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There’s something about Sunday night
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Thursday, March 31, 2005

The spirit world

Steady rain falling outside the bedroom window is becoming my usual night music. Last night it was accompanied by a storm. Tim came home, his eyes on fire with excitement. "The veil between the two worlds is thin tonight," he said. This one and the spirit world, he meant. The latter was making its presence known last night. He put out food and drink for the spirits. Then he told me stories about his encounters with spirits.

I never know what to think. Most of the time, I am a little scared.

After we moved in here, Fergus was having trouble adjusting. Eventually I attributed that to a UTI and moving issues, but one night, he was particularly skittish. The whole evening just felt off in an undefineable way to me. Of course--at that point, I was worried about Fergus. When Tim came home, we talked about it. Was it because I could sense something wrong, or did I work myself into a panic by the power of suggestion? I'll never be able to distinguish. We held hands as we talked, and I was scared to take my eyes off him, because I thought if I did, he'd morph into another being while my gaze was away. (Why? Why why why? I can't put into any rational words why I'd think my love and protector would become something sinister.) He had me secure the house, shut the doors and windows, turn on the alarm sytem. Then he performed a protection spell. I don't know what that was like--I played the piano to keep my mind occupied, and to give him privacy for it. In the end, the part I participated in was burning sage to cleanse each room. Tim instructed me how to do it, the direction to wave the sage stick, the pattern to walk each room--the details of which I don't remember now.

Afterwards, I felt better. Safer. But was it the act of the ritual, or did we really secure our apartment and protect it? The next day, Tim made cryptic comments about there actually being malevolent spirits in the house the previous night, and that our spells had worked.

Last night, when he told me about his experiences, I could only be scared. But this morning--still dark, still stormy--I'm so curious about it all.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Dear mom and dad

You asked me where you went wrong as parents, so here it is: you never should have had a second child. I was an angelic, happy two-year-old, the center of attention. Bringing a more attention-worthy being into the world screwed things up. Except that twenty-five years later, that person ended up being my favorite in all the world, so maybe that's not it.

Sticking me in therapy when I was 10 for having anger issues? Or was that actually good parenting? I see so many kids who don't know any other way to deal with the uncontrollables of life, and I think they need outside help. But maybe because I was forced to go. Maybe because we had to sit in a circle with the therapist and talk about the way we communicated--or didn't--maybe that's why now talking about feelings with you feels like something I need to run away from. And on that note, it was definitely the family meetings we were forced to have. Ugh. I am never doing those with my kids.

Maybe it's because on more than one occasion, dad read my mail and my journal. I had a boyfriend do that once, and I wanted to kill him. (I should have.) So why was I the teensiest bit relieved whenever dad would do it and confront me about whatever problems he read? Because then I didn't have to be the one to break up with my crazy-ass boyfriend, and another time, he hooked me up to the best therapist I've ever had. Listen, I don't condone reading your kid's private stuff. But, well, I'm glad for what came out of it.

Maybe it's because you didn't support me after I graduated from college. Oh sure, you packed up my things and drove me to Chicago. Then you stayed with me for a week, showing me how to get around the city, setting me up with a bank account. But where was the money after that? Oh right. Then I got a job. And a second job. And I found an apartment and friends, and it was pretty exciting being able to say, "I did this."

I don't know. Where did it all go wrong? Is it me? Why do I feel like I'm 16 all over again when I have to talk about the way I feel about you? Why is it so hard to say "I love you" in person, but easy on the phone? Why do I feel like you'll laugh if I cry in front of you? I know you won't. Maybe you were right on that therapy tip.

love, me

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Joy

Last night I dreamed that I went back to my old job in Chicago, and all my friends were so excited to see me. Gradually that turned into people from high school being excited to see me. There was a lot of swooping and hugging in the weightless way dreams have.

It was noteworthy to say that lots of the boys wanted to make out with me, but the thing I remember best is all the joy in the dream. I was so excited to see everyone, and they were excited to see me! I miss that pure joy of seeing friends I love and miss.

