a growing fan club

So I gave a lead last night at the house, and there's this guy who's been coming around there for a few weeks... and I swear that I hooked up with him last summer after live-band karaoke at the Pontiac Cafe, but how do you ASK someone that sort of thing? He's fairly young (25) but completely adorable -- very much the sort of person I used to chew up and spit out back in the day, which also means he's the type I AVOID now, knowing the sort of power I could exert if I wanted to be a bitch. Which, uh, I don't.

But anyhow, this guy (Cutie Pie, let's call him) and The Jew helped The Sassy Blonde move some of her last pieces of furniture from her old place to our building last night, and apparently he was asking about me, wanting to know "my status" re: relationships, and all that jazz. It's quite adorable. He told The Sassy Blonde, "she's cool, and she's fun, and she's just gorgeous." Aww. I was just thinking this morning that I'm happy with the way my life has been turning out -- and part of that is growing to accept who I am, as a happy, healthy, beautiful person. And I'm not going to complain if a sweet twentysomething boy calls that "gorgeous" any day of the week, even if I'm completely uninterested. Namaste.

gratitude

The Sober Dad and I went out to lunch for the third day in a row, and we took pictures at the photo booth at the Heartland Cafe, and we had an awesome talk (as always) about boys (and girls) and sobriety and our children and the joys of life and the difficulties in figuring out with whom and when (and how) to share all the love we have to give. "This is hard stuff," he would say. But equally often he says, "This is some good shit," and for that I love him, and I am immensely grateful to have him in my corner. Namaste.

uncertainty

In the promises in the Big Book, it mentions that we will be able to intuitively handle things that used to baffle us. There are some days upon which I think, "damn straight! I am so not baffled!" and then there are evenings such as the one in which I find myself embroiled right now, and what goes through my mind is, "I don't know what the hell to do. I'm so baffled I need another word for 'baffled.'" Sigh. Maybe sleep will unbaffle me a bit. Namaste.

decisions

I'm canceling lunch with The Fish Guy. Besides having a ton of work that needs to get done today, I don't even want to deal with what I know will happen: he'll gush about how fabulous I look and invite me back to his place after lunch. The best way not to have to make a decision? Avoiding the situation altogether.

midnight thoughts

It's been one of those evenings, in which I wasn't hungry until around 11:30pm, and then had zero motivation to cook anything. The end result? Eating raspberry sorbet and (now) heating up an apple blossom to eat with a spoon.

***

I'll be thirty-five in seven days now. Or, technically, seven days and 17 hours, since I was born at 5:36pm. When my mother and I were still speaking, she'd call me every year at that exact time, leaving messages for me if I wasn't home. It was one of the few signs she'd ever given me that she actually loved me. I can't remember any of the others.

***

Why I procrastinate on everything baffles me. I've got a project due on Friday that I've known about since, oh, February. I haven't even started. It's the only thing left between me and my second master's degree. When will I probably start? Around 7pm Thursday. That's just me, I guess, and I haven't figured out a magical way to change it.

***

Another close-ish sober friend relapsed over the weekend. The Cute Carpenter is hovering around the rooms again, and another sober friend is back for another go-around as well. I don't quite understand why they keep doing this to themselves. I know it isn't easy, but -- and I speak from oh-too-personal experience here -- once you get over that speed bump or ravine or Grand fucking Canyon in the road of your sobriety, and you're on the other side, it means something. You start to have concrete evidence that the program works. I wish they could see that far ahead, but they can't. All they can do is see the cracks and the bumps and the problems, and the voice -- the one that says "drink me! eat me!" or whatever -- is more compelling than staying the course and seeing what comes next. Whatever the case, I am tired of wasting my time on people who don't really want to be sober. You have to be willing. You have to want this. If you don't, call someone else.

***

My back hurts from my earlier escapades. Ah, well. My apple blossom is ready, and then I'm going to bed to read for a while. Namaste.

a not-so-average monday afternoon

If you saw a woman in a blue bikini running down Sheridan Road between Greenleaf and Touhy around 4:12pm today, chasing after a Polish woman and her husband and child, stopping at some point to flag down a Cook County Sheriff's officer, that would have been me. Said Polish woman dumped a bucket of sand over Rebel's head after her son kicked sand in Rebel's face and then he chased the boy around the Loyola Park playground a bit.

When I confronted her, she said, "He deserved it," and when I replied, "You're a grown woman, he's a little boy, it might be time to call the police," she all of a sudden "no speak English" and stood up to leave, at which point I held her down for a bit before she punched me in the stomach, and then proceded to leave the Loyola Park playground to walk down Sheridan to the parking lot at Touhy Avenue. She tried to get on the #151 bus, but I put her in a headlock and said, "You are damn well not getting on that bus," and so she kept walking, I kept chasing, and then the sheriff's car was there and -- soon after -- a pair of very nice police officers.

Meanwhile, Renegade and Rebel were wandering around the beach motherless, Park District employees telling them, "your mom went after that bad woman," and I think their basic reaction was, "oh boy, mom's in Wonder Woman mode again..." They called The Philosopher, which probably wasn't the best thing considering he already thinks I'm a completely irresponsible parent, but once I located the boys and brought them to where the cops were -- so Rebel could file the police report (!) -- I explained the situation to him, he talked to the cops on the phone himself, and all was well.

