Race

I think about race a lot. Every day I am confronted with it.

I've never been in such a position before, working with an even mix of black and white people. I've never lived in a place with an even mix. In Chicago, the mix was international. I heard different languages every day. If I ever saw a black person in my neighborhood, I was surprised, because that area was primarily Eastern European, Hispanic, or yuppie white. Unless I was in the South Side, I never went anyplace that was primarily black. And that was once, when CTA insisted the fastest way to Midway was the Red Line straight south, then a bus across the South Side to the airport. (For future reference, it is most definitely not the fastest route.) But it was the most interesting. I watched the train thin out and become completely populated with blacks. By the time we reached the bus station, I was the only white person in the crowd.

When I was a kid, my parents were friends with the sole black woman in town. She had two kids; Hans was in my class, and I didn't like him because he wet his pants in kindergarten. But Hans had a brother a year older, and I worshipped him because he was the fastest runner in our school (grades K-2).

I guess because my parents were friends with their mom, and they didn't make a big deal out of it, it didn't dawn on me that the family was different than us. My parents never said a word about race. So was it my own inner morals that cringed every time (and frequently) I'd hear a racial slur from classmates growing up? I don't know. Somehow I just knew it was wrong. But I wonder sometimes if I tell that story about Hans and his family to show off that I Am Of Course Not Racist (what with my token black childhood friend and all)?

(In this context, at least, it is Just A Story About My Childhood.)

We have interns from a local hospital who take turns volunteering for our medical clinic at work. They work in 4-week rotations. The current doc is kind of bitchy. The first time she was here, one of my co-workers, K, gave her a tour, and the doctor was pretty standoffish and unfriendly. K was talking about her being bitchy, and said, gesturing to another black co-worker, "I think maybe she doesn't like us." I wondered if that was her automatic reaction when whites weren't friendly to her. (I was rather pleased, and, well, annoyed, when the doctor treated me with the same rudeness as she had K.)

Tim says yes. That it's the same reaction he has when a black person doesn't like him.

One of my co-workers--I don't think she likes me that much. It's just a feeling I get. It never occurred to me that she might not like me simply because my skin color, though. I assume that it has to do with my personality. Is that incredibly naive, or innocently blissful of race issues? Insecure about my own personality enough to not think about anything else? (I am fairly proud of myself for not catering to her or bending over backwards to get her to like me. I am who I am.)

I have lunch often at Subway in a section of town where I am often the only white person in the store. I say, "yes, ma'am" and "thank you," and keep my head down. But that's the way I behave no matter where I go in this town, because I'm not entirely comfortable anywhere here. And I'm not generally a rude person. But I wonder if I'm extra polite in an all-black establishment because I'm constantly aware of being the lone white? And am I trying to overcompensate so they don't hate me, or are rude to me? Am I trying to blend in so I don't insult anyone with my mere presence?

My preoccupation with it both bothers and intrigues me. I worry that I am secretly racist. I know that I probably am, in ways I don't even realize or could never even articulate. So I don't stop going there. I like living through uncertainty and not being entirely comfortable. I think I am learning so much about myself and the world here.

The Oscars

Morgan Freeman is just so. fucking. classy.

Sean Penn takes himself waaaaay too seriously.

Leo grosses me out. Man-boys, ick. When he grows the little whispies of a beard, UGH. I like my men to age properly. Give me laugh wrinkles over baby faces any day.

I can't believe Million Dollar Baby won for Best Picture. I was SO BORED with it. Even the heart-wrenching part (Mo Cushla), the one where the script probably said: "cue audience sobs," didn't even elicit so much as a single nose tingle presaging tears. What? The preview for Russell Crowe's Cinderella Man made me swallow a sob, but with this movie . . . nothing? There's something wrong with that. I cry at everything.

Thunderstorms

They're my favorite weather phenomenon. It's been raining regularly here for the past month, but it wasn't until last night that the thunder and lightning rolled out. It seems strange that something with such violence and volatility could give me peace, but storms do.