Tim and I went out for sushi and a good talk last night, and it was a lovely night. There's a joy in having good bonding time with him, a reaffirmation of why we love, and why we work so well together, but it's completely different.

I miss the friend joy. I just miss having friends.

Friday, March 25, 2005

Evil

Someone recommended a book about Satan manifested on earth to me. I didn't have the heart to tell her the book looked like a trashy pulp novel published by a vanity press, and instead asked about it. It was written by an M.D. whose husband got . . . what's the word? infiltrated? overcome? inhabited? by the devil.

This woman (who recommended the book) had her own personal story about--aha! there's the word--demon possession. In her church, a man turned to evil ways (like drinking) when something hard happened to him (losing a loved one, I think). That probably happened over some time, but when she was with him, his countenance suddenly changed. He started glaring and talking with a deep voice.

She started praying with him, holding his hands. He struggled with her, and tried to rip his hands from her grip. She asked who he was, and he answered with a name that was not the man's human name. (She told me what he said, and it wasn't a name that corresponded to any nickname of Satan's I had ever heard. It sounded very sci-fi, though.) More praying, more "devil, I command you to leave this man," and this woman got out her holy oil. She threw it on the man. He started screaming and tore his shirt off like the oil caught it on fire. At that point, his body lifted up in the air and flew against a wall. This woman said he left a backprint in the wall that still remains as a witness to what happened. (Not clear if it was an indentation due to the force with which he hit the wall, or a stain from the oil.)

At any rate, if I read that as a story, I'm not sure I'd believe it. But I respect the woman who had the experience, and I can't not believe her. In general, I believe people who believe. I believe it for them.

I don't know what to think. It's so far removed from what I believe. It makes me even wonder what I believe, since I've never bothered to hammer out the details of my beliefs. Tim calls me a "deist," and I like the sound of it: someone who believes in a higher power or god but adheres to no dogma, and believes ritual exists to comfort people, not to praise that power.

But honestly, I am in awe of Tim's connection to the spiritual world, so I bob along aimlessly, agreeing with any label he gives me. Not until he calls me, say, a Satanist, would I probably stop and say, "hey wait a minute--those aren't my beliefs." And I am envious of the strength of his beliefs, but it doesn't necessarily spur me on to articulate my own.

But going back to the demon possession. My view of the world doesn't include a physical manifestion of Satan. I don't even think I believe that there is a devil. To me, evil is human. Evil is weakness. But because weakness is part of humanity, I think it's all ultimately forgiveable. Sad, tragic, but in the end, understandable and forgiveable.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Evidently, I glow

What is it about love that softens the way you look at someone? Tim sees in me some sort of inner light that he attributes to characteristics I never knew I had. Are those characteristics really me, or projections from him because he's all starry-eyed? I see and love parts of him that he doesn't believe, either, but I still think they're real aspects about him, so maybe he's seeing real parts of me, too.

It's just so hard to accept sometimes. If he thinks I am all fantastic and amazing, if that's actually true, then why don't people flock to me to bask in my glow? That's why I have a hard time believing all the good things he thinks about me--because I have such a hard time making friends. It's such a sucky Catch-22. I know I have to believe all these good things about myself before others will, but it's hard to believe when I don't have friends (on a daily basis, here where I live) showing me that they believe them, too.

It seems so wrong that the person I adore and respect most in the world is the one person I don't believe when it comes to myself.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Missed Connections

A few years ago I was obsessed with the Missed Connections section of the Reader (which, sadly, is now dorkily called "I Saw You." Aw, man.) So that is the basis of the following story. It was harder than I expected to come up with only 25 words each time.


February 7
Hey blue-eyed girl on the Blue Line train, evening commute. I see you every day. Maybe next time, a hello? 'Til we meet again . . .

February 14
My nerves got the best of me, blue eyes. I couldn't bring myself to approach you. Try again next week? Be kind to shy men.