We decided not to have her arrested today, but we've got 72 hours to change our minds, at which point we can head down to the police station at Belmont and Western and have a warrant issued. She's visiting from Poland, so the chances of her ever being held responsible for her behavior are nil, but that's beside the point.

When we were sitting waiting for the Polish translator, I said to the boys, "You know if anyone tries to hurt you, ever, I'd do that and more in a heartbeat," and they looked at me like, "duh! of course you would, because that's you" and that felt good. Because I totally would. I would kill for those boys. That Polish woman just didn't know the extent to which I'll go to protect my children.

it was late in the evening, and all the music's seeping through

Apologies to Paul Simon, but it's been an exhausting weekend. Yesterday was The Sassy Blonde's move, then Venetian Night -- from which we didn't get home until almost midnight. Today was the annual picnic for the sober house where I go to most of my meetings, followed by Whealan Pool (a water park) with Pops and my boys, going to see Gay Nate give a lead, and then doing laundry with The Sassy Blonde (The Sober Dad and The Sailor came along to "watch" us...). This is more out-and-about in the city than I usually am in one week, and it's all been packed into a weekend. And this week I've got a project due by Friday, all my "normal" work, and then Lollapalooza all next weekend -- followed immediately by my birthday party and going to NYC. Whew! I think it's time for a bubble bath.

venetian night

In all the years I've lived in Chicago(land) -- which would be 18 as an adult, and eight as a child -- I've never gone to Venetian Night. But tonight I went with Rebel, Renegade, Gay Nate, Almost Ginger (and her daughter), and Pops. It was a bit weird; it's been a long time since a romantic interest (potential or otherwise) has spent any time with my children. And the boys had a great time -- I bought them glowing light sabers and they played ninja while the fireworks display was staged (and afterward, as we waited for the crowds to dissipate), and during that time Pops and I had a chance to talk in a little more depth than is usually allowed during/before/after meetings. He's a nice guy, and I've thought so ever since I set him up on a date (double date, actually, with me & The Goofball being the "double" part of the date) with one of the hip mamas.

But, you know, I'm not getting attached or putting all of my eggs in one basket or any of those other things -- I don't know what's going to happen in NYC, and it would be fairly, uh, uncomfortable to get super involved with someone who's still living with my latest ex-boyfriend. Really, I'm just kinda excited to be going on a date -- the first time since 1996 when I've gone out with someone who actually picked me up, chose what we were going to do, and paid for everything. Maybe that's old-fashioned of me to want that in my life at this point, but I've spent so much damn time and energy taking care of other people -- and footing the bill for it! -- that I think it's time I let someone else take up the slack for a while.

Also: I remember a point in early sobriety when I was amazed and excited by the prospect of waking up every morning and not knowing what would happen; I felt more like a kid on summer vacation than a worn-down thirtysomething woman who'd been put through the wringer of life. I'm starting to get a bit more of that spirit back, the exhilaration of facing the day with absolutely no clue of what would come my way, other than that it's sure to be new and possibly even fabulous. And I happen to think that's pretty darn cool. Namaste.

this is what i mean about my life being like a satc episode

I just had the following conversation with Pops (The Goofball's roommate):

Pops: I've got a question for you.

Me: Uh, okay.

Pops: Do you think it's wrong for a guy to ask his roommate's ex-girlfriend out on a date?

Me: Uh, not necessarily.

Pops: Well, I guess you know what my next question is going to be.

We're going out to dinner this week. I'm trying not to think about how he's a 49-year-old grandfather of two...

silly rabbit, wishes are for kids

I wish that, for just one day, my life could stop being feasible material for an episode of Sex and the City. I suppose I should be grateful that, since I've been sober, I'm more a shoe-in (ha!) for Carrie rather than Samantha. That being said, I'm meeting with The Fish Guy for lunch on Tuesday, and I'd be lying if I said that a little part of me wasn't hoping to have some fabulous sex.

random friday

The biggest decision I need to make today: the beach, the waterpark, or the pool. My life must be blessed if I this is the only thing on my plate this afternoon.

***

The Goofball's sponsor is back in town. He smiled at me this morning as though nothing were wrong. I wonder if he really just doesn't know. It wouldn't surprise me. And I'm tired of people asking me if I think The Goofball relapsed. Really -- and I am serious -- I don't care. I have sunbathing/swimming plans to figure out, people.

***

Tomorrow marks ten months of sobriety. God willing, and all that.

***

Having sold my daybed, I slept on the futon last night. My new bed is coming tomorrow, and I don't know whether I'll actually like the extra room. Being slightly confined is less lonely, more comforting.

***

I've been listening to iTunes exclusively in Party Shuffle mode, which has been awesome. I have thousands of songs I'd never listen to otherwise, and I feel as though I'm broadcasting my very own radio station. As if.

***

There are new developments in the NYC situation, and while it's probably just life being lifey, it feels like payback being a bitch. I'm pausing, though, to try to learn the difference today.

***

Now: the beach. A lifey life needs sun, sand, and water.

why i love my therapist

"Do you think I'm tired, or just depressed?" I asked.

"Hmm," she replied. "Why don't you take a nap and find out?"

