I'm gonna be a rock star

Cue: Hyperventilation. Panic. Dizziness. Excitement. Crazy joy.

We just bought this for me:

(Our neighbors are going to hate us. )

So I finally get to fulfill my wildest dream. The first time I sat at a drum kit, and friends taught me an easy beat that could keep time for such songs as "Another One Bites the Dust," I was terrified and exhilarated at the same time. I had never considered learning the drums, because I imagined that everyone wanted to play the drums. Who hasn't daydreamed about that? Well, I guess not everyone does, so perhaps my fantasies of sitting behind the band and kicking out a thumping bass beat for the other musicians was something to consider pursuing.

Tim says I was born a drummer. I think he's full of crap, and is saying that because he thinks I can do anything. But I think, considering how much I want to play, I bet I could become pretty rockin' with some practice.

But I'm terrified, too. We got a pretty incredible deal on the drum set, but they're still very expensive. Probably a foolish purchase for an actor and a social worker. Now I'm under pressure to work really hard at them, in order to justify the price. What if I suck? What if, like most of my musical endeavors, I get really frustrated when I'm not immediately awesome, and want to give up?

But . . . damn. We're going to be a dynamo rhythm section all on our own. We could make any band happy with our bass and drum kit.

Giving up the sauce

This weekend, we tried the organic burrito place. It was fantastic, despite having an extremely sullen waitress. The food was amazing. And there's nothing better than knocking back a few Coronas with a burrito slathered in hot sauce.

And I needed the Coronas. I'm not a huge beer drinker. Beer doesn't go down as easily as a gin and tonic or a martini. Very rarely will I even crave the taste. But every now and then, it's exactly what I need.

Halfway through my first bottle, though, I stopped being able to breathe through my nose. In the middle of the second one, I began to sneeze (though that also could have been due to freezing my ass off by the exit). But, only two beers? Even though I took an allergy pill before bed, and drank as much water as I could stomach, all of Sunday, I had a massive pressure headache, and my sinuses were throbbing from being so blocked up. (I'm pretty sure I'm not allergic to alcohol--they just aggravate the allergies.)

But to the point that I think I have to give up drinking. I hate that. I never thought much about it until I decided to give it up. Abstaining is only a hardship when I make the specific decision not to drink. Suddenly I remember how much I like gin and tonics, and how sometimes the perfect way to greet the evening is with a Greyhound. Or how much better a romantic meal is with a bottle of wine.

I hate my sinuses. I want them to die. I want pharmaceutical companies to develop an allergy pill that will actually work. Why is that so much to ask for??

The Food Stamps office

Today I went to the Food Stamps office to drop off a client's application. All you have to do is hand the application to the lady behind the counter. The first time I went, I asked her, "So does this person need to contact you, or wait for your call, or what?"

Nothing important; I didn't really know their procedure.

But I was ashamed later because I think I probably asked the questions to let the woman know that I certainly was not dropping off the application for myself. I even put on lipstick that day.

So today, when she asked if she could help me, I said, "I'm just dropping this application off." Immoderately proud, too, that I didn't elaborate. I didn't realize until the first time I went there how hard it might be to ask for help. I've never really had to, so I've always figured that resources exist to help those who need it--why would those people hesitate for single second to get that help? So I understood, when it was my immediate reaction to distance myself from the depths and ugliness of need, how hard it would be admitting you can't do it all on your own, and you need help. I've always been more comfortable struggling to admitting I can't make it alone. And I think realizing that makes it easier to learn how to ask for help in the future.

But that's me thinking philosophically with the social worker's name tag on my chest, not standing in the shoes of someone who can't afford to eat.

Radio commercial

Intro: beginning strains of "The Electric Slide"

Perky female announcer: Everyone knows this--Tan fat looks better than white fat. So come on into [Whatever Tanning Salon] for a half-hour session today!


For real. This is what I hear on the radio down here.

I want a friend

Tomorrow, there's a chance I may see a woman I want to be my new best friend. I've only seen her twice, and talked to her once. She just seems like someone I would be friends with. I talked to her November-ish at the last Task Force against Domestic Violence monthly meeting that we both attend. And there's another meeting tomorrow.