February 21
Hectic work. Overtime kept me from your side. The late-night ride is not the same without you. Did I mention I miss your smile?

February 28
You, this week, absent from my ride again. My schedule is the same. Have you changed your routine? My fault? Do you even read these?

March 7
Dark man with you Wednesday. A date? Has someone already a claim on your heart? You smile at him, not knowing of my love.

March 14
Alone again. But not me. Never fear, the woman was only a co-worker. My heart belongs to you . . . if only you would notice me.

March 21
Tuesday you dropped a glove. My chance! The teenage boy got to it first. You gave him the smile meant for me. Next time . . .

March 28
Your new coat matches your eyes. I heard you get compliments. They should have been from me. Your beauty brightens my day after all.

April 4
Sneezing Wednesday. Are you getting a cold? I said "bless you." Conversation at last! Why did you not respond? Did you hear me?

April 11
No illness this week. Why did you leave your seat when I mentioned that? Stay and talk to me. You must.

April 18
Blue eyes, your friend called you Cara. Next time, I'll use it, and you will see how special you are to me.

April 25
Cara, your stop is after mine. Today I stayed on to see where you live. So close we are. You could walk over.

May 2
Did you see the flowers I left on your stoop for May day? You need romance. I can be so giving. Let me in.

May 9
Cara, always evenings, never mornings. That's not how I crave it. I want you freshly awake, unsullied by the day and interactions with others.

May 16
I have your mornings now. Coffee here, bagel there. Blue eyes, you are radiant at sunrise. Seeing you keeps me going every day.

May 23
This weekend, where were you? Apartment dim each evening, late return on Sunday. Your eyes aglow--for whom? Me? You couldn't have seen me there.

May 23 (ad 2)
Sturdy oak tree, spring leaves offer one protection. You with no curtains offer me sweet glimpses again. I know that you care. I am near.

May 30
Warm nights now, Cara. Give me a sign that you're ready. Leave a window open for me, my love.

June 6
At last, my blue eyes, how I've waited for this. Sweet soft cheek, see how gentle my touch? A quiet kiss. I'll be here tomorrow.

June 13
Blue lights flashing, fiercer than the glow from your eyes. How could you do this? I thought you cared. This is not the end.

I survived

My parents are down on the gulf now, enjoying, hopefully, not tornados. (We were under a severe tornado watch this morning!)

The visit was really nice. I realize--sorry Katie--that it's much easier to get along with my parents when my sister is not around. It's unfortunate, because she's really my favorite person ever, so I'd love her to visit as well, but I think it also makes sense. We fall into past patterns of behavior when it's all four of us. I revert back to the rebellious 16-year-old who disagreed with everything, and my mom tries to tell me what to do.

Well, she still tries to tell me what to do, but now I just smile and nod. She got really into helping me plan my Easter brunch, and decided that I should make a sausage egg bake. Instead of saying, "hell no way am I making that--Tim doesn't eat pork!" (and subsequently explain why, even though all the guests and I eat pork, I still won't make it), I said, "that sounds delicious!" and let her write it down on the menu. She won't know later what I make, anyway.

The only thing that really bothered me is that she's not good with apologies. She never apologizes, and doesn't take mine well. By not well, I mean: she doesn't say "thank you" and drop it. I generally never apologize to my family on principle. The principle being, I am kind of a bitch when it comes to family. But being with Tim has made me a little softer, so I apologized for being a little bratty. And instead of accepting it and moving on, she started talking about how it's important not to yell at the people you love. Which, of course, is a response that pisses me off and makes me yell some more.

I'm not sixteen anymore, and I get the impression she'll always think of me that way. In general, she doesn't really listen to or respect my opinion. I know that's a part of her that really bothers Tim, and at one point during the weekend, he tried to let her know it. (Well, it was more involving Fergus asleep on the World's Most Comfortable Chair during dinner. We dragged out another chair to the porch for my mom to sit on. She said, "why can't we just move Fergus?" And Tim said, "The chain of command in this house generally goes Ellie, Fergus, Olivia, then me." But anyway.)