(I appreciate her dry wit, unintentional as it may be.)

lolla-gagging

This year's Lollapalooza is going to be fabulous. I'll bring Rebel and Renegade with me Friday during the day, then deposit the latter back home & the former on the train (to his dad's house), after which I'll meet up with The Sassy Blonde for the evening's shows + industry after-parties (which should be fun, even if I do have to be in the same room as Pete Wentz). Saturday and Sunday it will be more of the same -- hanging with The Sassy Blonde, looking pretty for all the boys -- and just having an excellent time.

The Monday after Lollapalooza is the day before my birthday, and The Sassy Blonde and I are going to have a Family Dinner Night at my house -- she and I decided last night that we're going to host weekly dinner nights for sober folks (since she's moving into my building on Saturday). This Monday, it's Mexican (we've promised to wear sombreros); the night before my birthday, it's Italian + a birthday celebration. And then I'm whisked off to New York City, where I'll be going on a music cruise and spending the night on Park Avenue before heading off to Fire Island for a few days. And then back to the city -- maybe Brooklyn, maybe another hotel -- where I'll dig in my heels and fantasize about living there someday. Sigh. It's the longest time I'll ever spend in New York City, (13 straight days!) and if I think it's been hard in the past coming back home, it's going to be doubly infinitely so this time around.

Despite the heartaches (and -breaks), this summer is the best one yet, and it only gets better every day. Thank God for airplanes, and telecommuting, and freelance work, and music festivals, and beaches, and cute boys who wear pigtails. Namaste.

baffled by myself

"I'm bored with my life," I said to my therapist a few weeks back. "Nothing exciting is happening."

"Are you bored," she asked, "Or just unhappy?"

The possibility hadn't even crossed my mind.

(I was unhappy.)

Today, I feel depressed. Or perhaps I'm just tired. I can't tell. (Yet?)

If I were God, I would install mood indicators on everyone's inner left wrists. There would be no guessing about our feelings but, instead, a handy explanation we could consult as easily as checking the time.

I hate that sometimes (often) I don't know how to tell.

if these walls could talk...

I wish there were some way to transport you all into my living room, just so you could experience how spectacular it is to have a cross breeze and plenty of sun and cozy chairs next to both windows in which I can sit and read (or work) with the sound of birds chirping and a view of the neighborhood and its treetops every time I look up.

When I moved into this building in December 2006, the woman whose studio I was subletting informed me of the positive energy here. "It's a healing place," she said. "It will keep you safe." While I was skeptical, after a while I did notice that my apartment was becoming my home -- not just a place in which to sleep or work or watch television -- and that I felt a sense of peace and relief walking across its threshold.

That's a sentiment that has deepened since I've moved into this larger apartment. It's akin to falling in love, being giddy-happy, finding a forgotten $20 bill, getting a "just because" present, nuzzling babies' cheeks, first kisses (the passionate ones), laughing 'til you cry, and just feeling like you belong somewhere.

It's no secret that I lust after New York City almost as much as I crave dark chocolate, sailboats, and other people's puppies, but it's becoming increasingly important for me to fully experience -- and articulate my gratitude for -- Chicago and my existence here. Because the truth of the matter is that I love the life I have made for myself. Despite the disappointments and the struggles and the times when I'm curled up on my couch convinced I am going to be the first single thirtysomething woman to die from crying, I can't think of anything I need that I don't have. To be sure, there are plenty of things I want -- more money, regular sex, a stable relationship, a maid -- but I'm 100% okay without them. And for that, I have my apartment building to thank. Because it really has been a healing place. Namaste.

monday blues

There are moments when I wish my apartment would blow up or catch on fire. To be sure, I would miss plenty of things -- the least of which would be photo albums and music and my books -- but it would absolve me of the burden of sorting through all of my "stuff" in order to determine what should stay, what's superfluous, and what's worth letting go of (despite an initial reluctance). It would also mean that I wouldn't have to wash dishes tonight.

***

It took me forever, but I've finally figured out how to list the current music track I'm listening to on my Google chat status. This feels like a larger technological milestone than it actually is in reality.

***

I was yawning so much in class today, one of my students said, "You forgot to get your coffee this morning." She thought I was joking when I said I didn't have the money -- it's only $1.28, yo. But I wasn't.

***

About two years go, I wrote in my journal: "I want other people's happiness. And their puppies." I'm no longer lusting after stolen smiles or cute puppies, but I still feel an intense longing to press my body up against another human being -- and feel that connection, that warmth, that solid presence -- and just cuddle until I fall asleep and dream. Maybe this is what missing someone feels like, maybe it's loneliness, maybe it's fear.

***

Since I've been reading the third step in its entirety every day, I've been sharing that it helps. And friends are asking me to call and leave it on their voicemail so they can listen to it at their leisure. Apparently I have a nice speaking voice. I've done this for four people now, and I'm beginning to think I should charge 75 cents a minute. Hey, if I used to be a phone sex worker, I can certainly pull off coaxing people through sobriety. Something tells me the market is much smaller for the latter.

completely different notes

I've been struggling with teaching for some time -- it's a hard thing to phone in, and I can't say it's gotten any easier since I've gotten sober. The student evaluations are in for this semester... and all I can really say is that I'm confident I made the right decision in having this be my last semester until further notice. In my full-time job, it's remarkably easy to take things day-by-day and not plan too far ahead. I know there are things I must do on a weekly basis, and a certain degree of keeping-up to be done, but for the most part if I'm tired and need an extra meeting, I can put things off for a bit and take care of myself. Not so much with teaching, where no one cares if I had a rough day and don't particularly feel like handing papers back on time or presenting a brilliant lesson.

