The clouds are breaking, finally

This has been a spectacularly bad season. I wonder if I've always been like this. Yes, autumn is lovely with the leaves and the gourds and the children in cute costumes plus it has football and the Renaissance Festival, yet it drives me right 'round the bend. I used to think it was all about knowing winter was coming, but I'm almost never as low in the winter as I am in the fall. Even though I hate the cold and can't wear cute shoes. My out-of-sync Seasonal Affect Disorder is just another of my weird symptoms.

I used to think it was the cold but maybe it's the light. Seriously - if I can get my holiday shopping/obligations taken care of before my birthday, I pretty much breeze through the holidays and start taking giddy pictures of the days getting longer.

Whatever my particular story is, several friends have reassured me that late September into late November is always a bad time for me. This year it just hit me especially hard, maybe. Then there's the whole "ended my three-year relationship in June" thing. And the "turning an age which shall remain unacknowledged" thing. Throw in a couple of spectacularly bad decisions I'd rather not discuss (no long-term bad consequences besides feeling like an ass, thank the Maker)...it was a spectacularly bad season. One where I dragged myself through each week doing the bare minimum possible to keep my home from falling into complete disarray to get to the weekend, when I moved from the bed to the couch and watched (and napped in front of) every baseball playoff and then football game to believe I was engaged in something. The diet went halfway to hell (I'd keep making South Beach-compliant food to take to work, then eat a huge piece of pound cake with chocolate frosting every night), exercise dwindled to one or two yoga classes a week, and meetings dropped to one, maybe two a week. Did I mention I started smoking? (My standard pack-a-week.) Then there was the anxiety about preparations for the holidays and the socializing that comes therewith, which I fight through almost every time I go out these days but seemed so overwhelming in that space.

This past weekend was my first hyper-planned one and I not only survived, but caught up with some household doings as well. Maybe that Newton guy was onto something. Not only did I attend two parties (bringing food and ornament-making supplies to one; food and gift-wrapping supplies to the other), but I put my Halloween decorations back in the shed, got out the Christmas decorations, put up storm windows in the kitchen and bathroom, did two loads of laundry, made my food for the week, put up my tree, and got lights on it. I don't think I even broke down sobbing once!

I'm still not exercising and I'm not really trying to tighten up on the diet again until January, but I haven't gotten a new pack of cigarettes and I have almost all of my shopping done. Yes, autumn is lovely, but this year I am thrilled to see it go.

Self-awareness

I don’t have time to flesh it out fully now, but it has just occurred to me that I have different levels of self-awareness. (Forgive me is this is stunningly obvious to everyone else.)

Today is taken up by a coven party that will require me to leave home by about 11:30 and I have no idea when I’ll be back. Various foods and crafts are required and have been planned and prepared; this sort of thing stresses me out disproportionately and I have no idea why.

Further preparation is required before participating in circle; as a result, my time is not really my own after about 10. The preparation of food and self and the 45-minute travel are part of every ritual day.

I have noticed as I prepare that I am almost always incredibly irritable in the few hours before I have to start - this has always struck me as incredibly inappropriate at worse; at best, ill-timed. WTF, self?

The phone rang a few minutes ago and I let it go to voice mail since I was eating a bowl of cereal (a time-sensitive occupation). I did check to see who it was and it’s someone I’m going to see later today so I have to believe there’s a good reason for the call but MAN am I annoyed. And I think I’ve figured it out.

I know I need my down-time every day; especially I hate having each moment after waking be scheduled and I will stay up far too late to have a period of free time before I go to sleep. This I know and I’ve even articulated it to some degree at various times, but I just finally put it all together with the ritual-day crankiness. This is the small bit of unplanned time I have before I have (chosen) to be accountable to others; before I become the social me that I try to keep as authentic as possible but can’t help but mitigate to facilitate the comfort of those I care about. This is my time to “waste” however I want to and it is - I don’t know if it’s absolutely necessary but it seems to be extremely helpful in maintaining my sanity.

This is also the time when I wonder if I could ever possibly parent if being disturbed at the wrong time makes me such a grouch. But I know that when I’m around kids my agenda becomes theirs and my natural rhythm adjusts to accommodate theirs better. I suppose I’d just carve out my pieces of time differently.

Okay, well! More words than I’d planned, but there it is, FWIW.

(I'll explain the prolonged absence when I have more time.)

The Tomato Nation Fall Contest 2008

I met Sars at Television Without Pity and followed her to Tomato Nation, where in 2007 I helped raise an amount of money so impressive they wrote about it in Fortune. Watching the dollar totals go higher and higher throughout the month was amazing; being part of it made me proud.

Several months later a huge envelope showed up in my mailbox. The kids whose project I funded wrote letters and sent some examples of what they'd done with the materials I helped to provide. They were a Spanish class learning about Día de los Muertos, a Mexican holiday of remembrance and celebration of the lives of people who've died. Even knowing the students were probably made to write the letters by their teacher, I was touched. I sat on my couch with their letters and their creations and read every single word.

Because I'm fortunate enough to make more money than I need I've started a giving program of my own. Every time I splurge on something for myself, I donate the same amount of money to a charity or non-profit organization. This year's beneficiaries include the MD SPCA, MD Food Bank, Frisky's Wildlife and Primate Sanctuary, and now Donors Choose.

I chose a class making large-scale sculptures in MD (where I live) and another learning about the Holocaust in Washington (Best wishes for a happy and peaceful new year). You can choose projects by location, subject, materials needed, income level, grade, or whether the proposal is about to hit its deadline without being fully funded.

I'll probably go back and give some money to the yoga class in DC. It's impossible to go through the project lists without being excited by something and wanting to help. At least it is for me.

What is love, anyway?

In the wake of another break-up, I have been thinking deep thoughts about the nature of love. I am indeed one of those women who believed oh-so strongly that I could help fix your inability to love if you’d just let me. Wrong, several times.

What I’m finally figuring out is that my loving you is about me, not you. So often I would use “I love you” as some sort of persuasive argument, as if my feelings about you should effect (affect? This is the one that messes with me) some reaction on your part. “I love you” was supposed to convince you that you should see it my way.

Other times, “I love you” was a call waiting for its response. Your cue to say you love me too. What I’m starting to understand is that saying “I love you” is more like saying “I love this song.” I am reporting my state of being in reference to a particular object. You may be moved to follow up with “I love it too” or “Really? I can’t stand it” but it’s possible you may not have any reaction beyond acknowledging that a statement was made.

My love for you is about me. It’s about what I want for you, what I’m willing to do for you, and how I plan to treat you. One thing it can never be about is control. I can not make you respond to me the way I want you to no matter how hard I love you. I have to let you be you because I love you, not in spite of it.

I know far too well that the love others have felt for me did not change me. Sometimes I have been motivated to be a better me because someone loved me, but only if I happened to love them back. I know there have been men in my life who felt that they could love me enough for both of us and I know I walked away from all of them. Why would it be any different just because I’m the one doing the loving?

There is still a part of me that feels like “I love you” is some sort of trump card I can play if and when necessary. I’m trying to reprogram myself to recognize that it’s really just me playing the dummy bridge partner and laying down my hand.

First thing in the morning is right out

It's amazing the difference a couple of hours can make.

I opened my email this morning (personal, of course, even though I was at work) and found five emails from one group of people about three things I needed to respond to and OMG. What the HELL, people? Angry me really doesn't even care about this and exhausted me is completely overwhelmed and somewhere from the back of my head sane me pipes up and suggests that I back away slowly from the email.

I spend the next few hours catching up on my web surfing, my caffeine, and my actual job for which they pay me to be here. I shopped a little, added my most recent paycheck to my checkbook balance, blah blah finances.

Interestingly enough, the next time I checked my email, there were a few almost reasonable requests, some of which I wouldn't even have to go ridiculously far out of my way to accommodate. I replied to each, even rambling on with some additional ideas of my own in one response.

I know that I am not a morning person. When I worked at the airport (pre-therapy, meds, and recovery), any attempt to speak to me before 10 AM was answered with a growl. This made the first 90 minutes of my coworkers' days oh so pleasant, I'm sure. These days (in addition to not having to be at work until 9:30 if it's really that bad) I can generally manage pleasantries and smiles (however painted on) first thing.