And I digress. The point is, I did have a really nice time with my parents, but I will probably always find something to complain about regarding my mother.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Party planner

I think this could be a good next career. Still glowing from my St. Patrick's Day meal, it doesn't even seem right that Easter is just around the corner. I need some time to bask in the corned beef glory, and yet . . .

I found the most darling Easter baskets at World Market. They're tiny. Less than fist-sized. I got Jelly Bellys, malted eggs, and rice candy. Each basket will hold one or two of each. I'm using them as placeholders for the brunch we're having on Easter. It started out as an egg-dying day, with three of Tim's classmates, but I tend to get carried away with things like this. Now I'm making applesauce cake, fruit salad, and scones, and debating whether or not raspberry or lemon curd is the best to serve with the scones. Double Devon cream is a must, right?

Brunch is probably my favorite meal of the day. And it's even better when I can make Easter egg shaped invitations.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Ireland

I guess yesterday would have been the day to blog about my Irish memories. But a dinner of corned beef and colcannon with Tim's friends degenerated into "when I was in Ireland" stories--and even as I participate in them, I'm annoyed with them. So I'd rather tell my favorite memories on an insignificant day.

Mornings. My classmates and I were bunkered in these rather odd apartment-like dorms off the campus of University College Galway. I think there were perhaps 4-6 bedrooms in each, with a tiny living room and kitchen. For the first week or so, my only roommate was an older, retired woman. I was shy and didn't talk to her, she got upset, and left the program. So I had the whole apartment to myself. Class didn't start until 10:30. I had a breakfast pass to a cafe next door, and I loved their heavy brown bread, but again--shy, so I stayed home. Each morning I awoke at a leisurely time, made myself a big breakfast and a pot of tea, and spent an hour or two relaxing, reading, and writing (either for assignment or in my journal). It was the first time I'd been on my own--and I acknowledged every single second as it happened, and again in my journal. And long, relaxing breakfasts fed my soul. (I'd do them now if I weren't so tired every time my alarm goes off.)

Piercings. A week or two into the program. After a late night bonding over Murphy's pints, I made a new friend. Cathy. I confessed to her that I missed my nose piercing, and we set out to find a piercing shop. I made my appointment, but needed some courage. We cut afternoon classes and went to a tiny pub for a few pints. I didn't know back then the reason you weren't supposed to be drunk for piercings or tattoos wasn't for judgment reasons, but for blood thinning reasons. The piercer agreed to do it anyway (she probably believed my surprise and naivety). Still, still, still I remember with excruciating physical memory the heightened awareness I had of the needle going through flesh in my buzzed condition. And then I subsequently bled for half an hour. I hung my face under her cold faucet until we were able to leave. We went back to the same pub and showed off my piercing. Cathy and I wiled away two or three pints there--which, I soon discovered, was the perfect amount to settle into half-past buzzed and well on the way to drunk. Our conversations were the kind made of heads huddled together, hands flashing and gesturing, laughter, and sudden friendship.

I remember it every day when I put away the dishes. I squirrelled away a pint glass from the campus pub, somehow managed to carry it across the ocean without breakage, and have been using it ever since. It's one of my most treasured souvenirs from that summer. July 3/4, a celebration in Ireland akin to our St. Patrick's Day festivities. Cathy met Michael that day (pronounce MEEEE-hall), fell in love, and I made off with a glass.

And there are more memories. Lots locked up in the vault of embarrassing, involving--of course involving--a guy and bad endings. Sometimes I wish I could forget the time and experiences that existed before I could be halfway suave about love and lust. But then I'd also have to forget what a life-changing experience Ireland was, and how I grew up and became an entirely different person when I was only 20.