It takes a lot for me to just strike up a conversation with a stranger (if I already have something invested in the conversation, like, say, I think the person is cool and want to get to know them), but I knew she worked at the rape crisis center, and I had an issue to talk about with one of their employees. So I figured it would be a good start. Of course, I forgot to ask her name, or introduce myself, so I am a bonehead.

I hate being in the vulnerable position of thinking someone is cool, and wanting to be their friend. Or even worse, really wanting and needing friends. It's always easier to strike up friendships when you don't actually need them.

So anyway, I've been giving quite a bit of thought to possibly seeing her tomorrow, and how to not-at-all awkwardly say, "hey, I'm new to the city; you seem cool; want to get a drink sometime?" I hate how much thought I'm giving it. It makes me feel a little sick inside. It's enough to make me say, "Alright, already! I don't need a new friend badly enough to feel so gross about how much I'm thinking and planning what I'm going to say."

Except that I do need friends. I think lack of friends is the last thing that's keeping me from being really happy here.

I hate making new friends. I'm so bad at it. It's like having to ask out a new guy, except that it's more stressful. I never had a problem asking guys out. With girls, if I think they are cool, it suddenly becomes vitally important that they think I'm cool in return, (but I never actually believe people value me like that) so I psyche myself out of exploring potentially wonderful new friendships.

I hate this about myself. I don't understand how I could have self-confidence about everything in my life but my personality. I feel like it's something I could talk about for years in therapy (and I have before), yet not change about myself.

Different cultures

Today at our weekly meeting, we were discussing Muslim and Islamic practices regarding marriage, and domestic violence. A lot of definitely false statements were bandied about, and I was really surprised and uncomfortable with how ignorant a lot of people were about the different cultures.

But here's where I'm an asshole, because I don't actually know the difference between Muslim and Islam, and I don't know many distinct features of either culture, so I couldn't pipe up and correct anyone. I could only vaguely tell when a statement was very wrong, but not what the truth was. Does one accept stoning a woman for leaving her husband (regardless of how he treats her), and the other not? I have no idea.

I wish I knew more. Add that to the huge-ass list.

Couldn’t Keep It to Myself

Leanne's purchase of Couldn't Keep It to Myself reminded me of how much I used to hate Wally Lamb. I read She's Come Undone when I was in college (or so), right when I was discovering feminism. Neophyte feminists--hell, neophyte anyones--are always the worst. Railing against the injustices of the world with a blind eye to nuance. "Women in angst" books bothered me, period. But when a man thought he could write about the female experience, about the intricacies of being an exploited, traumatized, overweight teenage girl? In my angry mind, I thought, "How dare he?" Men already held the power to most things in the world, and now they were trying to take over the female experience, too?

(And my feelings were intensified by the fact that I also just plain disliked the book.)

From the writer side of me, I realized that writing solely from one's own experience would greatly stifle creation. And while I personally have never had luck writing beyond my experience, that's probably due more to my limitations as a writer, and not the fact that one shouldn't write beyond her experience.

So I recognized my irrationality regarding Wally Lamb, but then I decided he just wasn't a very good writer.

But then one day, a friend gave me Couldn't Keep It to Myself: Testimonies from Our Imprisoned Sisters, short stories from a women's writing group that Wally Lamb led in a prison in Connecticut. The stories were amazing, heart-breaking, well-written. The work that he did with the women gave me new respect for him, and I realized that maybe he did have enough cred to write about the female experience. Or maybe, now that I'm older, I can see the world in a little more grey, and not so much black and white. Or maybe I just like it when anyone is an advocate for women, regardless of their gender.

But he's okay by me.

Cold, cold, cold.

I heat up my rice sock before bed, and put it at my feet. Then I layer blankets and kitties on top. And I still wake up freezing (though relatively happy, sandwiched between two sleeping cats). But I wear my fall leather jacket outside, a scarf, and those stretchy gloves that provide absolutely no warmth whatsoever, so I guess it's not as bad as Chicago was.

I have already successfully forgotten how bad that cold was, and how I wanted to die each winter because I didn't know how I'd make it through once more.

I heard last night it will be beautiful by March, and the dogwoods and azaleas will be blooming, so there's really only one month of cold to get through. I could get used to this.

