't face for fear of being abandoned.

It feels good to be able to take care of myself and my issues -- "my bullshit," as one of the female old-timers says -- without burdening someone else. The Green-Eyed Boy said to me a few days ago, "The character defects that come up in relationships are always there unless you work on them -- they may not be to the same degree, but they are there unless you have a spiritual change." We weren't talking about either one of us at that time, but I've been thinking about what he said (surprise, surprise), and I guess this is the point at which my spiritual change -- which has definitely already begun in spades -- continues into the rest of my life. And today, I'm grateful to have a boyfriend who doesn't just tell me how much he cares, but shows me at the times when it really matters.

what a difference

After waking up this morning with back spasms, I could barely get out of the shower and by the time I hobbled my way to the car to meet The Green-Eyed Boy at the 11am meeting, I could barely walk. So The Green-Eyed Boy and I went out to lunch with a bunch of folks after the meeting, but then he took me to Swedish Covenant, where I learned I am NOT dying of a rare blood disorder or suffering from a kidney infection but, instead, have seriously pulled a back muscle. God knows how THAT happened. Between The Green-Eyed Boy's hernia and my back pain, we were a real pair this afternoon.

But anyhow -- what's awesome is that, no questions asked, he drove me to the hospital and stayed there the entire time without grumbling or any resentment on his part, and then he stayed at my place until he was sure I was okay and had eaten and didn't need any more of his help.

None of this changes the fact that I'm going to be working on my exams like crazy over the next couple of days, I've got work up the wazoo, and classes start on Wednesday... but it sure is nice to be with someone who doesn't make me feel as though I'm a burden for expecting help when I genuinely need it.