I remember taking lawnchairs out the driveway, to the edge of our property and the gravel road that passed it, with my dad. When I was in high school, we'd sit and watch the lightning splintering in the distance, the product of electrical storms. In reminiscing, it occurs to me that we probably only did that once or twice, but I've been thinking of it as our thing, what we always did. During a period when I barely spoke to my parents without screaming, and shied away from any emotionality whatsoever, now I'm surprised to remember that time with full emotion. It's an incredibly special memory for me.

I remember, too, being 15 or 16, driving home from Hannah's house during a storm. It was evening, so technically darkness had fallen, but the lightning was so close, so fierce, so present that I needed no headlights to steer my way home. I actually shielded my eyes from all the light, and I wavered between wanting to pull over and wait out the storm, or keep driving to get to safety sooner. Mildly terrifying, yes, but as a youthful veteran of tempestuous Kansas weather, I knew I was safe in the car, so the night held less fear and more power.

It would stand to reason that I'd end up with another storm lover. The most special storms happened in Door County, in the middle of the night, in Tim's room that was three walls of windows. Now when we get woken up by storms, we snuggle in together, battened down by sleep-heavy kitties, enjoying every thunder clap.

Weather

Ok, I realize I should not be complaining about this. But I'm going to anyway. It's February. It should not be nearly 80 degrees outside!

I don't mind 60 degree winters. It's actually a dream come true. But when I need to put on the A/C in February, something isn't right.

Drumming

1. Another One Bites the Dust, Queen
2. Fever, Peggy Lee
3. Billie Jean, Michael Jackson

These are the songs I can drum.

1. The first night I was taught a drum beat, we were with Tim's friends Mason and Allyson. I muddled through this song while they were doing guitar, bass, and vocals.

2. Fever. Tim and I figured out the bass and drum line, and we recruited his classmate Meghan to sing. She has a beautiful voice, and wants to start singing with us when we jam. When it was just Tim and I, I was ok, and on beat. But when she jumped in, her alternate rhythm threw me off. So hard to keep my simple beat in my head, so I had to screw my eyes shut and block out the singing. Too bad, because Meghan's voice is beautiful, and perfectly suited to "Fever." Hopefully I will get better at that the more we practice.

3. ha. I was listening to Michael Jackson's Greatest Hits and realized that "Billy Jean" uses the exact same beat that I first learned. But ten million times faster than I've ever played it. I haven't tried playing along with the album yet.

Talking about work

If you want to earn my undying adoration, ask me how my job is. And really want to know. There's nothing I like talking about more, especially with someone who is interested. But if you're just asking to hear a "fine, thanks, how is yours?" well, that's usually what I expect. And I'm self-conscious then about really talking. I stumble over my words, trail off, and scan your face furiously to see if I can pinpoint the exact moment when you lose interest, because I am terrified of overstepping my bounds. That no one really wants to know that one of my clients tried to commit suicide, or that another's husband is stalking her, and I had to listen to his angry messages on her voicemail. Or even the good stuff, like how three of my clients have bonded, and once clustered around my desk together, talking, referring to themselves as my three babes. And how my heart nearly leapt out of my chest and I felt totally complete, in that moment.

I try to keep it to myself--no matter how hard it is--and minimize the importance of talking it out, because I'm worried people don't like to hear about it. Most people nowadays who ask about my job don't pursue the conversation further after I say, "oh, this week was really stressful [or fantastic, or whatnot]." I think people feel uncomfortable with anything more, and I worry it's because they think I'm bragging or something. "Look how good and noble I am, working such a job." I'm afraid it comes across as superiority, and that I look down on others who don't work or volunteer someplace difficult and draining. I have no idea where this came from, if I'm overly sensitive, or have accurately picked up on people's signals. I guess it's not surprising--I really don't think I'm better than everyone else. (I think I don't do enough sometimes, but that's not a reflection on what others do, it's my own sense of inferiority and perfectionism.)

Except once I had a friend dump me for being too self-involved (I was going through a rough breakup at the time. Cut me some slack, ok?), and I still blame that for being scared now to talk too much about myself and my things. I know this "friend" was unusually cruel, and never a good friend in the first place, but still. It's always easiest to believe the bad things about yourself.