This weekend, we went out for dinner at Tomatino's (the pizza place I talked about in Moments of Grace) with some of Tim's classmates, and waited next door at Cafe Louisa (which is a coffeehouse I could spend hours in, reading and drinking tea) for a table to be ready. Two of the dressers from the costume shop joined us, so the conversation was only a little bit about theatre, and mostly about other things that interested me, too. They were fun to hang out with—both women who had grown up in the South, yet knew where the best transvestite show was around here (Prattville). So instead of going to the indie theatre across the street after dinner for "House of Flying Daggers," we went to 1048, which is the live-music club that, early evenings, is a good place to hang out with good friends, good conversation, and good beer. We left before the verging-on-hipster band started playing, because we were there for the conversation. And it reminded me of what I miss the most: evenings out with friends. I think I need them on a regular basis.

The future holds the promise of an evening of tequila shots and organic burritos. I'm discovering a hidden world here, and I like it.

Cats

When I decided to get a cat, my boyfriend and I went to the shelter, and I wandered around petting cats. I thought it would be hard in the "I want them all" kind of way, but none of them really caught my heart.

Then we went into a room that was filled with pure black kittens! I was playing with all of them, and one of them jumped in my lap, curled up, and fell asleep. So of course I knew which one I wanted. Fergus (then named Blatz after the beer) had an upper respiratory infection or something at the time, so I couldn't take him for two weeks. I couldn't stop crying when we left, because I knew I had to have him.

After I finally brought him home, he spent the next four years being a punk kitty. It wasn't until I met Tim that Fergus started settling down and becoming an adorably cuddly cat. Since the time we met at the shelter, he has never once sat in my lap. Which leads me to the conclusion that either he's a damn smart cat, and knew how to hook me (quite probable), or I got the wrong cat (also quite probable).

It was harder finding Olivia, because Tim and I had to agree on a cat together. We knew we wanted another blackie, but he wasn't drawn to any of the ones I was. I was becoming acquainted with a tabby while he was petting another on a kitty jungle gym. A little kitten above him was asleep. She woke up, walked over to him, and started licking his head. When he brought her down to me, she did the now-familiar kitty flop on my lap. So again (what is it with me?) I started crying because I wanted her so badly. The shelter workers had to confer in private, because she had a brother there and the workers weren't sure if the kittens should be broken up.

I don't feel too bad now about breaking up their family, because now she's part of ours. I like that both of our cats chose us instead of us choosing them.

Guitar

I can now play "Wild World" well enough that it is recognizable as a real song. Tim hasn't finessed the finger picking part, though, so I'll blame it on him that our duets have breaks in the middle of each line where we get off rhythm from each other, look at each other, and try to start again. In "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," though, we sound like pros. I think we should take this act to the streets for some extra cash.

People skills

I get a crazy rush out of putting people at ease, making them feel safe, knowing when to ask the right questions and when to listen, and giving them hope. It's weird. Today I did walk-in counseling for a woman, and by the end of our conversation, she said she felt relief knowing what options she had to keep herself safe. I left, and almost did my own version of a touch-down dance in the hallway. I feel so great knowing I am a good listener, and counselor, and that people feel comfortable talking to me. I can't believe the empowerment I feel, loving my job like I do. I feel like I am capable of anything it throws at me, and I've never felt that way about anything in my life.

Sometimes I wonder if my job has hidden stressors, that how much I put into it is taking unknown tolls on me emotionally or physically. But I also have a hard time believing it could hurt me when I have such crazy love for it.

Last night, though, I was thinking about a woman who has to encounter her husband occasionally over matters of their children, and how she told me the only reason he probably wouldn't kill her was that he believed in God and the afterlife. I'm scared for her safety anyway. Men can be really fucked up even if they believe in God. But I had to stop myself from thinking about her after hours, because I know that's when the caring gets dangerous.

But on a happier note, I led a fun support group yesterday; we made stress balls out of balloons and sand. Sometimes I worry that I relate too much on a client-counselor basis, and that I might start having a hard time in personal relationships because I'd do the same with those. But I've found that support groups I lead usually end up with everyone chatting off-topic after we're done with the educational parts, and it's a good way to get to hang out with the women on a more casual basis. At any rate, it's a nice reminder that everyone is human like me.

Competitive-ness

I don't know if Tim's and my competitive natures are a particularly toxic combination, or if I just have a serious character flaw. I cannot play games with him. Specifically, I cannot play games with him if he's teaching me how to play them. His mom and sis got him a Mah Jongg set for his birthday. I have always wanted to learn how to play (if for no other reason than I like the Asian characters and designs on the tiles. I didn't actually know that it was like gin rummy. I thought it was played like dominos.).