Sometimes, on the weekends or days when I don't have to go anywhere? I wake up and get out of bed BEFORE 8.

And yet, there are some things that are better suited to certain times of day than others. Clearly, my taking-stock-of-the-world-and-my-responsibilities-in-it time is not the morning.

Crazy person, know thyself. It is for the greater good of all of us.

Stressed in Maryland

The past month has been incredibly stressful. I started buying cigarettes again stressful. Some of it is work-related - assuming full responsibility for a management application that has always been a giant fustercluck; some of it isn't and I'm not ready to talk about that stuff yet (don't worry - it's not health related).

I've slacked off in my housekeeping and my exercise routine but I've managed to keep my diet mostly on track (wiping out a half gallon of Breyer's chocolate and vanilla in three nights isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things, right?) and have shown up for most of my obligations (with the occasional missed home group and hour or two taken off work). I'm practicing the spiritual priniciples of patience and acceptance; unfortunately I'm much better at patience when it's sung by Axl Rose and acceptance of my way as the way things should be.

Those of you who believe in such things should feel free to aim prayers, good thoughts, and energy my way. It's a trying time but it won't kill me and I already know that I am blessed with friends and family for support.

I think I know what it is.

I’m in a “Sit still and WAIT” period. Either I’m suppressing whatever I might have to say or I’m deliberately not looking too closely at each passing day - the unexamined time will pass more quickly? When in reality the opposite is true - the busier I am, the more engaged, the faster time will fly. How and to what shall I turn my attention when the only thing it wants to stick to says “wait”?

"The gravitational pull of downward mobility"

I'm listening to an episode of This American Life about a man who goes to Florida for four months to take care of his mother and brother. I probably blogged about it before - this is the second time I've heard it and...it's just...

The narrator's parents divorced when he was young. He and one brother were raised with their father; his mother remarried and had another son who grew up with her. The father worked for NASA and occasionally lunched with Nobel Laureates; the mother's second husband was a drug-smuggling gangster who was killed by his associates. One of the narrator's brothers went away to study classical violin; the other went to court for multiple DUIs. Josh, the narrator, spends his time trying to restore his mother and brother's lives to manageability and figuring out how it got so out of control in the first place.

What's so stunning to me, besides how easy it is to get keep getting sucked deeper and deeper into the downward spiral, is how foreign Josh finds his family's life in Florida. Was his childhood air truly so rarefied that he didn't know people live like that? Maybe he assumed that those things happen to other people. I think that's what stands out the most to me - how blown away Josh is that his mother just continues to acclimate to living conditions that continue to degrade - when to me it all seems so easy to understand. Too easy.

To be fair, Josh does say over and over that he wished he'd been told when things started to get so out of hand so he could have helped out - he doesn't sound like a stupid or snobby kid. Just a remarkably charmed one, I guess.

Maybe what makes me so tired all the time is straining against the downward pull. I've seen how damned easy it would be for me to let myself slide down the slippery slope. What could I do with all the energy I spend not giving in to the negativity I do manage to push away? With all the energy I use pushing past the urge to drink? I remember hearing someone describe recovery as walking in the ocean against the current. How much further could I go if I could just get out of the water?

Who am I anyway?

One of those things I've always tried to determine is who I really am, at my core. There are a lot of things I'd like to believe about myself (intelligent, compassionate), a lot of things I've come to accept about myself (procrastinator, pack-rat), and a lot of things I think are true but wonder if maybe I could be doing more to combat (depression, low energy).

For example, at my most authentic self - am I night person? I think I am, but on weekends I love getting an early start on the day. Do I believe that rich people should pay higher taxes? Well, yeah, because they can afford it, but they worked to make all that money (or were lucky enough to be born into it) so why shouldn't they keep it? Do I want to be a parent or do I just want to keep my options open? Am I sucker who fell for the lie of financial security and the need for health insurance that's too afraid to follow my bliss? Do I believe in a higher power or not? Do I really like reality television but hate myself for it?

My best answer is that today, my beliefs/preferences are A, B, and C, but tomorrow they may be X, Y, and Z, and I'll have to deal with that then. I've never been able to pin myself down - all I can do is look at my patterns. But isn't integrity about being true to yourself and your ideals? I don't even know what mine are!

Yesterday I read this article about a man's experience on a meditation retreat wherein he battled self-loathing so intense it changed his life. The part that struck me follows:

A second aspect of the practice, though, was even more important, and that was seeing the self-hatred for what it really is, not what it is conventionally thought of as being. At first, I interpreted the feelings I was having according to the conventional geology of the self. This is what I felt "deep down." This is was what I "really" believed, despite all the rationale I'd proffered to myself and to others. But that entire geology is a fiction -- deep down inside what? All that was actually present in my experience were different beliefs. One belief (gay is bad) had the character -- the "feeling tone" in Buddhist language -- of being long-held. Another belief (gay is good) didn't, even though I knew it made more sense, and had led me to more happiness and more spiritual capacity. But the former belief wasn't really "deeper" or truer. It was merely its character -- its feeling -- that was being interpreted as "deep."

This was such a critical turning point for me. Of course the guilt felt "deeper" -- it's had thirty years of constant reinforcement, as compared with just a few years of acceptance and understanding. But the "self" in which it felt "deeper" within is itself just a label for a million conditioned phenomena, woven together by consciousness. The self is like a bundle of sticks taken from elsewhere -- "we" are neither any individual stick, nor the string that ties them together. And what you discover in meditation is: there is never any time at which the bundle as a whole does anything. It's always one stick or another. A desire. A fear. A thought. Some will feel deep, some will feel shallow -- but those are just sensations, nothing more.

Have I been digging for phantoms this whole time? Trying to find the core stick in a bundle with no center? Maybe I've been Buddhist all along and just didn't know it!

My struggle with Buddhism involves my firmly entrenched attachment to the "I" that loves John Taylor, Winnie-the-Pooh, and yellow cake with chocolate icing. I like having a couple of boxes of souvenirs of my past to remind me of things I've seen and done and been. I like my overloaded bookshelves. I can't imagine what it would be like to detach from all that makes me me even though I understand that my wanting is the source of my pain. Isn't it also the source of my pleasure?

These are my most recent deep thoughts. I'm now in the throes of Excedrin and Friday afternoon; don't expect anything too weighty anytime soon.

Waking up in now

I dreamed (dreamt?) about an ex last night. Not a big surprise - I took a journal with me over the weekend and after writing in it, turned back some pages and read. About him. And how I showed up so he could break my heart a second time. Seven years ago.

Seven years ago I was working at the Enterprise Foundation, a non-profit organization founded in part by the man who built Columbia, MD (and Ed Norton's step-grandfather or some such thing). I was discovering Fark and the 4um, which introduced me to some of the best friends I've ever had. I was disentangling myself (so I thought) from the most intense relationship of my adult life (to that point) with a man who was more soul-twin than soul-mate. I had tried dating some new guys but when the old one presented himself, it was hard to resist.

I don't know if it's like this for everyone, but dream emotions stay with me into the following day, clinging like the threads caterpillars stretch across paths through the woods or webs spiders spin between the car and my deck railing. And just as hard to shake off. I remember telling Pete that I'd had a dream wherein I was pissed off at him and asked him to forgive me if I tried to pick a fight.

When I read my old journals, they seem like the rantings of a teenager - everything is SO big and SO not like anything I've ever felt and SO...whatever. I was 32 seven years ago - old enough to have earned a little perspective. I hadn't felt anything like panic in the week since the end of my long-term relationship but started to get a little anxious after reading my journal. Nothing in my life seemed to last very long - social circles, jobs, relationships, etc. OMG! Alone again! What am I going to do? My life read like a series of choppy episodes rather than a coherent narrative and now here I am again - except where am I?

I am in the same job where I've for six years, in the same house where I've been for five, with the same cat I've had for - yikes, almost eight years? We're no longer dating but Pete and I still have a relationship, as evidenced by my urge to call him as soon as I heard Kyle Busch had been knocked out of the Cup race early only to find he'd already texted me about somebody finally winning the Nationwide race (somebody other than Busch). I've been going to meetings for 12 years and will keep doing so; I've been participating with my coven for four years; I've been taking hatha yoga and exploring a more Yoga (all eight limbs)-centric spiritual path for a year and a half.