I don't know how to get past all that, and trust that I can share myself with others. Where are the people with whom I can make an instant connection, and let down my guard--and babble about my crazy difficult wonderful amazing job? Why are they so few and far between--and even scarcer down here?

Music mixes

I made a mix CD last night. When I start working on one, I get obsessed, and the whole night passes before I realize what time it is. I think this one is a stroke of genius, but it's hard to tell. I think I blended new wave synth pop, angry PJ Harvey, Michael Jackson, dizzy stoner electronica, trumpet-heavy jazz, and alt-country art school with a brilliant touch, though.

But maybe I just stuck songs on there and since I like all of them, the flow sounded good to me. I did try to fit a Zepplin song on there, and it didn't seem to work. When I stopped moving it around in the list, and just took it out, everything fell into place, so maybe the whole mix works.

No one has ever exactly raved about my mixes, though. So this one may fall to the back of the shelf again, along with the rest of my mixes. (But I did, for Joolz, put on another Alejandro. Mixes are never complete without him and his angst. I can't wait for her to hear it.)

Suicide attempt

So the woman, the one who was shot in the stomach. A lot of folks believed it was a suicide attempt, but I didn't. I was the one who knew her best, after all. Not her.

Her husband owned a lot of guns. I thought for sure if he didn't intentionally shoot her, then at least there was a scuffle over the gun, and the shooting was accidental.

I was just so sure. And I got mad at her lawyer who "diagnosed" her as suicidal from just one phone call.

I went to see her today in the psych ward at the hospital, after she finally survived intensive care. There was a security guard posted outside her door. Her husband--ugh--was seated inside, waiting for her to get back from X-rays.

She had always been tiny, but now she seemed frail. So old beyond her years. The first thing she said was: "I did it. I shot myself."

It hurts so much to hear someone say, "I have nothing to live for. I'm going to lose everything," and to know that, in some ways, it's true, and nothing I could say would change the fact that her life is really, really hard, and really, really sucks, and doesn't have much chance of ever getting easy, and fun, worth living for and beautiful.

The first thing Tim said was, "It's not your fault."

I know that. I wouldn't be so self-centered to blame her suicide attempt on some failing of mine. I never thought that I did less than the best that I could.

It just hurts. That kind of despair hurts everyone it touches.

Prayer flags

A book explaining the meaning behind the Tibetan prayer flags and 5 little ones was on sale at Barnes & Noble this weekend. I've always wanted them. I haven't read much of the explanations yet, but I think the writing on the flags is the entire history/meaning/(I'm not sure) of Buddhism.

What I've always wanted to do, though, is create my own flags. Sew the five colors of material to a string and mark my own prayers on the fabric with a permanent marker. This strikes me as being either a.) extremely spiritually significant for myself; or b.) terribly disrespectful to actual prayer flags and Buddhism itself.

I know that the colors of the flags correspond (in part) to the five elements: space, water, fire, air/wind, and earth. Since nature is so meaningful to me, I think I could keep my prayers within the elements. (Instead of, say, putting out a prayer that I'd win the lottery.)

I love the idea that the flags send out blessing into the world when the wind carries them. And I suppose that, given the nature of Buddhism, Buddhists wouldn't mind if I created my own. After all, it's not like I'm using crucifixes as a headboard because I like the way that looks. I feel so moved when I see these flags, like the one above with the sun shining through the prayers, that I can't help thinking any way that I create these would be a moment of prayer for myself.

Cooking

I read cookbooks the way other people devour novels. Even when I am not looking for a recipe to use for dinner tonight, I'll browse for upcoming dinners. When I start craving dessert, I'll open up Joy of Cooking to the cake section and daydream about what I'd like to try. I have so many pages flagged that the book flutters when the wind blows past it.