I do have a lead on a part-time administrative job for an after-school program (starting this fall), and I think that would be a much better fit for me. But we'll see. All I know is that I'm grateful the semester is over on Thursday, grades are due Friday, and I never have to teach ever again -- it's okay if this was something that didn't work out for me, or something I have to be more sober to handle. The only down side is that I'm meeting with my supervisor this week to explain why this semester was a disaster, and that's going to include coming clean about my alcoholism. I trust her, though.

***

I am meeting with an attorney on Thursday to discuss filing for bankruptcy. I am way into debt and drowning. I need a reprieve. I might have to give up my car, but I don't even care anymore.

***

I'm wavering on whether to go to Pitchfork tonight. While it would be nice to hang out with friends, I have lots of work to catch up on, The Sassy Blonde is giving her first lead tonight, I really did want to start going to the 6pm meeting at LPAC again, and if I don't start paying attention to my housekeeping, I think I'm going to turn myself in to the authorities. And while Spiritualized is rather appealing, the other bands I'd catch -- Dinosaur Jr. and Spoon -- are ones I've seen within the past year already. And, really, I am done showing up places out of guilt and responsibility and the sense that I might miss out on something. Why show up if I'm going to be discontent and uncomfortable? The fact that Pitchfork last year was smack dab in the middle of the escalation of my drinking -- and seeing The Tobacconist there last night -- also complicates the experience. Maybe this is another thing I'm not ready for until I have more sobriety.

***

I'll be thirty-five in sixteen days, and I still don't quite understand how I can look back at the past eighteen years and feel as though everything I've experienced has (a) happened to someone else (b) in a dream. I moved back to Chicagoland in June 1990, and since then I've had three serious relationships end in divorce or breakups; borne two children; lived in twenty-three different places; owned sixteen different vehicles; completed three college degrees; worked at more than forty different places; been arrested twice; taken countless lovers; bought and sold more "stuff" than I ever dreamed I'd own; and generally accumulated all of the trappings (and baggage) of an adult life.

I remember being a teen-ager and fantasizing about what sort of life I'd have when I were a grown woman, and -- seriously -- it sounded a lot more romantic and fabulous 20 years ago. There were a lot of dreams that never were realized, and they won't ever be -- I can't go back in time and go backpacking through Europe instead of getting married and having Renegade -- but on a more fundamental level, I think my life today would have been equally acceptable for the teen-age me. Or, at the very least, I wouldn't have been upset at what I've become, and that's saying a lot.

pitchfork, intermission (thoughts)

Walking to my car to get a book and a blanket, I saw a kid (as in "9-year-old kid" not as in "punk teenager") unscrew the gas cap off of a scooter parked along Lake Street and throw it into the bushes. I stopped him, flagged a cop, and stood there with my arms crossed until he found the gas cap and put it back on. Harumph. Damn kids.

***

You know how when you lose mob protection, you all of a sudden become vulnerable until you find someone else who's willing to protect you? I kinda feel that way now that everyone knows I gave The Goofball the boot. All of a sudden guys are crawling out of the woodwork, though I'm not interested in any of them a bit. (Two of them are The Goofball's ROOMMATES, which adds an automatic ickiness differential.) I think it's funny, actually, these guys thinking they are not just so totally obvious. But they are. Ha!

***

I think !!! was my favorite of the bands, though I did enjoy Fleet Foxes. I'm not even going tomorrow until 5pm; time to clean house and get some work done and hang with Rebel for a little while. Plus, I need time to recover from the mud.

***

I ran into The Tobacconist, who told me I looked amazing (I know, dude; your loss) and invited me to hang out drinking with him and his friends. I took this as a good reason to leave and go to a meeting, which is exactly what happened. Namaste.

live from pitchfork, volume one

Having missed Caribou while hunting for a rain poncho (score! at K-Mart at Milwaukee and Ashland), I arrived in time to grab a vegan chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cone from the Chicago Soydairy stand, browse through the merchandise tents, and field a half-dozen phone calls from friends too wimpy to brave the weather to come here before settling in to watch the Fleet Foxes. So far, I am hot, my feet are muddy, and I have an aching jaw from having developed a bad habit of clenching my teeth over the past few weeks. I am trying to be amused by the little things, the first of which is realizing my affection for indie/hippie boys hasn't abated one bit in the months that I've been amusing myself with a typical Chicago street-raised kid. Long hair? Beards or facial hair? Tattoos? Chuck Taylors and Levis? Yum-yum-yummy to them all. I only wish I could transport myself to Coney Island today, where one particular such boy (sans the tattoos) is attending Siren Festival. Ah, well. I'll be there in 16 days and this will all be moot. For now, back to the music. More thoughts later. Namaste.

five thoughts on the dark knight

1. This movie is way too violent for kids. In fact, it was practically too violent for me. I hope people realize that before they bring their six-year-olds to see it.

2. Dunno why, but at least five people were dressed up like The Joker in line at the Davis. The Sassy Blonde said, "Around 1:30am, they're going to be scratching their faces," and it was totally true.