I don't have to anticipate my whole world spinning out of orbit - I don't have to allow it to. Yes, this is an ending and thus a beginning, but not necessarily of everything I know. There's no need to go running back to my past in search of something that feels familiar. There's no need to panic. Everything is okay here and now and will continue to be so as long as I keep doing the next right thing.

And today the next right thing is to leave the sticky feelings from past in the past rather than allow them to get all over now. And maybe make myself feel better about me by re-reading some of this LJ, where backspace and delete make things look much less chaotic.

Sadness

Because I know some family reads this and because it is my life...my boyfriend and I broke up last weekend.

It's not that we don't love each other because we do very much. It's about me not being happy in a long-distance relationship and not seeing a way around our current long-distance situation. He can't move; I don't want to live in Toledo; there's no compromise.

It's hard for me to stay emotionally available to someone when it hurts so much to watch him drive away; we're only seeing each other once a month now and it's only going to get more expensive. There's other stuff too, but I don't want to get into the gory details.

The bottom line is that I've been thinking about this for a while and needed to share it with him. There's never a good time - the phone sucks as does the fact that doing it in person means someone has to drive home mulling it over. I can't dwell on it too much because I'm very weepy. I'm sad. We both are.

I actually wrote this on Monday, I think, and as of this hour I'm mostly okay. Still sad, not as weepy, and he and I have communicated without animosity several times. This weekend I'm off to the Himalayan Institute for a meditation workshop and it couldn't be more timely.

Latest rant: On working

On a board I frequent, we often share annoying, amusing, idiotic, soul-crushing, and hopeful stories about our assorted work lives. In response to someone's post, one member asked the following:

Are we ever going to get over the need to enslave ourselves for an occasional periodic day of leisure?

And yes, we're doing it ourselves. Who else can we blame? Bush? Hitler?

And I'm sure I'll be sorry for wandering into the lion's den here...

I responded thusly:

I'll bite.

I, for one, would love to do something I enjoy all day long, but I can't seem to find someone willing to pay me to do anything I enjoy for long enough to maintain my lifestyle, to which I have become accustomed. I like being able to get out of bed and engage with life, which I find I am unable to do without medication. (Rail against insurance companies, the medical industry, and pharmaceutical solutions all you want; this is my reality.) Being employed provides me the means by which I can reliably obtain the means I need to reach the ends I desire.

You and I have it easy - we've chosen not to reproduce. People with kids don't have nearly the luxurious options we do. Sure, I could scrape by on some occasional temp work if I gave up my cable, cell phone, car, first-hand clothing and furniture, pet, home ownership, etc. I'd feel some responsibility to kids I'd chosen to raise, though, which would probably require me to find some reliable income so I could feed, clothe, and educate them.

There are experiences I'd like to have that money facilitates - seeing other cities and countries is possible without enslavement but again, I've grown fond of avoiding certain level of crime, filth, and discomfort. I like clean sheets, hotel roofs that don't leak, and not having to hide from assorted law enforcement organizations.

Here's the real deal: it may be a personal quirk of mine, but the idea of financial uncertainty makes me anxious. I'm willing to trade some bohemian ideals to enjoy a heart rate that doesn't spiral ever upwards and airways that don't constrict. Perhaps it is a deal with the devil, but the devil has a flattering hair style and throws great parties.

We've all made the deals that enable us to achieve what matters to us. I don't see why making those choices means we shouldn't share our frustrations with the results thereof.

And, for the record, I ask myself almost daily if my deal is worth it. I'm thinking about teaching and trying to decide if I could live on a teacher's salary. That's "if I could live" and I'm the only one who can answer that.

Home again

My body is back in Maryland, but my mind is still floating in the pool I had to myself yesterday - warmed blue water under a bright, bluer sky with the insistent Florida sun slipping into and out of the occasional cloud...hot pink and light purple azaleas grown twisted along the fence and palm frond beyond...dragonflies and pairs of low-flying blacks birds with greenish blue back feathers when the sun caught them just so...

My cousin Holly is married and so happy; her wedding was a joy. The chuppah blowing over before the ceremony gave us an excuse to include the rest of our cousins - I would have liked to have seen them carrying it out, but was waiting my turn to proceed down the aisle. The officiant was a personal friend of the bride; her readings were heartfelt and her voice caught as she turned and spoke to my cousin, "Holly-bell..."

All of my cousins on that side were there with their wives and children - we had family members from 10 months to 92 years old. It's scary to see how the older kids have changed in the two years since I saw them last and so much fun to watch the little girls who are so tickled with each other. My mother showed off her new figure in clothes more stylish and flattering than anything she's worn for years dancing with her sister, her great nieces, and once even the (mighty cute) brother of the groom. I talked with my hero, Lily (my grandparents oldest friend), and made sure we got at least one cousins-only picture (it is no easy feat to get all six of us together).

And I sobbed at my grandparents' grave as my uncle cried in my aunt's (his ex-wife) embrace. My cousins were right there to hold me up. At the end, I finally gave in and hugged my older cousin who had been speaking to me all weekend as if nothing had happened.

I hope other people took good pictures and will share them because I tried to just let myself be in the moment. I did take this one to send to Biz while he worked.



(There are a few more at Flickr.)

Not a bad day's work.

Striated pink petunias
Originally uploaded by talix18

I didn't intend to plant 16 petunias today...

(See more at my Flickr page.)

On taking an Internet break

It's interesting to go from being online all day, every work day to five straight days without. I have a computer at home and tell myself that I tend to stay off of it for more than a few minutes at a time because A) I'm on it all day at work and B) I can't see the TV from the computer chair but the real truth is C) my cat gives me hell every time I turn it on. Seriously, Bo. Who's got the opposable thumbs?

Opposable thumbs does not = in charge

Anyway, five days without having to fill time surfing. Because when I'm not busy at work, that's basically what I'm doing all day. Oh, the places you'll go when you are trying to kill time on the Internet.

But where did I go when I wasn't? Yahoo was deliberate logging on; I preferred keeping people up-to-date on the medical doings via email instead of having the same conversation twenty times. In the five minutes at a time I ventured onto the web (no, I don't know why I capitalize "Internet" and not "web") I checked for new emails and got caught up on the interesting threads on the bulletin board where I chat with my long-term web-buds.

I tended not to read LJ because I want to give posts more time than I had, but boy did I miss it! I've gotten hooked on 's world, Shayara and missed her twice weekly reminders to check for new context. I'm crazy for 's incense stories set in Kherishdar. And while I have friends who've established presences in two or three different places on the 'Net, some of you I only interact with here and I missed you!

I have to confess I did go to VH-1's site because I can't get there from here; because I love Rich, who writes for their blog; and because I had to watch a dozen or so clips of unseen material to get in the mood for the Rock of Love reunion (judge me all you want).

And I kept up with the AL East standings because despite all rhyme and reason, the Orioles are still ahead of the Yankees.

Things I didn't miss, or seek out in those few minutes online: Gawker, though damn if I don't have a tab open there now. The two or three personal blogs I read that are mostly about fashion or name-dropping or being seen. I like to splurge on high-end things every once in a while (well, they're high-end in terms of what I can afford) and I admire people who are consciously turned out but have no delusions of ever caring about it enough to be one of them.

In short, anything having to do with celebrities (except Bret), people who want to be celebrities (except Heather), or people who care about people who want to be celebrities (except Rich) was off my radar. I looked at my bookmarks today and could easily delete three quarters of them.

But I'm sure I'd only build them back up again in the four months between me and my next planned five-day break.

God and the shovel

So I'm at my home-group Monday night and I admit, I wasn't paying the speaker my completest attention. I had the treasury on my lap and was trying to calculate and count to finish my report in time for the post-meeting group conscience. Once I figured out where the extra $50 came from, I tuned in and heard the speaker talking about her finances. She sat down and figured out her bills and how much she typically makes (I believe she said she waits tables) and discovered that she's about $300 short every month.