Cooking calms me. It's the perfect stress reliever. Not particularly on the evenings when I get home late, strung-out on trauma, and shaking from hunger, but on the days when I can plan ahead. This weekend, I planned my first homemade Indian meal by picking out the recipes Friday night and making the grocery lists. Saturday I shopped and made the marinade for the chicken so it could soak up all that garam masala overnight. Sunday I measured out all the ingredients and stacked the containers on the counter and in the fridge in the order that they'd have to be added to the dish. So when it came down to the actual cooking, I made myself a pot of Chai Masala and leisurely cooked, taking time to smell everything and swirl the richly colored spices around in the pans.

Ginger chickpeas, curried rice pilaf, and Chicken Tikka Masala. Oh heaven. But the best part about cooking is having guests over and watching them swoon over the food. I'd love to be a chef, but I think that would probably take all the fun out of it.

Valentine's Day

When I was a sophomore in high school, a secret admirer left a rose in my locker. I was thrilled--until someone recognized the handwriting on the note as the dorky new kid's. Having a lame secret admirer is worse than not having one at all.

Back in those days, my friends and I would shower each other with V-day flowers. It was always exciting to see how rose- and balloon-filled the main office was today.

When I was 24, I had just started dating my boss, and I took him to an art gallery that was women-run. It was a fund-raising night, and they had art openings, appetizers, and a psychic. He gave me a silver card with a Gerber daisy on it (two favorite things) that said, "Be mine?"

Two years ago, I was dating an impotent depressive. We went to my favorite Thai place and I got us tickets to see Neko Case at my guitar school. A fairly impressive V-day date, in my opinion. During dinner, he snapped at me for wanting conversation because he'd "had a really stressful day." I don't know how he liked the concert, because I ignored him and focused on the great music. After the show, we went home, got into bed--each keeping to our own side--and I thought about how miserable I was. We broke up a week later.

This year, Tim and I agreed to not do anything. Which is good, because he's currently in bed with hallucinations (bad reaction to a cortisone shot he got a few weeks ago), but I kind of wish I had made him a pretty hand-made Valentine. I suppose going home and announcing that I got the alignment fixed on the Corolla is really the best present for him.

Creepiness

This week, I had to go rescue someone whose car had broken down in the next town over. I didn't want to go, because it meant missing a baby shower for a friend I hadn't seen in a while, but there was no one else around to do it, and I figured, it's only about 8 miles away. How long could that take? I skipped my lunch hour and went with another counselor.

It was a grey day, raining intermittently. In the beginning, it was sort of fun, because I've not seen much Alabama countryside (I stick to the city). And the country is really pretty down here. Hauntingly beautiful on a dark day when it's been raining all week. Spanish moss hung from the trees, ghostlike in its winter grey-green. We were near a river, but there was also standing water making swamps in just about every field we passed.

But it wasn't until we realized we had no idea where this woman was that I started to regret the trip; and haunting no longer meant really damn pretty. It meant--haunting. We drove down one lonely highway for a while until my companion said, "I don't have a good feeling about this." In all likelihood, that probably meant "Jesus is telling me this is not the road we're looking for," but I have darker sensibilities, and I started to get a creepy feeling in my stomach. I pulled off onto a dead end to turn around. The road was crumbling blacktop, and it was hard to get traction once we got off the shoulder. I slammed on the brakes that put us into a tailspin when I realized, in front of us, rain-soaked and partially gutted, left for dead (they were), were two deer crumpled in the mud.

Where I'm from, deer are hunted for their meat and their horns. Not left to be scavenged by wild animals on the side of the road. Then it started to rain in earnest, and I got scared. Perhaps a slightly ridiculous feeling, because I was enclosed in a powerful van with another person, an impenetrable barrier to whatever I was scared of. Maybe? I felt (imagined?) a disquiet, unwelcoming presence in the country there. The South frightens me in many ways, but the most indescribable way is how I feel in the country here. I feel as though the wilderness could tear me to pieces without anything ever laying a hand on me. Like the desolation is a real person gone mad from loneliness.

My head felt shattered: a throbbing signal kept blinking in my right temple, sending pain waves throughout my skull. Air pressure headaches, I believe. Their power to cripple does little to dissuade me that this country is out to get me.

I hate salesmen

Period. No salesman will ever sway my mind about a product, no matter how hard he tries. Particularly how hard he tries, because I think it's pretty disrespectful to not believe I know my own mind.