So we made chili, invited two of his classmates over, and had a nice evening planned. And everything was lovely until we got out the tiles and Tim started explaining how the game works. Instantly, I started being a bitch. I was embarrassed, because I don't like to do that around guests, at the risk of making them feel uncomfortable. But I just couldn't help it. I hated the game! I hated not knowing how to play it. And I particularly hated that Tim ended up with 1,000-plus points, while I had 26. (That the other two beginners had less than 20 didn't make me feel better.)

My competitive nature seems to revolve mostly around trying to beat him at everything. It's a road headed to heartbreak for me, however, as he is naturally gifted in just about everything he tries, and extremely intelligent to boot. I kind of hate him. As of yet, I have never beat him at a single board or card game.

I have spent my life being better than most people in most things, yet coming to terms with the fact that I'm not actually that great. So I don't know why my inner ten-year-old "I'm the best at everything" comes out when he and I play games. Or why the person I love most in the world is also the person I'll do anything to be better than.

No, not better. As good as. It seems to be the death of my self-confidence sometimes to be with someone and feel like I'm not as good as they are in all things. I know it's futile, and one that could ruin me and the relationship if I don't keep control of it. Thank god I'm not an actor, and he not a social worker. It's better when I cultivate my own life and talents.

In bed later, after I got over myself, we talked about it. He said that his classmates, the girls we had over for dinner, view me as being extremely self-confident. I talk about my job quite a bit with them, and they have relationship talks with Tim a lot, so I think that's where their perception comes from. Because I am really confident about my abilities job-wise, it makes me think that I should just stick to doing things I know how to do, or am already good at. But, oddly, the confidence I am finding in my work leads me to feel (slightly more) confident about doing things I am not good at, or have never done before.

Too bad that doesn't bleed over into learning new board games. But at least the new confidence is affecting the important parts of my life. If I'm unable to play board games maturely, but can lead small group discussion or listen empathically to someone in crisis and help her, well, I think it'll be ok.

Night out

We went to the second best Thai restaurant for dinner last night. I don't know if my standards are falling because of having to make do with what there is here, but the Pad See Ew was so good, and the waitress so helpful, I'm moving it up to the number one slot.

It was just so good to have Thai food again.

Afterwards, we went next door to an Asian market. What? Yes. An Asian market. I couldn't believe it. It was so amazing to find this little world in the middle of Strip-Mall City. I got tapioca pearls and joss paper.

I never knew what joss paper was. My first encounter with it was in San Francisco, 1998, spring break senior year of college. Hannah and I were walking up one of the hills, and suddenly the wind picked up and we were rained on by little sheets of rice paper with a metallic square on each. We were both enchanted by the squares of paper, and collected as many as we could. Through the years, I used them sparingly, not knowing where to find more, or how to make them. I mostly put them on candles. The orange and gold squares looked beautiful against red or blue ones.

So I was really excited to find them at the market, and I asked the woman running the store what they were used for. She said the papers were burned at the New Year. I hope she wasn't offended that I bought them without knowing what they were. Now that I know their religious significance, they're even more special to me. I like that I had such a strong connection to them from the beginning and then discovered that they had an even greater spiritual significance than I originally knew.

I feel like if I had any rituals that I felt comfortable performing, I'd want the joss papers to figure into them. But since I am not comfortable with ritual, I think I'll instead give them quiet respect and reflection.

Recent obsessions

• Buffy season 2 episodes, watching Oz secretly lust after Willow
• Designing my sister's wedding invitations
• The Cure
• Light pink lip gloss over dark lipstick
• The Tama Rockstar drum set we're going to buy
• My job
• Topher Grace's extremely biteable lips
• Tetris on the cell phone
• Andy Goldsworthy and "Rivers and Tides"

I hate

I was out shopping today when I came up with the topic for today's blog. A list of things I hate. I kept thinking about it, and coming up with things to put on the list. It was progressing as I drove home, and I was getting angrier and angrier until when I walked into the apartment, I was ready to punch the wall.

And it all boiled down to this: I hate being desperately unhappy and unable to fix my feelings.

Love

Generally I abhor collections of cutesy things kids say. Also, I hate e-mail forwards just on general principle. But I did get one that struck something in me.
When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouths.--Billy, age 4

I needed to read that today.