Her solution? Just keep going; God will provide. God has always met me at the level of my needs; there's no reason to believe He'll stop now.

Okay. I have no trouble with people who believe that God's in charge. I understand that lots of people believe everything happens for a reason and that it's all part of God's plan - I don't agree with them, but I understand where they're coming from. However, people who think that whatever happens in their lives is God's will? That seems awfully convenient to me.

A few years ago, a mutual friend of V's and mine was pregnant with her third child. With her third "baby daddy". I was so frustrated and ranting, knowing how hard it is to be a single mom (her relationship with the baby's father wasn't the best) and knowing damn well that our friend could have been more careful about this. "Don't you think the baby has a Higher Power that will take care of it?" V asked me. "Are you saying that all those people killed in the tsunami didn't?" I came back. See? I just don't think it's fair to give God the praise for the good stuff that happens without a better explanation for the bad stuff than "He works in mysterious ways".

Anyway, the speaker went on to say something about her brother moving in with his absurd number of cats. He didn't adopt all of them - two of his cats had litters. One of the last things she said was something about not knowing how she was going to afford dog food next month since her dog is pregnant too.

Here is where I have a problem with the whole "God will meet me at the level of my needs" attitude. They know what causes pregnancy in animals, you know, and for the price of a couple of months' worth of dog food, you can take your animals to these special doctors - just for animals! - who will wave a magic scalpel and make it so your pet will reproduce no more. You will never have to wonder where all the new mouths to feed came from.

The first part of the saying is "God will move mountains"; the second part is "but I have to bring the shovel." Bring it, get dirty and sweaty using it, and generally do some of the damn work myself. God will meet me at the level of my needs - guess what. No one needs 15 cats that they can't afford to maintain. As much as I love animals, they're pretty far down the list of things I truly need when my budget is tight. (And no, I'm not someone who thinks it's okay to give up the pets you brought into your new house that you can't afford now that your rate has adjusted, but that's another post.)

Even I say the the Universe gave me my house. I wasn't ready to look for a place of my own; I certainly didn't have a down-payment saved. But when an affordable house became available in a great neighborhood and my friend's mom the realtor told me about it, I could buy it. Because I have a good job and my car was almost paid off and I had stock I could sell to pay back what someone loaned me for the deposit. The Universe knocked on the door and said "Hey! Here's a house." I'm the one that was in the position to walk through it.

I was trying to think of a way to raise the topic of personal accountability once she'd finished sharing, but checked my motives and kept my mouth shut. That's why I have a journal, right? To rant, and only look like an ass in front of people I don't have to show my face in front of every week. I know you guys are all over the place in terms of belief. What are your thoughts on accountability? I'm trying to think of a good metaphor, like if life is a river and you're in a boat, is God the captain? The boat dealer? The gas (or wind, if you'd prefer to sail)? The surface tension that keeps you afloat?

Getting on my own nerves

I just got an email from the mom of the dog I took care of over...what was it, President's Day weekend? Whatever. She and her husband (along with some unnamed others) are going to Spain and Italy for 17 days in July and wanted to know if I could help take care of Mel while they are gone.

The jealousy. It burns.

But first I had to wonder who they're going with and if it's people I'm also friends with, then I'm really hatefully jealous, because...why? Am I jealous of their disposable cash? Their vacation time? Certainly, as far as freedom from responsibility goes, I am one of the least-encumbered people I know. But I'm not much of a solo adventurer (says the girl who took herself to Seattle last year, where she rented a car and drove up to Arlington and back) and blah blah feeling-sorry-for-myself-cakes.

A friend stopped by to visit while I was in the middle of typing this and took all the wind out of my sails. Suffice it to say that I REALLY hate when I react with jealousy rather than congratulatory happiness at the good fortunes of others. Dammit, they work hard. Let them enjoy their lives without making it all about you.

In other news, Ambre? Really, Bret? Can't wait to watch the VH-1 extras online.

GETTING. THINGS. DONE.

Having blood drawn tomorrow; seeing regular doctor on Monday for anesthesia clearance; laparoscopy scheduled for Friday (18th) AM first thing.

My crazy. Let me show you it.

I've lost my whole perspective on this "health event". The doctor's appointment yesterday...well, first there was the 45 minute wait. When I got there I asked the girl sitting at the counter if I could pay my balance and she said "we'll take care of that when we check you in." Thirty minutes - and no "check in" - later, I asked again if I could pay while I was waiting. I paid. Then there was more waiting.

Once the doctor finally sat down with us (my mother was there to be an extra set of ears), I was so flustered and frustrated that I could barely form sentences. That wasn't mitigated when she told me that either I wasn't on the calendar yet or that the office manager would have to call me with the information. She asked if there was a date that was better for me and I said a Thursday or Friday would give me the weekend. We generally do them on Thursdays; usually later in the day. Oh - okay, I can get in half a day of work. Less leave to use. My mother says something about fasting before the procedure. Really? Oh yes - no food or drinks for the eight hours before the procedure. Hey! There's a new piece of information! Perhaps that half day of work is a bad idea.

So - next week works for me. Oh, well it won't be that soon - you have to go through some other procedures first. Oh yeah? Like what? Well, an H&P and blood tests, but she'll give you all that information when she calls... I cut her off. What's an H&P? It's a "history & physical", but she'll - but won't I have to make an appointment with my GP for that? Why can't I be getting that done now while I'm waiting an unfathomable amount of time for this office manager to make a phone call about scheduling my procedure? It's only been a WEEK since you called me with the results of the blood tests that were done a MONTH ago. What else do I have to do? Blood tests, but we'll give you all that... Again, my brain is screaming, what's wrong with telling me now??!!

Then we're back to "are there any days that are bad for you?" My mother pipes up - yes, she's an attendant in a wedding in Florida on May 18th. Oh, it'll be done way before that. It'll be done this month. I hate to break it to ya, lady, but there's only one Thursday in April after the 17th.

At this point all the questions I have written down are a lost cause. I skip through them half-heartedly and find out that she's not planning on removing the cyst but might drain it. They will extract something that they'll run tests on. I ask how long it will be before I know whether they found anything to be concerned about. Well, the tests take about a week... But when will you tell me if you saw anything? Well, anything I tell you after the procedure you won't remember because of the anesthesia... My mother pipes up "I'll be there" before I can spit out "no shit, Sherlock." Yes, you can tell my mother what you saw. Oh.My.God.

Somehow the question comes up of what she'll do if she finds something. She can either open me up then or wake me up, tell me about it, and schedule another procedure. Fuck. This is where I start to freak out. I envision my mother making medical decisions on my behalf and my life being at risk. Fuck. I am not in the ideal frame of mind to make this decision. I stammer something about going ahead and doing it while she's there, picturing myself sobbing over my cat as I say good-bye to him on my way out the door.

This whole thing is pushing my crazy buttons and my addict buttons. I know it's not all about me and I know that while I am panicking inside, it's just another day at the office for the doctor and her staff. I know that no amount of crazy now is going to have any effect on what happens during the procedure. I know there are factors involved that I'm not privy to and I know that the doctor stuff is her job, not mine.

I know I am powerless to make any of this happen any faster and I need to just let go of trying to be in control.

I know that disengaging from life until this is all over is not going to help anything, no matter how much I want to crawl under the covers and stay there. And I certainly can't take a mental health day from work because I have to save my leave (the leave I don't use getting the H&P and the blood tests).

I know all of that - in my head. If someone could get my gut's attention and fill it in, I'd appreciate it.

So far, no good

That was the biggest fucking waste of time. Still don't know when the procedure is, the doctor tells me I have to have some other things done before the procedure but "she'll give you all of that information when she calls." Um, wouldn't it be helpful if you told me what I need to do sooner rather than later so I could get the appointments scheduled?

I couldn't be more pissed off and the only thing I know now that I didn't know before is that it's my CA 125 that's elevated; it's 41.5 and normal is 30-35.

And I chairing a meeting tonight. I'm feeling really damned spiritual.