I know that's their job, but still.

I reserve my most supreme hatred for the magazine sellers who haunted my college campus. Though I have already stated my hate for people trying to sell me things, what bothers me more is when they try to disguise that they're just plain selling something. But since I haven't been in school for a while now, I didn't recognize it when it knocked on my door last night.

First it was "I'm introducing myself to all the cool neighbors." Then it was, "I'm in a speech class, and I have to meet 500 people to get over the fear of public speaking. How am I doing?"

"My class is having a contest."

"If I'm the first to meet 500 people, they'll send me to Rome, Paris, London . . ."

He emoted, gestured, and hammed his way through his monologue (well done, I'll admit, for I didn't suspect anything until he brushed off my "what are you selling?" with a "C.P.A. That stands for Cuteness, Personality, and Attitude."), and didn't get to the point for about 10 minutes. Finally he pulled out his list of magazine subscriptions. Tried to guilt me with a "but you can buy a subscription for the children's hospital!"

And he tried to sway me with, "It's cheap and easy! Just like my ex-girlfriend!"

Who says shit like that to women they don't know? But it was a wonderful opportunity to shut the door in his face after saying, "You lost me with that joke."

I hate people.

Hands and fingers

I am entranced by hands and fingers. It's been a fascination for my whole life, since I grew up taking piano with the Suzuki method. My teacher would play me something, I'd watch, and play it back. It wasn't until I was 14 or 15 that I learned how to read music. Everything was done by sight and memory.

I remember at Suzuki summer camp, watching Valerie Lloyd Watts perform on a grand piano in the middle of a stage where I'd eventually sit for lecture classes in college--the piano angled so the keys and her hands were visible to the audience. A blur, that's all her fingers were. It was visually spectacular, and I have trouble now listening to piano CDs without wanting to also watch what the hands are doing. As I got older, and better, I'd watch the fingers to see if I'd be able to play the pieces. Then I saw George Winston perform (best known for his Linus and Lucy), and gave up the idea that my fingers would ever be able to move like his.

Then I started playing the guitar, and started watching the guitarists when I'd go to shows. I watch my dad's hands to know what chords to play when we jam together. I'd watch Ani DiFranco's hands and just marvel at what she could make them do. The alt-country bands I'd see in Chicago, I'd watch them and think, "I could be in their band. Why don't they need another back-up guitarist who looks good in leather pants and can move through chords quickly?"

And now, I'm checking out what the drummers do. There was not nearly enough camera time spent on Paul McCartney's drummer during the Superbowl half-time show, but once, I noticed him doing the same drum pattern that I can play! Of course, the other shots of him showed moves I can't even dream about yet, but still. It gave me a small glimmer of hope for my rock-star drumming future that I already know how to do one key beat.

My own hands are . . . I don't know. The fingers aren't long like I'd always wanted them to be, but maybe I can't see them for what they really are. I can hit one above an octave, so maybe? The neck of my guitar fits in between my thumb and index finger, and my fingers can sense the strings below them, and the chords follow. (Bar chords--that's a whole nother story. My fingers don't like those.) But the callouses are coming back to my left fingers. I like their hard roughness. They make me feel like I've been doing enough, practicing enough.

My hands don't yet know quite how to hold the sticks. I remember my 5th grade band teacher showing the new drummers how to hold the sticks--jazz style? I don't know. Different from how I hold them, and I wonder which I should do. My hands don't yet have the physical memory of the sticks, but it will come with time. And I can't wait!

Sunday

I woke up in time to go to one of Tim's staged readings that was part of the Southern Writer's Project. His part was a 27-year-old brother of the main character. He was extremely sensitive. The whole play was a beautifully written piece of magical realism. I loved it. Afterwards the playwright and the dramaturgist did a Q&A. Whenever I'm around theatre buffs, I feel like such an idiot. Folks were spouting off stuff like "The dichotomy of illusory plot and the physical presence of . . ." Oh shut the hell up. Theatre for me boils down to: "I liked it," "I was bored," etc. And one theatre bitch was talking about how she didn't buy x, y, or z about the plot. I hate it when people dismiss magical realism because they aren't able to stretch their imagination around it, and so they call it "unbelievable." I felt so bad for the playwright, because it was seriously the most well-written play I've heard in a long time. I even cried a little at the end. And plays? Don't make me cry.