3. The story line bothered me a bit, as the children of the characters seemed to be pawns and disposable objects. Those kids? Gonna need a shitload of therapy. Bruce Wayne should be the undercover benefactor of a mental institution in the next movie.

4. I don't know anything about the comic books, so I have no idea if the story is true to life (true to fiction?) but I didn't like the way the Maggie Gyllenhaal character ended up.

5. I hope this doesn't ruin it for anyone, but the voice Christian Bale uses when he's in the Batman suit sounds suspiciously like Cookie Monster.

Top 10 Signs My Life Has Become Unmanageable

1. My bank balance is -$792.83, I don't get paid until Friday, and I have $10 in cash to my name.
2. I have not washed dishes for nine days. There is a mountain of them in the sink, plus bowls and cups scattered all over the house. And my solution has been to just stop eating or drinking at home.
   
3. My apartment is riddled with cat hair dust bunnies, and when I dropped my soap between the bathtub and the wall while showering this morning, I figured it could just stay there rather than my dealing with the bunnies.
   
4. Someone asked me at the meeting last night, "Did you do something new to your hair?" and I replied, "No, I just washed it for the first time in six days."
5. After learning one of the sources of the (breakup-related) rumors about me going around the sober house, I confronted and then quite nearly pummeled him on the front steps.
6. I realized at 1:52am that I'd forgotten about dinner (well, except for eating one vanilla wafer cookie and sharing a cherry coke at Margie's with The Texas Guy), and my solution was to eat frozen cookie dough, having convinced myself it was too late to eat anything proper. And now I'm drinking Hawaiian Punch for breakfast.
   
7. It's been so long since I've done laundry (and I have no money until Friday to fix that problem), I'm rationing out my panties and actively deciding which outfits lend themselves well to going commando. Moreover, I'm grateful for really not having to worry about panty lines.
8. I'm spending time trying to plan the most attractive comfortable outfit to wear to my meditation class tonight because, you know, people in a meditation class trying to be less focused on the outside world are totally going to be judging me if I don't look cute and happy.
   
9. It's been a week since I've had more than five hours to sleep in a night, and my days are so busy that naps are impossible, unless you could the 15 minutes I spend in the tanning bed three times a week, or the two hours I spend on the beach twice a week. I am fairly certain, though, that relaxing is NOT the same as sleeping.
   
10. I spent two hours on the New York Craigslist site trying to find a teaching or editing job there, knowing full well that I can't possibly leave Chicago anytime sooner than a couple of years from now.
    

And there are plenty more, but these are the top ones. I'll be spending a good deal of time today meditating. On the beach, of course. Namaste.

lost and found

It's been quite some time since I've listened to the mix jj made for me (before I visited him, before we knew the things we'd discovered by the time I left NYC in April), but saying that feels only half-true. I tried to listen to it in a hotel room in Milwaukee a little more than a month ago, but when The Goofball got out of the shower, I quickly turned it off. Not hat he ever would have asked what the music was, where I'd found it, and whether a cute boy had mixed it up just for me one day when I was feeling particularly shaky and blue; it was just one of the few (or many) things I didn't particularly feel like sharing.

Today, I went looking for the cord that connects my my laptop to my stereo, so I could listen to the mix. I think it's time, or something like that. I couldn't find it anywhere. And so I dug around for my Nano, and I looked for my earbuds, which I'd last loaned to Renegade so he could play his Nintendo DS without disturbing Rebel, who was playing PlayStation. I couldn't find them, either, and The Philosopher isn't answering the phone, so I can't even ask where they might be. So I went exploring, diving into the nooks and crannies of my house in which I shove, cram, and hide things when People Come Over, or just when I'm tired of looking at them or they are getting in the way. I never did find the cord or the earbuds, but I did find: a candy stash, my BlackBerry USB cable (presumed lost), the Parker pencil I've been frantic without, several novels I'd purchased at Half Price Books for times when I'm feeling less than literary and want to read fluff, a handful of Moleskine notebooks, an entire package of sandalwood incense, a four-pack of Certs, my favorite No Doubt CD, and the summer festivals issue of Time Out Chicago I've been missing since I moved in here.

I wonder if this is God reminding me of how frequently we can find things we've forgotten we even had while we're spending time looking for things we think we've lost. And I'm still missing the cable and headphones, but for now I'll make do with trashy novels, candy, and incense.

so, then

I'm going to NYC for my birthday (and about 12 days total), not only to recharge my spiritual batteries but also to set things straight with jj. I'd been saying for months that I want to turn 35 in Manhattan, and it looks as though I'll be doing just that -- on an indie music cruise, nonetheless, followed up by a fabulous night in the city, and then off to Fire Island.

On the one hand, this feels like a whirlwind. On the other, it feels as though I'm fixing a mess I made three months ago, and perhaps this time with Sweety (new name: The Goofball) was necessary to gain both clarity about mistaken choices and what, exactly, I need and want out of my life (and my loves).