Re: the ovarian cyst

I finally heard from my doctor about the blood tests. (She said she'd been trying to get in touch with me. Has she ever heard of leaving a message?) One of the tumor markers is elevated. She wants to go ahead with the laparoscopy to take a look at what's going on.

In the meantime I'm going in to her office to discuss the procedure and go over any questions I may have. I didn't have many at 8:00 last night when she called but I'm sure you guys will have plenty. I know we talked about endometriosis; I think she said the elevated tumor marking is compatible with it and I know the cyst is as well. I'm going to try really hard to not Google "elevated tumor marking + endometrioma".

The laparoscopy is an out-patient procedure. They say I'll be back to work "in a week or two"; let's hope for one since I don't have two weeks of sick leave!

Prayers, good thoughts, and the like are more than welcome, whichever you may do in situations like these. I know a laparoscopy is not that big a deal, but it's my first experience with something like this and my head comes up with lots of bad thoughts.

What if they threw a baseball season...

...and nobody noticed.

Seriously - was there any publicity about the season opener was last night? Was it just me that was clueless?

Alrighty then.

The colossus of Julie Anne Rhodes

It's not always easy for me to tell that I've grown up. I still feel the same as I ever did on the inside - all my life I've had parts of me that were about 3, about 12, about 18, and about 40. Actually being 39 doesn't feel all that unusual. I still love Winnie-the-Pooh, Legos, and Barbie; I still have stuffed animals; I still think way too much about just about everything.

I guess I really notice the difference in my relationships with other people. The first time I really felt grown up was when my boyfriend found out his 16-year-old daughter was pregnant. I was in my early-to-mid-30s and when she decided to have and raise the child, all I could think was how much harder than necessary her life would be. That she had no idea what she was giving up. (Of course, I'm thinking all this from the vantage point of a childless woman, so you have to take my opinion with an entire shaker of salt.)

I could tell I'd matured a lot last night watching the Ultimate Recipe Showdown on the Food network. It was the "Burgers" episode. One of the chefs participating in the poultry burger competition was named Julie Anne Rhodes. "That's funny," I thought to myself. "That was Nick Rhodes' wife's name back in the day." (Those of you who don't know who he is clearly weren't young girls in the mid-80s.) I have one picture of them in my head - both impeccably made-up, dressed in a suit (him) and a fabulous fitted white dress (her) (a wedding picture, maybe), her towering over him. She had gorgeous olive skin, a long face, and Mediterranean features and I, unkindly, referred to her as Juliearf. She had taken Nick off the market! The nerve of her!

Anyway, I'm looking at this chef making this amazing-sounding turkey burger with jasmine rice and she's tall, yes, and olive-skinned, and gorgeously Mediterranean, but built much more like a normal woman (a little heavy maybe even, though she carries it well with her height) than the skinny model I remembered Nick's wife to be. Then she mentions her 15-year modeling career. No. No way. Then I notice her unusually-shaped ears. OMG.

OMG! It's really her, the internet tells me this morning! Right there on her Personal Chefs Network page it talks about how she started cooking as a child and developed an appreciation for many kinds of cuisine traveling the world with the band! OMG! How cool is that?

How cool is that? That a woman can have a 15-year-modeling career and be married to a popular member of a hugely successful band and travel the world and throw glamorous dinner parties for fabulous people, and then after her divorce move back to the US from London and start a whole new career as a personal chef. She started her own company and obviously loves what she does. The bonus is the picture of her with her daughter on her company's site - man, you can see Nick all over Tatjana's face!

I'm a grown-up now, Julie, and I take back all the awful things I said and thought about you back in the day. You were a Duran Duran wife; it was my job to be a jealous fangirl. Now I know a whole lot more about letting people be gorgeous and successful without thinking that makes me less so; about perfect make-up and lighting not equaling a perfect interior life; about how happiness can be damn hard to cultivate and should be celebrated all the time. In fact, Julie, I think you may have become a personal hero!

And congratulations on winning the poultry burger competition! My aunt printed out the recipe - can't wait to try it.

ETA: Found the picture!! Gods bless the Internets!

The Legacy of Bobby Dunbar

A friend of mine shared that part of his family's history was going to be featured on This American Life - the story of Bobby Dunbar. It's an interesting story of the Dunbar family, whose four-year-old son was lost in a Louisiana swamp on a camping trip in 1912. Several months later a boy was found who, after a trial, was determined to be Bobby Dunbar.

The trial was held because the man who had custody of the found boy, William Walters, claimed he was Bruce Anderson, the son of a woman who'd been temporarily unable to care for him. Both Julia Anderson and Lessie Dunbar were allowed to meet with the young boy and neither were immediately able to positively identify him.

TAL tells the story from the point of view of one of Bobby Dunbar's descendants. She was given a scrapbook of information relating to the kidnapping (as it was called by her family) and did extensive research of her own. Ultimately a DNA test was done on two different lines of the Dunbar family (that of Bobby Dunbar and that of one of his brothers) and it was proven that, in fact, they shared no male ancestor. The found boy grew up as Bobby Dunbar, but had not been born him.

The story reveals a lot about the nature of truth and history. The truth of the matter is extremely different for the three families involved (the Dunbars, the Andersons, and that of William Walters). What really happened - what motivated each person to do what he or she did, the fate of the four-year-old Bobby Dunbar lost in the swamp - cannot be definitively known. That so much uncertainty surrounds one episode in the lives of these few families just underscores the absurdity of accepting any historical fact at face value. Everything we know has been filtered so many times - by the prejudices of the people who wrote the history, by meteorological and geological chance - yet we make decisions every day based on that history. There is so much room for doubt yet so many of us are willing to believe what others say is true.

The Dunbar story also reveals a lot about the nature of family. Most of the members of the affected families don't seem to bear any ill will to anyone with the notable exceptions of the siblings of Bobby Dunbar who resented the outcome of their niece's research. It's easy to speculate as to why they were angry, but impossible to know what I'd feel in the same situation.

When you think of how many of these kinds of situations must've happened throughout history, it seems that much less important whose blood runs where; what truly matters is the time you spend and the affection you share. Rather than drawing divisive boundaries based on blood or history, why not just embrace everyone?

Enough

I'm still not okay.

I just finished a quick tour of Greek Tragedy, one of The Observer's World's 50 Powerful Blogs (ahhhhh - that's why so many of them are British blogs I've never heard of). Stephanie Klein is an author who had what sounds like a wild-woman single life and is now married, the mother of twins, a published author, and a Lost freak.

After reading that she's got weight issues, I check the next picture I see of her and compare myself to it. Damn. She's winning. In white pants, even. Then I read the entry in which she quotes the description of her "perfect world life" from one of her first entries and realizes she's made most of it manifest.

And despite everything I said to Dr. B. (an old philosophy prof I met with for career/life advice) on Sunday, I'm not there. I'm not living my perfect world life. Am I?

Stephanie Klein's vision included a husband with whom she's "connected in a deep meaningful way", kids, a writing career, an SUV, and a home with land, a sauna, and a pool. As I start to describe my perfect world life I figure out my first problem: nailing it down. Yes, I want to be married - I want a partner to talk about the party to on the drive home, to take swing dance lessons with me, to be loved by deeply and meaningfully. But if I can't have that, I want to be okay on my own. Which I mostly am.

I want a job that pays me to do something I love. However, as has already been established, there is nothing I'm so passionate about that I can't not do it. Do I love anything enough to commit to it the way a career would demand? Could I do it on the job's terms and not mine? Hmmmm. If I can't have that, I want a job that I don't have to take home, that pays me enough to be comfortable, that doesn't demand I show up before 8:30 or 9. Which I have.

My perfect world life never included kids of my own - I love children, but I've never felt that need to have my own. And I don't. My perfect world life always included my own house - and I have one.

I want to be able to travel - I can and do. I want cats - I currently have one who insists on being the only child. I'd love a boat and a hot tub and a backyard with some privacy. But I don't want the hassle of a boat and am not sure I want to spend the money on a hot tub and for now, have a yard that's easy to mow.

The truth is my perfect world life is a moving target. I am constantly in flux. There is no way one reality could possibly satisfy all the things I can imagine wanting. Which leads to me, again, to the same conclusion I always come to when I start down this road of thought. No matter what I continue to want, there's only one thing I really need to live my perfect world life every day.