Then Tim had the afternoon off, and the day was gorgeous--60 degrees and sunny. We threw open the windows, let the cats frolic on the balcony, and flung ourselves into the heady joy of setting up the drum kit! One of the boxes that the equipment came in was badly torn up when we received it, so the tension rods and support legs for the bass drum were missing. But we were able to put everything else up. With the mutes on everything, it's not that noisy at all. I spent a while tapping out the only beat I know. I have a tendancy to speed, so I got out the annoying metronome to keep my beat. It's an easy pattern. Hit the high hat on 1, 2, 3, 4; the bass on 1, and the snare on 3. I thought I'd get bored quickly, then frustrated because I didn't know any other patterns, but, oddly, it's fairly entrancing to spend a while on the beat. And since I have to focus otherwise I lose it, and start hitting on the off-beat, or my foot misses the pedal, I need lots of practice. I'm going to keep working until my mind can wander and still hold the rhythm.

And we watched more Buffy. We're up to Season 3. We're addicted. We were going to watch The Gift, but NetFlix has been sucking lately and the DVD was thoroughly cracked.

After, we found some coupons for a steak place and spent half an hour talking ourselves into going out to eat (something we probably shouldn't do for a while). But we're bad at monitoring ourselves, and since we shared a steak, and ended up spending $45 less than the last time we went there? Not so bad. While we were in there, we listened to their piped-in, cheesy country music, and patted out the drum beats on the table. Obsessed, who?

And the Superbowl, of course, which was on in the background. All in all, a perfect day. It was such a treat to get to spend it all with Tim, who ordinarily has to spend most of Sundays in class or rehearsal.

It was good to store up calm peaceful times, because today I found out someone I know was shot in the stomach. By her husband, I assumed initially, but it was more upsetting to later find out that it might have been self-inflicted. Should get to the bottom of this.

Someday I'm going to

Run a whole-body health center. I'll do therapy; Charity will teach yoga. We'll make friends with a massage therapist and ask her to move her business into our space. We'll need a naturopath, an acupuncturist . . . what else? (We had a big long list . . .) It will be a beautiful space, women-run. The walls will be painted brilliant colors, there will be lots of plants everywhere, and windows. We can hire out the yoga space for drum circles in the evenings, or hold art openings in the lobby. It will be a center that draws in people and gives them comfort.

Open a store-front theatre. Tim will be the artistic direct and I will do the business of running the company, as well as be the graphic designer for all our publicity materials. We'll put on small shows that incorporate music and dancing and we'll become the rage and hotspot of the Denver theatre scene. There'll be a small cafe or bar attached to the theatre space, and it will be a dark, quiet hangout for patrons before the show, and where the actors unwind after. When there's not a show up, we'll have open mic nights, and I'll get up a band of my social worker friends, where I'll play the drums.

Be a young adult librarian. I'll wear my hot librarian glasses and create an oasis in the middle of a library for the young adults. I'll spend my days reading and recommending the latest books, and planning activities for the youth advisory board to carry out.

Run a creative arts camp for at-risk youth. Maybe just for girls, though I'd hate to deny them the joy of having camp flings. It will be a camp in the middle of a forest, with a small lake for swimming and boating, trails for hiking, and dusty cabins for hanging out during free time. There will be workshops for writing, acting, and music. The kids would all work on their individual talents and create a piece to be performed at the end of the week/month/summer.

Educate about domestic violence. I'll be a reknowned speaker and trainer for domestic violence. I'll lead workshops and inspire people to advocate for battered women. I'll write books and manuals, and everyone will refer to me as "the leading expert in . . . "

I will change lives, give hope, make a difference.

The lost art of flirting

Tim and I talked last night about flirting, and sexual banter. I've never been much for the banter with my friends, but ever since I learned how to flirt, it's been my favorite thing. It's just so fun to do. Kind of affirming, a celebration of being alive.