The Sassy Blonde said that maybe my Higher Power had something better planned for me, and what I say: maybe, maybe not. I'm going to be mindful this time around, knowing even more fully what that entails, and *honestly* let God's will run the show. All I'm doing is booking a plane ticket for 12 days in August and finding a cat sitter for Luau, then stepping back to let life happen all around me. Maybe things will end up messy, maybe they will end up fabulous, but I know they will -- from now on -- always end up with me doing the next right things and staying sober with the help of my friends. Namaste.

hearing the click

When I first started going to meetings, people would talk about how -- eventually -- it would all make sense, if I just did what I was supposed to do: don't drink, go to meetings, and get a sponsor. And to that I would add: be honest, ask for help, and resist the urge to isolate. Over the past ten months, I've come to believe what the big book says at the end of the 11th step: It works. It really does. I don't know how or why, but if I keep up my end of the bargain, I do find relief and grace enters my life.

I don't know what happened in the meeting tonight, but at some point during the lead, something clicked on (or off), and I knew in that very instant that I was done holding on to all of my pain and misery, and that I was giving it over to God. And I know that's a ridiculous thing for an atheist to say -- that God is doing anything -- but it's a short-hand way to say "I'm releasing this into the universe, and there is enough love and compassion and grace to go around that I'm going to be okay, even if I don't hold on. And I know, in fact, that I never will be okay UNLESS I let go." ("God" is also short-hand for a bunch of other things, but in this context, that's the explanation.)

The truth of the matter is that I have a choice to make, and I will only be as unhappy and miserable and sad as I am unwilling to let go and take the steps I know I need to take in order to find happiness and peace and serenity. Just as expectations are inversely proportional to serenity, my pain (and disappointment and frustration) is inversely proportional to my surrender.

In some ways, I'm back to where I was ten months ago: following The No Contact Rule and the 10 Commandments of Breaking Up, as well as getting active and starting to participate in doing the things I want (and need) to do. But in other ways, I'm infinitely ahead of where I was then: it took me 24 hours (and not months) to read the writing on the wall. I was not abused, either physically or emotionally, before I realized things were probably not healthy. I have a support network, and a built-in social club filled with people who love me, as opposed to strained relationships with people who are tired of hearing my crap. I have peace of mind, self-respect, dignity, and sobriety. Also: I've got the entire second season of Sex and the City (and Shopgirl) on DVD, which means I don't even have to leave my house to be reminded that I'm not alone.

resisting torture

Talking with an old-timer today, he says, "It isn't that you deserve better (though you do). It is that these are the consequences of your mistakes." This is the same person who, a little less than three weeks ago, said, "You are wasting your time with that guy. He is going to hurt you," and I'd shrugged him off thinking, "What could possibly happen?" And I suppose it is true that I have a forgiving little girl who lives inside of me and foolishly thinks I can meet an ex-con who has spent the past five years in prison and rehab and half-way houses and think, "well, he seems okay now" and act as though I'm dealing with a healthy person.

And so I've said "I've had enough now," and I have, and it's over. I'm keeping myself busy -- the festival last Saturday, meetings and ice cream/pie last night, meetings and swimming and dinner today, All About Eve at the Chicago Outdoor Film Festival tomorrow, the beach on Wednesday, volunteering at KEXP and seeing The Dark Knight on Thursday, Pitchfork this weekend. The Sex Fiend said to me yesterday, "What you have going for you is that you still have your own separate life, and you can pick up and keep being YOU." And that is exactly what I have. With all of the disappointment and pain I am feeling today -- and have felt over the past 48 hours -- I can at least say that with this relationship I *did* do all of the things I was supposed to, in taking care of myself and not losing my identity and setting standards. My life is no worse off that it was before -- this is a matter of my trust being violated and being hurt, not my being damaged or devastated or ruined.

I think I'll be OK, but that doesn't mean it hurts less.

partly cloudy, 72°F

The cross breeze in my apartment makes the living room feel cooler than it actually is, but I probably would feel a chill even if it were 90° because that's what grief mixed with regret and loneliness can do to a girl at 1am.

I do not want to sleep in my bed tonight, though I have not shared that bed with a man for nearly a year, and even then, such sharing was transitory and didn't mean one-tenth of what I'd been told or promised or even hoped. It is more that the bed -- and climbing into it, alone, no one else in the world knowing the feel of my sheets or the shape of my pillows or the curve of my body while I sleep -- underscores both everything I want and all that I do not have. And, also, all of those things for which I fear I will seek my entire life without laying claim to a single one.

I'm supposed to be grading papers, but they can wait. My students are understanding, and the world isn't going to fall apart if they get their papers a day later than expected. The choice between sobriety (emotional and physical) and positive student evaluations is a no-brainer. I'm going to finish blogging, then read, then meditate and pray, then go to bed with an aromatherapy eye mask to keep me centered.

Some time ago, someone said to make a list of the things I want, with the goal of at some point looking back to see if I've received them as gifts in sobriety. I have resisted, but I feel as though I need a reminder of what it is I'm working toward. And so, my list of things that may or may not happen, but I want at nine months and nineteen days of sobriety:

I want to fall passionately in love and sustain that in a healthy manner. Perhaps I even want to be married. I want to be secure in my job and confident I am doing the best I can. I want to make meditation a daily part of my life. I want to feel solid and capable and alive. I want to wake up one day and realize I am cultivating a life out of joy and serenity instead of fear and insecurity. I want to have fabulous friendships with sober people. I want to learn how to be the mother my boys need, which also means I want to learn what my boys need. I want to cuddle more and cry less, though each of those things is hardly quantifiable. I want to trust my therapist 100% instead of holding just a tiny bit back out of fear. I want to be able to view my pain as an opportunity to grow and heal rather than a valid reason for self-pity. I want to be humble and helpful and grateful. I want to stay sober. I want to dance with God and feel the cool waves of grace rush over me on a regular basis. Mostly, I want to BE.