Music

I wish I had discovered The Cure in high school. I think they would have helped me get through a lot. I would probably be a different person today, though.

I wish I had been exposed to more types of music then. I had an incredibly musical childhood (which accounts for my love of folk music), but it was all the influence of my parents. They had all the essentials (Dylan, the Stones, John Renbourn, Joni Mitchell, Fleetwood Mac), but by the time I was a kid, the records were gathering dust in the closet, and we mostly listened to the radio. Oldies in my dad's shop; NPR in the house (symphonies and opera during the week, Prairie Home Companion on weekends, and Hearts of Space in the wee hours of the morning). I remember sitting in the lunchroom in early grade school, agreeing with my class, "yeah, Michael Jackson is awesome!" and then wondering who the hell he was. I don't think it was until age 13 that I listened to contemporary "rock" music (if Bel Biv DeVoe counts as rock).

And it wasn't until the middle of high school that I started discovering my own music. (Well, R.E.M. for high school misfits was pretty de rigeur, but still.) And suddenly I had an outlet for what I was feeling. And then Pearl Jam (which came to Kansas terribly late); and my friends and I had a particular fondness for Soul Asylum, too. In college, I was affected particularly by Tori Amos, and later, Ani DiFranco. But I can't help feeling like a fucking cliche. What sensitive eighteen-year-old girl was not caught up by Tori and Ani?

I just feel so left out whenever Tim talks about his connection to music. His life was defined by which music he discovered when. Listening to Led Zepplin is a holy experience for him. When we met and he played me one of their albums, I got so pissed off that I was twenty-six and only just then discovering Zepplin. So left out of a life-changing experience.

It wasn't until I was living in Chicago that I discovered my musical connection. One night the first winter I lived here, my new friends Bob and Dan took me a small club in a warehouse district of the city. It was an old house converted into a bar and music venue. Part of the excitement was all the new experiences, being in the city, finally knowing people, making out with one of them, but when the band started playing, I thought, "Oh my god. I'm home." It was a bluegrass band! Something I had grown up with, hearing at festivals. So I started going to alt-country shows. Most of the audience were overall-wearing hipsters, the girls in thrift-store sweaters and trendy cats'-eye glasses; and I wasn't like that. But I still had a connection to the music scene, and I loved it.

Uncle Tupelo didn't exactly change my life, but their version of Iggy Pop's "I Wanna Be Your Dog" did inspire me to learn the guitar.

Oh, work

So, yeah. I don't work in the best neighborhood ever. Maybe I'm overly paranoid, but I hate that our car has distinctive bumper stickers so people remember it. I am thankful every dark evening that I leave work that I'm driving out of a secured parking lot, accessible only by key code, surrounded with chain links topped by razor wire. So I was freaked when someone I drove to DHR this week rolled down the passenger window and hollered out when we passed a porch filled with guys a few houses down from work. "Oh, they know what this place is," she said matter-of-factly. She and another woman have struck up a friendship with them--god only knows who they are.

I just don't get it. Some people's thought processes don't connect in the way mine might, which is, "don't flaunt yourself all over the place, talking to strange men, if you are trying to convince other people that you are in danger and scared for your life in the first place."

She probably knows, though, in some small way that her behavior is inappropriate, because she skipped out today when we were supposed to meet. Maybe she thinks if I can't find her, I can't tell her to leave.

Dream lover

Last night I dreamed I got together with Zach Braff. We were at a party with other celebrities, and I got to talk to Kirsten Dunst, too. I asked her hard-hitting questions like, "What's it like to get all that free stuff?" and "Is Maggie Gyllenhaal totally the coolest person ever or what? Do you think she'd be my best friend?"

But the best part was that Zach and I were cuddling in the corner, and he was just so sweet. But halfway through the party, I remembered I was married. Either Tim showed up, or I just started to feel sick with my infidelity.

It really burns me up that I can't kiss on anyone I want to in my dreams. I hate the guilt. I even woke up with a yucky feeling, so I had to "confess" it to Tim. My only consolation is that he is the same way. So at least he's not whooping it up, carefree in his celebrity make-out dreams, while I'm wracked with dumb guilt.