Enough.

And just like that, I'm okay.

How I spent my five-day weekend

I've been so busy catching up on the Internets that I've hardly made any contributions of my own. I do have pictures up on Flickr if you're into babies or NASCAR (my username there is my username here with an "18" tacked to the end); the words will come as soon as I sit still long enough to write them. They'll include the pros and cons of moving to NC and how easy it was to go five days without hearing the words "primary" or "delegate".

In the meantime, regarding news I missed...

Jeff Healey? How sad. And is Swayze dying or isn't he? During s(h)avasana last night, I found myself ruminating on the temporariness of it all - how you can be successful and famous and photographed and followed but none of that can be traded for time. Yes, strive and yes, dream and yes, always intend to be more closely aligned with your bliss...but don't put off joy until you get there. Be here now.

Clayton credits shot

Oh! I forgot to include begging those of you who see Michael Clayton to stay seated throughout the credits. Clooney allows so many emotions to play across his face in the span of that last, long shot - it was my favorite part of his performance.

The artifice of eternity

Saturday Biz and I sat the "best picture Oscar nominees" gamut, courtesy of AMC (which we learned during the trivia question and answer period stands for American Multi-Cinema). It was a lot less grueling than I expected it to be, even with There Will Be Blood lasting about seventy years! Seriously, Michael Clayton? Juno? Really? The Clooney was excellent and Tom Wilkinson was sublime, but best of the year? The Academy said so and I was in no position to argue, having seen exactly one newly released movie last year (Waitress; cute, hokey ending, don't try to make me dislike Nathan Fillion or I will cut you).

LOVED Atonement - loved it. But I'm a sucker for having my heart-wrenched and I would have gladly dragged Briony across a muddy pit by her hair. My chief complaint with Juno was the main character's reaction to the positive pregnancy test. I've been on the unwelcome plus side of one of those tests - summer after senior year - and trust me - there was no cracking wise in my story. I was hardly in a red licorice whip place afterwards. Maybe she'd already suffered her sturm und drang with the first two tests and had resigned herself finding a solution but that scene was so dishonest to me that the rest of the movie was even cartoonier than was intended. Even so, I love JK Simmons and Alison Janney and would happily watch them dig for oil in vast barren landscapes.

They ended with No Country for Old Men, the title of which I discovered is from a Yeats poem when I happened to read it last night. For the sake of my dreaming later that evening I wish they'd left us with a less compelling character than Chigurh but he certainly deserved his award.

SPOILERS FOLLOW



I'm not a fan of excessive graphic violence so this isn't a film I'd watch over and over again; on the other hand, none of it felt gratuitous. Unfortunately, once I saw a kitty cat onscreen I was watching any dark or ominous scenes through the hand over my eyes and missed a lot of the subtleties.

Specifically - the scene where Sheriff Bell and Chigurh are on opposite sides of the door to room 114. Chigurh (and the audience) sees Bell's reflection in the blown-out lock. That the room appears empty once Bell goes in just messes with me. Am I supposed to assume that reality is suspect from that point forward? Was there a clue that the film was moving in that direction that I missed? An unreliable narrator is one thing; one that is only unreliable for the last 20 minutes or so is another.

So far I've seen theories that the whole movie was Sheriff Bell's dream, that Bell is killed in the motel room, and that Chigurh moved to the other side of the doorway and slipped out behind Bell once he'd entered the room. I have issues with all of those explanations. How did you interpret that scene? (Support your thesis using evidence from the movie as opposed to the book - I think the book version makes a lot more sense but don't see any reason to believe that's how it went down in the film.)

The "c" word

Yesterday I held a piece of paper in my hand. On it were my name and the word "cancer".

I have a cyst on my left ovary. Because my doctor would rather give it time to go away by itself than rush me into surgery, she ordered a few blood tests to make sure it is in fact as benign as the sonogram tech seems to think it is. The tech has not wavered in her opinion of what she saw and she's seen it twice now. My doctor has not been in a hurry to get back to me with her thoughts on the sonogram results. There is no reason to think the worst.

But isn't that how the stories always start? Somebody goes to the hospital for appendicitis and finds out they have a tumor. Or bone cancer. I've always been a little morbid; I'm the one who goes right to the archives of a blog whose author has been diagnosed with something terminal (more immediately terminal than just being alive, that is) to get the story from the beginning. Am I looking for something? Some clue from the entries that were just everyday life that portends the fatal blow to come?

It isn't just illness; I analyze the blogs of anyone who dies (I draw the line at MySpace pages - too sparkly and loud). How is it possible that there's no warning - no anvil falling from the sky announcing the next plot twist? How can you wake up one day and just not know that it's the last time you will? But time after time, it's the same going from one day to the next with witty observations or thoughtful meditations until BLAM! Brick wall of diagnosis; sudden high fever; no posts following this post.

I was 36 before my first grandparent died; three years later, I've still never lost anyone who is part of my daily routine (this may have more to do with my not letting anyone get that close than any cosmic protective shield around my beloveds). I have groups of friends I've known for ten and twenty years - that's a long time for everyone to walk around charmed.

I don't like to say it out loud very often, but I figured that was a sign that I would be the one to go first. Like I said, I'm morbid. I remember being convinced when I got my braces put on that I wouldn't live to see them come off. I've always been reluctant to project myself too far into the future (is that why I've never seriously considered parenting?).

And now there's a piece of paper with my name and the word "cancer" on it. Just a precaution, but still it makes me feel - unsure, for the few minutes at a time I let myself ruminate on it.

(Just in case you are someone combing through my archives looking for the sign that everything was about to change.)

Kurt Cobain would have turned 41 yesterday.

I was not a Nirvana fan. I heard Pearl Jam first, went from there to Alice in Chains, and only knew Nirvana’s biggest hits. And I have no idea where I was when I heard Cobain was dead. I know exactly where I was when I heard about Rick Allen’s car accident (New Year’s Eve, back seat of Ken’s car; Ken and Stephanie up front) and I’m pretty sure I remember where I was when I heard about Steve Clark (top of Mom’s basement stairs, on phone with Jayson), but Kurt? No idea.

Yet I have the issues of Rolling Stone and (I think) Time that devote their covers to his death. His death somehow brought it home to me that a person can be living their dream, financially secure, happily married and parenting…a person can have it all and still want to escape. Still want to get out of their own head. Still not be okay alone inside his own skin.

I didn’t know it then, but in the spring of ‘94 I was circling the drain. A year later the flashing lights went on behind me; I got clean (for good, so far) in January of ‘96. I’m living a couple of my less dynamic dreams and I still miss using sometimes but know that ultimately, peace is an inside job. Kurt’s death was the first time I honestly started to believe that.

Accommodation

Twice in the past 18 hours or so someone has made my life less convenient because their plans were more important than whatever I might have going on. I don't have a good reason to say no to the things being asked but that doesn't stop me from being annoyed by those doing the inconveniencing.

Let me set the scene.

I belong to a spiritual tradition with lots of formal rituals, one of which is scheduled for Sunday late afternoon/evening. It was made clear to us from the beginning that ritual is not an option; all members of our group are expected to attend unless there are extenuating circumstances.

One of our members has decided that, since she had to work Thursday and Friday and couldn't get a sitter for Saturday but could get one for Sunday, she's going to do the "Valentine's Day" thing with her husband instead of coming to ritual. She will still provide the things she volunteered to as long as I am available to pick them up. (Because she and I live close together and she is literally less than a mile from one of the major routes to our ritual space, I have been asked to ferry her contributions on previous occasions.)

This weekend happens to be a particularly full one for me. I am dog-sitting for a couple who live about 25 minutes away from me, which amounts to house-sitting, as it's easier to let the dog out in the morning if I'm already there. I've also agreed to check in on other friends' cats one day this weekend. I am supposed to have dinner with a friend tonight; my aunt and grandmother tomorrow. I have to prepare my contributions to Sunday's ritual, which means a trip to the grocery store among other things. I'd like to spend some time with my own pet, who is admittedly not as needy as a dog (except in his own opinion).