The list is a bit more nebulous than pragmatic, but it's mine.

what it is

All the stories I hear in the rooms are weighing on me, and given that I go to most of my meetings at a place where men predominate, I hear a lot about the abuse and mistreatment of women, laughing about prostitutes and strippers and girlfriends and wives. It didn't occur to me until therapy yesterday that these stories bother me -- I was one of those women, women abused and used by men, sometime for free in the guise of a relationship, other times out of a sense of supposed entitlement because a price tag was attached (either explicitly or implied). And it's a bit uncomfortable -- ok, more than a bit uncomfortable -- to listen to stories from the sort of people who are (were?) the types of guys who hurt me so much. Some of this is remedied by my talking to people, by sharing parts of my story that can clue them into how painful it is, by saying something to represent myself as well as the other women in the rooms. But that takes trust -- and faith -- and I'm running a bit low on both.

too much talking

Between a therapy session today that kicked my ass + dinner with The Sassy Blonde & The Sober Dad, I'm of the mindset that sometimes you can talk too much about deep-seated issues and, therefore, make them even more difficult to let go of. I feel weepy and emotionally hung over, and I can't decide whether to cry or meditate or take a bath or pray or read or watch the next disc of Weeds (or perhaps even the second season of Sex and the City, which I found for only $10 today at Reckless Records).

Sometimes, life as a sober person gets really fucking hard, and I hate feeling stuck. I know -- for a fact, I know -- that this will all pass, maybe sooner or maybe later, but a week from now I'll look back at Thursday July 10th at 11:52pm and I won't be able to remember why, exactly, it felt so impossible to live in the moment, accept things (and people) for what (and who) they are, and be generally grateful.

Sigh.

What I'll do, when I stop feeling beaten down and defeated for a few seconds: I will pray and I will meditate. I will not take a bath, because the tub is dingy and I don't have the energy to clean. I will watch an episode of Weeds (as I just remembered I left SATC in the car), and then I will read, and throughout it all I will endeavor to muster up some gratitude, which tonight includes the blessing of having friends with whom to share chocolate cake and Pellegrino and hummus and beet-and-strawberry salads while pouring out my soul and asking for help.

Namaste.

screw THAT plan

Four months ago, I had this idea of all these things I'd do before I turned 35. My birthday is only 27 days away, and I've only crossed one thing off of the list -- and that was an accident, when Sweety's friend bailed on him for the Cubs game and he brought me along instead. The Overachiever in me says, "No worries! There's still time!" but that's nonsense, since at least a few of the things on my list would be impossible for me to achieve, unless the CSO, Joffrey Ballet, and Lyric Opera start their seasons a whole month early just to accommodate my fanciful plan. So, then... enter Plan #2.

Have you heard of The 101 Things to do in 1001 Days Project? No? Well, now you have (if you followed the link). And that is my Plan #2. And I'm going to start it ON my birthday (and 1,001 days will be up on May 3, 2011), which means I have 27 days to come up with 101 things. I have a few ideas, but I'd love to hear more... any suggestions?

my mother's mouth

When I think of my mother, angry or sad or perturbed (or anything less than happy) I think of her mouth -- dark creases would form on either side of its corners, making her look a bit like Droopy the cartoon dog, except there was never anything funny about it. I have photographic evidence of The Mouth, snapshots taken in quick succession where in one frame she is smiling, in the next frowning with her Droopy face.

All my life, I've been told I resemble my father, and I've mostly agreed. I have his eyes, for sure, and my body shape is more from his side of the family (stocky, short, thick Germans and Brits) than my mother's (thin, tall, and vaguely Irish-Italian), something I remember when I wonder whom to blame for my fat ass and more-than-healthy thighs. Around the time I turned 25, though, people started saying I looked like my mother. For years, I've wondered where that came from, but now I'm beginning to understand. I, too, have The Mouth.

Of all the things I want to be in this world, being able to frown like my mother has never been one of them. I am sure she has her happy moments, and I am certain she believes herself to be content and happy from time to time (and perhaps she even is, as I haven't had a conversation with her in five years), but what I remember best was the mercurial quality of my mother's happinesses, the men and the jobs and the apartments that initially were The Perfect Ones but quickly turned into messes, disasters, or tragedies (and sometimes all three).

I am the age now that my mother was when I was fourteen and fifteen years old -- the years when I hated her most, when I could catalog her deficiencies and moral weaknesses and wouldn't hesitate to articulate them to whomever would listen. I lived with her because there weren't any other options than to run away, and I lived in a small town with no bus station, no car, and no driver's license, which somewhat limited my options. Regardless, I have burned into my memory exactly what my mother looked like with The Mouth, pissed off at me for not doing something, angry about the latest job or man, or just worn down by the weight of the world she carried out of necessity of being a single mother on welfare and food stamps. I tend to think it wasn't this last thing, though, so much; The Mouth continued long after food stamps and Section 8 housing were no longer necessary and the only struggles were in deciding where to go on vacation.