My busy husband

Tim’s in Tech right now—the week before a show opens, when the rehearsals are about running the show to get all the technical stuff coordinated: lights, sound, props, scene changes, etc. They call it 10 of 12s, which I think means their days consist of working ten out of twelve hours. So add that schedule to a really physical show where he is in most scenes, dancing and running around, and he’s wrecked most of the time I see him.

I miss him. I like having the house to myself ordinarily, but since his usual schedule gives me free reign of the place until ten o’clock each night, working until eleven means I’m in bed when he gets home, and we don’t get to chat before bed because he’s too wiped out to even function.

And I’ve been doing the dishes (his usual job) to lighten his load, and I’ll do whatever else I can to make things easier for him, but damn. I hate doing the dishes.

I can’t wait until the show opens, and he gets home at ten again. It’s hard to connect when things are so busy.

Plus, I miss my weekly backrub.

But at any rate, today is his day off, and he just called to tell me he’s reorganized the dining room so we can combat the cat pee–carpet problem. He concocted a “rub” of oregano (??) and catnip, and worked it into the carpet. He let it sit for awhile, then vacuumed it up. He said the next time Fergus went sniffing around in that spot, instead of crouching suspiciously over it, he laid down and sprawled out with a blissful expression on his face. Tim’s a genius. And I like it when I have a happy Fergus.

Sundays in the South

I have my weekends planned out pretty well. One day is for relaxing, the other for shopping. (It always surprises me how many groceries we go through a week.) The shopping day often also requires a trip to Target, which is never an appealing way to pass an hour or so. So this weekend, I defied my usual practice and spent Saturday relaxing, cleaning, and napping with the kitties. It was perfect. But that didn’t mean Sunday dawned and I jumped out of bed ready to shop.

But it helped that it is gorgeous today. Sixty or 65 degrees, which I believe is unusual for this time of year here. The streets were quieter than usual, and I decided to go to the music store first as a treat. I was looking forward to walking in wearing my J. Lo velour track suit, and completely confounding the clerk when I asked for a “Teach Yourself the Concertina” book and a go at the drum sets. Of course, being Sunday, it was closed. I was disappointed, but since the day was so beautiful, and it was good to get out of the house, I instead thought about what I love about Sundays here.

Most things are closed. I used to love spending Sunday mornings having breakfast at a diner, or at Café Selmarie, so it was hard to adjust to nothing being open here. Now I love how quiet it is. Everything shuts down, so I’m forced to relax. I appreciate the slower pace of life. In Chicago, Sunday was a mad dash to do something, to maximize my weekend, my time off before I went back to a job that I (irrationally) hated. If I didn’t do something cool, I’d end up in the evening with a heavy feeling in my stomach, a serious depression facing the rest of the night. Angela Chase did say it best: “There’s something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.”

(Was it really the frenetic pace of Chicago that made me feel like I never absorbed enough culture or city life? Or was it that I hated my job, felt stagnant in life, had a bunch of dreams that hinged on “next year” and “when x happens, I can do y”?)

At any rate, being here forces me to make the most of the little that’s here, and since I don’t like most of what’s here (though there is a real, authentic coffeehouse I keep meaning to check out), I feel more comfortable not doing anything. Relaxing, and enjoying my time off work.

I love this slow, deliberate pace of life. A quiet, reflective Sunday afternoon is my church. Wind in the trees the hymns, and a still pool of water my prayer.

Could I really spend my life in a small town that afforded this to me? Maybe I could, if it weren’t this small town.

Massive guilt

I found myself with the pedal to the floor on the drive home, I was so stressed out. A truck with no muffler, loudly gunning it, dodged and swerved past me. His license plate? "BUBBA 4." And I had to remind myself to breathe deeply and try to relax, otherwise I wouldn't make it home alive.

I found out someone went back to her husband today, instead of going through with the divorce meeting I had set up for her at Legal Services; I told someone she needed to step up her personal hygiene and take a shower every day; I talked to a woman whose husband tackled her to the ground and tried to suffocate her after she had him served with divorce papers, saying, "Why are you doing this? I love you!"; and when I was packing up my stuff to leave for the day, I got a call straight to my phone instead of the crisis line from a woman whispering, "He's right outside. I'm scared for my life." And I had to advise her that I could do nothing--she had to call the crisis line, not me.