Ok, maybe that's attempting to get too deep about it. But it can make me giddy, raise my spirits, remind me that I'm fun and cute. The best is when it's two people appreciating each other without misinterpreting the situation. And I think that, since getting married, I haven't figured out what the new appropriate behavior is. And I think my problem is that I believe it has to somehow change.

Yet, conversely, I don't have this idea that since suddenly I am a married woman, I am forbidden from appreciating other people than the husband. We are both open about the fact that not noticing other beauty is pretty impossible, and why cut ourselves off from the enjoyment of interactions with others?

I don't think it's something that Tim struggles with as much as me, because he needs those sparks and connections to castmates, to bring genuine emotion to whatever role he's playing. Unlike Angelina Jolie, though, he understands that fucking your co-star actually ruins the chemistry. He just needs that spark.

There's one man who works at my agency. One man out of about fifty women. He's the tech guy. And he's only on-site when there's a computer problem. I only see him every few weeks. He seems very nice, and he's surprisingly good looking for all the tech guys I've known. All the women in my office are friends with him, so he'll sit in the office when he's doing with the computers, chatting. I don't know if I'm just caught off-guard by seeing a man in a very female-centric place, or if maybe I am secretly attracted to him and feel uncomfortable with that. But I get extremely awkward around him, and end up running out of the office and not saying anything. I feel so weird. Sometimes I think if Tim and I were not so open, I might not be feeling so strange. Because if we didn't talk about how normal and natural attraction was, then I wouldn't think about it, and I'd just go with my accustomed reaction to hot men. But now, I'm thinking about how it's fine for me to act like I normally do, but since I'm thinking about it, I jinx myself and start acting awkward.

Man alive. I think too much.

Heaviness

Ugh. The administrative assistant here got a call on her cell this morning that her house was in flames. It burned to the ground. Her cat was in there. At least her husband and kids weren't at home, but still. They've lost everything.

I just found out someone I tried to help is now on crack, and still getting beaten regularly. She'll get an extra beating for talking to me again.

Another person I tried to help ran away from the excellent place we found for her, and is back in the city wanting more help. When I last saw her, she was 8 months pregnant, and about to pop. There was no mention of a baby when she called me, so I don't know what happened to it. I can't help her that much, because she burned her bridges with us.

Luckily, for myself, my biggest concern is what kind of treat to make Tim's cast and crew this evening in an hour before he needs them, but still. Sometimes I can't block out the world's problems.

This day weighs heavy on me.

What is this?

Today I talked to a lawyer at Legal Services twice. During one conversation, we got sidetracked from business and started talking about the sickness that is Michael Jackson.

What is this? Do I sense a potential new friend?

PMS

When I got out of the shower this morning, Tim was awake, sitting up in bed, looking for all the world like a puppy who was about to explode.

"I need to smother you right now!" he said.

"I have PMS," I responded.

"Oh," he said. "I'll give you space then. But just remember, if you need to be smothered, I'm in a smothering mood."

I love how understanding he is. It puts me in a much better frame of mind to be smothered. So I let him smother me once right before I left for work (late, so I was even grumpier), and now that I'm at work, the only place I want to be is back home in his arms. But I suspect that if I were actually there, I'd be grumpy about something new, and not want to be touched.

But he's working late this week, 9 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. with only a break for dinner, so I'll have a chance to properly miss him if my hormones would stop acting so wily.

Before I ever shared a bed with anyone on a regular basis, I'd hear women talk about not being able to sleep when their partners were gone. And I thought, "poor, pathetic woman. What's wrong with you, can't you sleep on your own?" I thought I'd love having a break from sharing a bed, because all I knew was how much I liked sprawling across my own. And how hard it was to share a bed with someone, the every now and then that I did it. (Although on my own, I rarely slept through the night, tossing and turning.)

Now I'm the poor, pathetic woman, because I toss and turn, only briefly napping, until he's home, and then when he gets into bed and the cats settle down on top of us, I fall deep asleep. I wonder why that is? His presence seems to calm all my jitters and antsiness.