It disturbs me, the fact that her face is now becoming mine -- mostly because I know how ugly my mother looked (in comparison to the beauty I knew she had inside) when she was overcome by darkness and anger and sadness, but also because -- really -- I don't want to become anything like her. And mostly -- by far -- I think I have accomplished being not-her, but The Mouth still haunts me, and it lingers in the mirror longer than it should, heavier than necessary, more history attached to it than I care to acknowledge.

The solution, I think: I must smile more, and make a habit of bringing to light the beauty I have inside at every possible moment. I hate to think The Mouth will become part of my character, instead of something lingering from the person I don't need to be any longer.

briefly

Just back from Indiana, where Sweety and I: ate at Wagner's Ribs, went to see Hancock at the Portage 16, bought sweet cherries and trail mix and artwork and sunglasses at Chesterton's European Market, relaxed and tanned and napped at West Beach, ordered pizza and tiramisu and Pellegrino from Popolano's, and watched Brokeback Mountain & The Exorcism of Emily Rose in our room at the Gray Goose Inn. Except that I'm a bit sunburnt (which will go away in a day), it was the perfect weekend: simple, relaxing, and close to home yet far enough away that we felt distance from everyday hassles and burdens. Now: back to my regularly scheduled life. Namaste.

lombard, fifteen years later

This is Otto's, a bar situated along the railroad tracks in Lombard, between the downtown area and the forest preserve in which I used to get drunk on Boone's Farm and Mad Dog 20-20, and also where I instigated and perpetuated an affair with The Wannabe Physicist's best friend, who was thirty-one to my nineteen (and should have known better). Once, when I was twenty, I worked a bachelor party for The Wannabe Physicist's friends -- a party he (wisely) chose not to attend. I got naked (for money), we ate a pizza with mushrooms (which only later I realized were the "funny" sort), I threw on some clothes, and then we went to Otto's. I got silly sloppy drunk, and then I had sex with the bridegroom. He was the brother of The Wannabe Physicist's high school friend, and it only took a few hours for what I'd done to get back to my husband. My not coming home that night might have been the first clue.

All in all, though, this was our typical life -- one filled to the brim with drama, chaos that followed us around every turn. We were children, teenagers who got married for cheaper car insurance and a bigger tax refund. Words such as fidelity and trust and respect were essentially meaningless. At every party, we ended up drunk and hitting each other -- or having sex in the bathroom, but since we fought so much everyone assumed the noises were from punches. He called me cunt and bitch and told me I'd never be good enough for anyone, least of all him. I thought he had his head in the clouds and would never amount to anything, which translated into screaming asshole when I was angry. When I suspected an affair on his part, he convinced my therapist I was having paranoid delusions, and out came the antipsychotic medication. Months later, when I walked in on him having sex with the woman in question, he admitted he'd been screwing with my head. Gaslighting doesn't even begin to describe it.

The Wannabe Physicist was the first man I ever slept with overnight and naked, my first live-in lover, my first husband, the father of the first child I ever lost, the first man to convince me I was flawed beyond repair (or, if not, that only he could save me). Being with him normalized every dysfunctional relationship for years to come and set the standard for the threshold of drama and chaos I needed to feel wanted, and loved, and complete -- though I was always profoundly aware that if I were anything, it was definitely not wanted, loved, or complete.

These are the things I remember when I drive through the suburbs which, along North Avenue from Elmwood Park all the way to St. Charles, I have left my own trail of tears. There was always too much pain, too many broken hearts and wounded spirits, too many people (including me) trying to escape from something they couldn't name but also didn't know how to live without. It would be less draining if I could say it was all just a stage, a few crazy things I'd done for a couple of years before I straightened up and settled down, but it took seventeen years of unmanageability to bring me to my knees. I could feel regret or anger or remorse or even a rueful longing for the past, but instead I am deeply grateful for having had a spiritual transformation. I am not that person anymore, I think, and I know I am being honest.

lincoln square

There are times I wonder if I belong where I live, a neighborhood in which almost everyone who crosses my path has a life about which I can say, "been there, done that." I've been young and not-so-young (though not, yet, terribly old), carefree and worried, single and married (and betrothed), bankrupt and cash-rich, pushing strollers and mourning the loss of babies, on my way to parties and on my way home from heartaches. But I want to be surprised. Tell me something I don't already know, is what I think walking down Lincoln Avenue or skipping along the side streets or stopping at the fountain in Giddings Plaza or browsing for plump red cherries (and pickled mushrooms) at the farmer's market by the "L" station. I've been waiting 20 years for something unexpected to happen, and it never has. It never will. A neighborhood won't -- can't -- change that. For now, discovering the names of the flowers on my street is enough. I think they are hydrangeas.

this is my alley

When I walk past my alley, I see a small pile of cigarette butts on the ground far beneath my apartment, and I know they are from when he sits on my third-floor ledge with the window screen up, smoking. He tells me I am enabling him, by being what he thinks is gracious and conciliatory and not forcing him to walk downstairs. Moreso I like watching him perched and framed by the window grown thick and sticky from paints of coat, in a solitary universe thinking thoughts that come only when lost in a world of nicotine and tobacco, taking a private moment with me as an onlooker, an observer, a voyeur. I wonder how many kindnesses we receive that are selfish after all.