So when the crisis line staff tried to put her through to me a few seconds later, I said, "I'm not doing crisis calls right now. I'm leaving for the weekend." (Technically I wasn't. I had put in my shift earlier.) "Patch it through to [whoever]." It turned out whoever wasn't available--though I knew at least three other people were still there who should have been able to take the call.

(Sometimes I wonder if intake just automatically calls me if they can't reach the person who should be doing crisis calls. I think I'm the only one who ever lets them know about shift changes, and if I pick up someone else's shift. So maybe now I've painted myself into a "responsible" corner and they lean on me extra because they know they can count on me to pick up others' slack.)

But by that point, I slipped out. I was due leaving early today because of extra work the day before. But still. In my haste--and stress--I forgot to get some antibacterial soap for the woman who needs to shower more often. And after stressing quite a bit the importance of showering every day, I feel like that was a big fuck-up on my part.

So despite a gin and tonic and mediocre sushi with Tim and two of his favorite cast mates, I still feel kind of sick that I left things that way. That I ran out and dumped things on co-workers. That I forgot to give something important to someone in need. That I was irresponsible, and worked by the clock instead of by the need. I know it's going to eat away at me all weekend so I can't relax or stop thinking about it, until Monday, when I come back to yet another crisis.

Wild World

Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Oh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

I taught myself this Cat Stevens song last night. I love it so much. My heart breaks when I listen to it. It’s so pretty, I wanted it to be our wedding song, until Tim pointed out, duh, it’s about leaving. (Which would make sense, because the first time I really heard it was on his Breakup mix—which I loved but would send me into severe depression every time I played it all the way through.)

I don’t play the guitar much anymore. I reached a point where I knew I was naturally good at it, but to be great would take some work, and my Lazy Perfectionist habits decree that at that point, I give up.

Sometimes my fingers ache to be on the strings again, though, and so I pick it up again, tune the sorry old strings, and try to remember chords. The only time I like my voice is when I’m singing along to the guitar. It just makes me so happy to play music; I remember that Tim and I vowed to spend our lives making music, and now I want to jam with him again.

We’re getting a drum set sometime in the near future so I can be the next Meg White, though, so no doubt our jamming will pick up again, and our neighbors will call the police.

Alfalfa

One day this week, when I got out of my car at the work parking lot, it smelled like freshly mown alfalfa. A strange and nostalgic smell, because I haven't smelled it since I lived in Kansas. It's a sweet farm smell. It's used as fodder for . . . I don't know. Probably cows, sheep, etc.

It took me a minute to reconcile the smell of alfalfa with the place, in the middle of a neighborhood where most windows are boarded up, men sit out on their porches all day and all night waiting for buyers, shiny Escalades are parked in driveways of houses that cost considerably less than that vehicle, people sleep in crawl spaces of the boarded-up houses because they have no real home, and there aren't any alfalfa fields for miles.

It reminded me of other smell memories from my childhood. The hay that filled the loft of Hannah's barn, where we'd build forts, play with kitties, and try to avoid snakes. The smell of her house, which reeked with the beauty of greenhouses, new construction, and the fruit orchard. My mom pounding on the worn chopping block counter, kneading out dough, which would soon fill the house with the yeasty smell of whole wheat bread baking. (And then the way she'd cut a slice right out of the oven, and it would crumble softly with heat, steam rising.)

Once LeAnn and I took to the milo field that encircled my house, and cut pathways in the rows (whether to create a maze or a fort, I don't remember). I don't know what milo smells like. It's probably more fragrant after harvest than in the field, but to me, the day had a scent. Hot hard wind, girls growing past childhood . . . there's always been a gorgeous despair in thinking about the swift flight of time, and remembering.

Prettiness

Even though I’m depressed, lonely, and stressed, I suspect what I noticed in the mirror might be true: I look devastatingly beautiful today. I think it’s something about the sadness around my eyes.

I wish pictures recorded what I see in the mirror. I am terribly unphotogenic, so I get disappointed when I think I’m pretty and see photographic evidence that I’m not.

I need a backbone

I am not assertive at all; I have to work up my courage to be. I never know when is the right time to do it, the right battles to pick. And I have a way of fantasizing about each potential situation in which I must confront something, until I am completely sure that no matter how I handle things, I am going to end up screwing things up.