I also, now, have to come to work this weekend. This is a thing that never happens. This is an extremely unusual event and the amount of time I'll have to be here is less than the time it takes me to walk from my parking space to my desk. However, it does have to be done at least once this weekend; possibly twice. The other person on my team who could have performed this task has plans to be away at a B&B this weekend, coincidentally near where I'll be on Sunday. She declared that she would. not. be. available. to. come. in. The end.

There is no good reason for me to say "no" in either of these circumstances. Yes, I am unusually busy and yes, there are other things I'd rather be doing. My cousin is getting married in Vegas on Sunday (evening, my time) and they have a web-cam so we can see the ceremony. This was a last minute thing and I would love to watch but, alas, I have another commitment. The first race of the NASCAR season is Sunday (afternoon, my time) and even though I hate restrictor plate tracks, it would be fun to join my family who are getting together to watch. As they do every year. Alas, I have another commitment.

Once I get over the irritation at having to mindfully arrange my day to accommodate all these tasks I'd rather not have to think about, it's not that big a deal. Is it too much to ask, however, that the two people making themselves unavailable ask me if it's okay (in the first case) and thank me for making myself available (in the second)? I know it is my responsibility to keep my side of the street clean and other people's behavior is not my business. Most of the time, I know that.

But when things like this happen, I continue to be annoyed at the unavailable person. I react the same way every time - pissed off at the situation, then resigned because I'm unwilling to say "no" just to be contrary, yet somewhat resentful of the person passing on the responsibility. What am I actually pissed off about? That other people are content to make selfish choices regardless of how they affect others? I make plenty of selfish choices but I really try to make those that don't inconvenience someone else, and when someone is inconvenienced I try to recognize that. But other people's choices, again, aren't my business.

I can't figure out where I'm getting stuck here, which makes it hard to better navigate these situations in the future. I think I'm capable of saying "no" when I'd really have to go out of my way to pick up someone else's slack. And I can't make a habit of counting on someone else being available to pick up mine (although, gods bless her, my mother has volunteered to look in on my cat if I'm unable to get home during a day). It's stupid to spend my energy on things I can't control.

Yet here I am, forty minutes later, still typing this.

I didn't realize I do that!

I know that when I see someone who intimidates me in some way - they are impeccably made up or extremely self-confident or wicked smart - I assume they will reject me based on my inability to keep up in whatever I find intimidating. I behave as if I've already been rejected, which, from their perspective, looks like I'm rejecting them. I figured that out some time ago, but the realization doesn't seem to have changed my life very much.

Just now I was - what was I doing? Reading Lostpedia? Catching up on LJ? I don't remember. Anyway, here's what I figured out today: I assume (and perhaps this leaped out at you from that first bit, but it took me a little longer) that people are only interested in people who are like them. Somebody wearing expensive clothes only cares about people who can afford to dress like him. Computer geeks are only interested in other computer geeks. Someone who wears a lot of make-up and always has her hair done looks "past" women who aren't interested in (or don't have the energy for) those things.

Why? Why is that my default? Sure, it's true sometimes, but it's also not true sometimes. I assume that if I'm not like you in some objective way, you will have no interest in me as a person. It just baffles me that my very goal-oriented, driven friends are friends with me, the aimless meanderer. I, myself, have had great love for people of all manners of personal appearance, lifestyle, and ambition - why don't I allow others that same flexibility?

Kevin Aucoin fascinates me - I have no idea why. He was a brilliant self-taught make-up artist and I once told my cousin that the only time I would ever take advantage of her position in the theater/entertainment world (she's in theater management) was if she could somehow get me in his make-up chair. The way he could change faces with make-up was amazing.

I love very stylized, old glamour looks - hair, make-up, and dress. I also love dressing up for Renaissance fairs or like Stevie Nicks - flowing, gauzy, and corseted. Most of you have seen pictures of me and know that I usually present a far different look. I have long, straight hair that hasn't seen a stylist in over a year, my clothes are either wash & wear or left in a pile for years, and most days my make-up (if I take the time to apply it) is mascara and lip gloss. Frankly, I don't have the energy to iron, run to and from the dry-cleaner, or wash my face and re-moisturize every time I go to bed. And I do not have the patience for shoes that hurt, no matter how many times I try to get away with them.

Yet I spend so much effort trying to achieve the "right" look for whatever is the occasion. WHY? What difference does it make? I am still me, whether I've let myself lay in bed until the last possible minute or gotten up early and put on a whole new face. I certainly don't choose my friends based on whatever amount of effort I've put into my own appearance or education or career that day.

Why would I assume that you do?

Bob

Early recovery is like high school. It's said in the rooms (code for "in meetings" or "in the fellowship") that emotional development stops when excessive drug use starts. In effect, everyone comes into recovery with the emotional maturity of a 13- or 14-year-old. As the drugs wear off, emotions that have been stuffed or numbed are overwhelming and hard to keep in perspective.

Newcomers are told that they only have to change one thing about themselves - everything. They are told that people in recovery will love them until they love themselves, but they need to do some work on themselves. It doesn't take long before every thought is analyzed for "motives" and "disease vs. recovery-oriented thinking". EVERY thought.

Specifically, it's like high school when you've already gone to school with most of these people for three or four years. You go to different meetings (classes) with mostly the same people you've come to know way too much about, either through what they themselves have shared or what you've heard from other people who have already gone to meetings with these same people for several years.

It's suggested in recovery that you get a home group: a place to know people and be known; a meeting you'll attend consistently; a place to contribute your service. You are also encouraged to get a sponsor who has a sponsor. If you're lucky, your home group or your sponsorship family (others sponsored by your sponsor or her sponsor), becomes your "posse" - your clique, your extended family, your peeps.

I got just that lucky when I chose my sponsor and joined her home group. Most of the people there were warm and welcoming, and twisted in all of the right ways. Everyone was committed to recovery, to the group, and to each other, and I truly felt like I was home. I learned about area service, white water rafting, and staying clean with those people.

I learned a lot about love, powerlessness, and surrender, too. It was time for me to surrender when I had two ex-boyfriends and one ex-boss in that home group. For me, that meeting no longer had an atmosphere of recovery. While much of the hurt and anger were the consequences of my behavior, I had to find someplace else to work through all of it.

Bob - the titular Bob - was the ex-boss (one of the ex-boyfriends is also named Bob). Bob was the big brother/father figure of the group. He'd been clean for almost 10 years when I met him. He was extremely intelligent, extremely opinionated, and extremely serious about the program. After our Monday night meetings most of us would adjourn to the local diner and spend the next several hours talking about recovery (until midnight or so - then the conversation became far less spiritual). He smoked way too much, he was relentless in his mission to get all women into sensible footwear (he made orthotics for a living), and he pretty much knew something about everything (and was hardly ever wrong). You either loved Bob or hated him. First I hated him, then I loved him, then I hated him again.

Some people are good at relationships, some people are good at school, some people are good with money, and some people are good at careers. I am the opposite of good at careers. Nothing makes me anxious like having to find a new job; I have always under-achieved work-wise because I neither give myself credit for my abilities nor have the chutzpah to sell myself. When Bob needed a receptionist for his orthotics office, I was thrilled to take the job.

Long story short: there were some work practices with which I was not comfortable. Lying was a necessary part of the job; whether it was justifiable or standard procedure in the business, I felt I couldn't continue to work there without sacrificing my integrity. Which would put my recovery in jeopardy.

I shared in at my home group (I'd pick a different meeting if I had it to do over again) that I had to make a tough decision involving someone I cared about and didn't want to hurt. A few days later Bob came to me and asked if I was getting ready to leave the business. I told him that I wasn't sure, but that I would give him plenty of notice and I'd stay at least through the rest of the year (this was early December). I also shared with him a letter I'd written to him explaining exactly what my concerns were and what steps could be taken to mediate them.

The next Monday I was handed a letter accepting my resignation. I was shocked, hurt, and eventually, angry. I felt completely betrayed. Not only had he used what I shared in a meeting against me (oh, naive me), but he'd acted like he was willing to give me time to make a decision.