For instance: this lab bill that I recently got, for tests that shouldn’t have been done. I’ve been talking to the billing liaison, so she only knows parts of what happened. She said it wasn’t a lab mistake—the doctor really ordered the tests. And I told her I never gave permission for the tests to be ran, so she’s going to talk to the doctor about it, see if maybe we can foist the bills off on insurance. And I said, “if they don’t pay for it, I still don’t feel like I should be responsible for it.” Not aggressively, just stating my rather timid opinion of being stuck with a $200 bill for unnecessary tests I wasn’t warned I might have to pay for.

And I’ve had such horrible experiences with doctors, that I fully believe soon his office will have my name written on a list near the receptionist’s phone stating, “Crazy woman. Don’t help her. Hang up as soon as you can.” (Paranoid? Totally. But I’ve had experiences like that with another doctor.) Just the idea of going to see the doctor makes me nervous. Walking into the office, interacting with the office staff, I have trouble breathing normally. I get so nervous that I’m going to fuck things up and they’re going to hate me. I started worrying about that from my first visit, where I didn’t have my insurance card, and the office had to scramble to track my info down.

I’m scared of asking people to work hard for me, because then they’ll resent me and refuse to help me further.

And I never know when to make a fuss. I spoke to the doctor who comes weekly to see my clients, and she said the tests never should have been done, and I shouldn’t have to pay for the bill. So I feel like I should take a stand should they try to pass the buck to me. But honestly, despite now starting to feel a little bit violated by these tests that were done without my foreknowledge, I really, really, really liked my doctor. I felt so comfortable with him, and my appointment was filled with lots of discussion and communication. We talked about social issues, and he said his wife runs the rape crisis center here. He even said he never offers to do pelvic exams on women, but instead refers them to his wife because he wants his patients to be comfortable, and a lot prefer women doctors to do those (but I needed a new birth control prescription immediately, didn’t want to pay another co-pay to see a gynecologist, and was comfortable with him). I was excited to have found him. I don’t want to fuck things up with him so I’ll have to start going to someone else. I want him to say, “oh, my mistake, I’ll take care of that bill,” so I can stop worrying and feel comfortable next time I’m sick and need to see someone.

Just the two of us

I love when it’s just us, me and Tim. We have so much fun together, and it’s so damn fun to share a home, and kitties, and just be together. I always believed people when they said marriage was hard, but now I’m not sure why. And others when they said the first newlywed year the hardest. I assumed it would be hard to adjust to living with someone else, taking his life into account when living my own, and . . . it’s . . . not. It’s about the most blissful thing I’ve ever experienced. I love living with him more than living alone. (Now that’s a strange realization because damn did I love living by myself.) I’m so excited that I get to hang out with him for the rest of my life.

So visiting family and being with friends is nice and all, but the best part is when it’s just us.

Home again, home again

Thursday, petting Tim's fuzzy, shaved head while he tried to exercise around me, I said, "I am ready to go home."

"Me, too, back to our kitties, and our own space."

"I'm glad we're considering it home now."

So I assumed the kick in the stomach I was feeling as we drove to the airport was actually excitement to return south. But it really must have been more like a premonition.

We got home Saturday night to an upright bass sprayed with cat pee, a $200 lab bill for a Chlamydia test I never requested, a food cabinet filled with strange black bugs, and no good Thai restaurant down the street from which to order take-out.

So we dealt by yelling, then retreating to our own corners of the apartment to do the only things we could handle: clean. Somehow I only feel motivated to deep-clean the bathroom when I am very, very angry. And thank god Tim does all the cat clean-up. I like that our relationship doesn't involve much yelling at all, but when the urge arises, we take space to calm down, then come back together when we're ready. And cleaning or unpacking speeds the recovery process, because it's more fun to hang out than actually work.

Then we opened a bottle of champagne, and watched some Arrested Development. It made the homecoming infinitely more tolerable.

But I hate being back. I like the slower pace of life, but I feel this big hole in my chest, where family and friends, and tall buildings and el trains, Indian spice markets and handmade paper stores, and good sushi and quiet bars with good whiskey used to be. I'm trying to figure out why I was looking forward to being back.

Getting to laze around in 70 degree weather in January is a compelling reason, though. And getting to see the kitties, who were very happy to have us around again. And being by ourselves again, in our own space. I forget when in Chicago at other people's houses, how much more comfortable I am in my own.

So we're home. And work starts tomorrow, and I hope it helps stop up this hole inside me.