It got worse when I filed for unemployment. He fought me, claiming I'd quit. My claim was initially approved and the decision was upheld through the first two rounds of appeals. Bob failed to appear for the third round, calling with the excuse that he had to pick up his daughter at the airport (Bob had no children; it was his girlfriend's daughter). His case was dismissed and finally, it was over.

That last paragraph leaves out the worst of it. I was so completely unprepared for him to behave the way he did. Bob had been one of my confidants - I trusted him implicitly. More than that, I trusted him to live by the principles of the program to which he so fervently adhered. The appeals process dragged on for months and every time I had to show up to defend myself was like walking through hell. I am not confident or strong and I hate confrontation but the bottom line was that I DID NOT QUIT. That was what I held on to every time the Department of Labor, Licensing, and Regulations return address appeared in the mail and my stomach started to churn.

At the same time I was fighting the appeals process, I had to show up at my home group. I had to face all those people I loved who loved him. I would not let Bob chase me out of that room. That was also about my integrity and my recovery. I had done nothing wrong. Naive? Yes. But not wrong.

Bob's celebration of his clean time anniversary was in June. Some people call on specific people to share at their anniversaries - friends, sponsors, family - but Bob never did. After he spoke that year after he'd let let me go, he said he wanted to call on five people. Later I found out everyone was mentally counting his sponsees and closest friends trying to figure out who he was talking about. He called on his girlfriend, her daughter, two people I can't remember, and me. He didn't look at me as he said my name.

I know I introduced myself. I know I said something like "I wasn't sure I was going to come tonight" and "the importance of supporting a home group member" and "if you don't understand why I'm so upset, it's none of your business" because by that time I was sobbing. It wasn't long after that that I got a new home group.

I didn't see Bob for a long time after that. I knew he'd gotten married. I'd heard a couple of years ago that he had cancer but that his treatment was going well and, later, that he was in remission. I saw him after that at a convention - I said hello and gave him the fellowship hug and kept right on going about my business without having too many feelings about it.

Bob died on Sunday. The cancer came back in December. I got a message last week that he was extremely sick and didn't have much time. I'd made my peace with the situation (though I will admit that in my opinion, he owed me amends) and didn't want to intrude on the time he had left with his loved ones. I got all the way to the parking lot of my home group after I got the news from Danny last night (how convenient that I had to meet V. at area service to give her our group's donation) and drove straight out the other side to go to Bob's home group - my old home group.

On the way, I checked my motives. Why did I want to show up now when Bob and I hadn't talked for years? What was that about?

What it was about, I decided, was wanting to be there to offer my support to my friends who are grieving. It was about honoring the place Bob had in my early recovery - recognizing that despite the way it ended, the relationship mattered.

I'm not one of those people that says nice things about a jackass just because they're dead - we've all got an expiration date; death doesn't make you a saint. Bob was definitely an ass to me and it was just as much on him as on me that we never spoke about what happened. I made the one amend that I felt I owed him years ago; we had no unfinished business between us that was so important it couldn't stay unfinished.

Although...I would love to know why he called on me that night. Then again, maybe I wouldn't; maybe he just wanted to put me on the spot to see if I'd apologize to him for filing for unemployment. If I want to believe that it was his way of reaching out - of telling me that I still mattered to him and he was glad I was there - maybe I'm kidding myself.

I'm okay with that.

Anger Management

I'm upgrading the firmware in several hundred modems ONE. AT. A. TIME. (and wishing I had some leet programming sk1llz) and surfing the 'nets when I realize that I am angry. Likely to snap at someone without provocation, stomping around snarly-faced, jaw-locked angry. As I've learned to do since working steps and trying to recover from the assy self-centeredness that is tangled up with addiction, I review my last several hours. Was I pissy this morning? Not particularly. Have I been given a new assignment or new deadline (both of which create anxiety that I tend to channel into pissiness)? No. Is anything stressful on the horizon? Nothing unusual: dance lesson (dancing with strangers is inherently stressful to me and I said last week I'd stya for the social dance later in the evening but I forgot about...) and new Lost (that!!!! and am afraid I'll look stupid begging off for TV) tonight, free evening tomorrow, Candlemas Saturday (and ritual always annoys me until I'm finished prepping and actually there), and Super Bowl party Sunday; busy, yes, but not unmanageably so. The only thing I can think of is the annoying phone call I received earlier about having to go downstairs and pick up my new work badge.

Really? I'm that disturbed by that? Yes, she was weirdly unprofessional on the phone: mispronouncing my name isn't that unusual but I assume you're someone I don't know if you do so; trying to get information from me without introducing herself got my defenses up. I think the bottom line, though, is that we had to have new pictures taken, and I have to give up my current super-model-looking ID. Seriously - I look tan and young with perfect make-up and a strong chin. It's a great picture. And I've been meaning to scan it, knowing these new badges were coming. She asked if I could come down this afternoon and I lied right to her face (ear) and asked if I could come tomorrow. Giving me tonight to scan it, finally. Because I am so completely wack at almost every available opportunity.

It's exhausting in my crazy brain, I tell you. I'm considering blowing off dancing (even though it will be my first physical exercise of the week) just to avoid more stress. Ah, but I can't, because I'm hoping to retrieve the white sweat jacket I left there last week about which I left TWO voice-mails (and almost one email) - because I fear an imminent white sweat jacket shortage? Exhausting. And crazy. They say knowing is half the battle. I'm not sure I'm up to the other half.

This blog under construction

No, really. If you're interested in a more stream-of-consciousness flow, visit Tumbling the Tree.

What did I read last year?

Perhaps this will encourage me to finish some of the books I start.

Finished:
The Bhagavad Gita
Yoga for Dummies
The Zen of Recovery, Mel Ash
Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen (audio/print)
The Power of Myth, Joseph Campbell
Kushiel's Scion, Jacqueline Carey
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, Carlos Casteneda
The Chesapeake Book of the Dead, Helen Chappell
The Holy Terrors, Jean Cocteau
A Scanner Darkly, Philip K. Dick (audio)
Foucault's Pendulum, Umberto Eco (this is a bit of a cheat; I started it in '06)
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert (audio)
Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India, and Indonesia, Elizabeth Gilbert
One Breath at a Time: Buddhism and the Twelve Steps, Kevin Griffin
Way of the Cat: Nap, Do Nothing and Stretch Your Way to a Blissful Life, Diana Kramer-Rolls
A Game of Thrones, George R. R. Martin
A Clash of Kings, George R. R. Martin
A Storm of Swords, George R. R. Martin
The Zen Path Through Depression, Philip Martin
The Rede of the Wiccae: Adriana Porter, Gwen Thompson, and the Birth of a Tradition of Witchcraft, Robert Mathiesen
David: Five Hundred Years, Antonio Paolucci
The Colour of Magic, Terry Pratchett
The Light Fantastic, Terry Pratchett
Mort, Terry Pratchett
Reaper Man, Terry Pratchett
Soul Music, Terry Pratchett
Equal Rites, Terry Pratchett
Wyrd Sisters, Terry Pratchett
Witches Abroad, Terry Pratchett
The Crystal Cave, Mary Stewart
The Hollow Hills, Mary Stewart
The Last Enchantment, Mary Stewart
The Harder They Fall : Celebrities Tell Their Real-Life Stories of Addiction and Recovery, Gary Stromberg
Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, Lynne Truss
Ya-Yas in Bloom, Rebecca Wells

6/1 - I'm seeing a pattern in the books I manage to finish...



Started:

The Witching Way of the Hollow Hill, Robin Artisson
Immortal Remains, Stephen Braude
The Gold Leaf Lady and Other Parapsychological Investigations, Stephen Braude
Pronoia is the Antidote to Paranoia, Rob Brezsny
Never Tear Us Apart, Quinn Brockton
The Winter Solstice: The Sacred Traditions of Christmas, John Matthews
The Portable Dorothy Parker, edited by Marion Meade
Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, Shunryu Suzuki
The Spiritual Universe, Fred Alan Wolf

8/8 - Perhaps if I finished a book or two before I started a new one...

1/2/2008: Okay - not quite 50, and the majority I finished aren't the heaviest literary lifting. This year: more information along with the entertainment. Right after I finish A Feast for Crows. ; )