Sometimes I think about going back. I ache for it. Galway felt like home (and it was. My dad's father's family came from there; his mother's from County Kerry). But it also feels like a place best left in the past. I can't imagine visiting the same streets and pubs I went to eight years earlier. I think it would be extraordinarily difficult to encounter the past like that. It's difficult at times to even look at the pictures, and, god, I can't bear to read the journal entries.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Orange Crush, don't fail me now

The depressing thing about being with a health nut is that I am slowly coming around to his way of eating. Brown rice used to remind me of being poor as a kid. So I hated it. Now I love it. But now I can't eat Girl Scout cookies because their preservatives leave a gross taste in my mouth.

So I don't really look twice when I go into our medical clinic room, which houses the staff fridge, to get my lunch. On the exam table are 5 boxes of different kinds of sodas. Picked over in the last few months, what's left are overly sweetened fruit juice cocktails, Diet Coke, and Orange Crush. Not my speed.

But today I took an Orange Crush. I remember drinking it when we'd go into town with dad, riding in this:

(but rusted green, and with a passenger-side door that refused to stay closed going around corners.)

If we were with dad, we were going to the auto-parts store or gas station. There was Markley's Service Station on the outskirts of town, so we could take care of business without even going inside the city limits. The station had a soda machine. The old-fashioned kind you rarely see anymore, with the long narrow door on the side where you'd pull the bottle out of metal teeth.

The soda would be dusty, greasy, and icy cold. It was amazing. I still think the best soda is from a glass bottle.

I just don't want that memory to be tainted by a real sip of an overly saccharine soda.

Visiting

After a gorgeous weekend, it's been rainy all week. I'm going to be pissed if it continues through the weekend, for my parents are visiting. I've been bragging about how beautiful it is here, and when they say, "it was warm this weekend, too!" (Kansas), I get mad. There's no point in living someplace warm if you can't brag about it to people who live in cold climates.

I'm excited. I sent them a tourist's brochure, a Web site for an English tearoom, and the synopsis of the play we're seeing Saturday: As You Like It. We'll go to a real southern cookin' restaurant, and maybe the organic burrito place. I want the weather to be nice enough that we can lounge on the porch.

I haven't seen my parents in a while. I miss them, and want to show them my new home. But I'm nervous too, because invariably, I end up getting annoyed whenever we spend more than a few hours together. And then when they leave, I feel guilty for not thoroughly enjoying our time together, because I miss them again. I wish I knew how to just relax and not get annoyed.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Back on the sauce

Yesterday--worst day ever for no particular reason--I came home not sure if I wanted to punch Tim or hug him (both). I was starving, tired, and incredibly grumpy. Normally, encountering a husband goofy off afternoon cocktails is recipe for disaster. I just wanted to curl up and do nothing for the whole night.

But after getting the hugging and punching out of the way, he convinced me to go over to a castmate's house. We biked over to find a few of his friends were sitting out on the porch, enjoying their day off, drinking lemonade and cheap vodka. Generally, I hate getting stuck at actor parties. I get so bored when their constant topic of conversation is theatre. I don't need them to ask me in-depth questions about my life--I could just go for neutral topics of conversation like music or movies . . . anything that doesn't involve references to Godot or the genius of Stoppard. I don't know who these playwrights are. I haven't yet read their stuff, and I probably never will. (And maybe that makes me a bitch, considering theatre is Tim's passion, but thank god he's got more going on in his head than a catalogue of plays.)

So there was, of course, the usual shop talk. One of the professional actors--the star of one or two of the rep shows--is a 23-year-old savant. She's the new theatre darling. She's nice enough, but a young person who has only known the acting life isn't that well-rounded. (And I'm not into swapping meaningful theatre quotes.) So honestly, she bores me.

But it was wonderful to sit outside and let two vodka lemonades warm me. And I know enough about the theatre company to be able to participate in (or rather, enjoy listening to) the gossip.

We biked home hungry. The downside of drinking early is that I never feel like cooking after. We headed towards Panera, then--an easy ride down a frontage road on the same side of the highway as our apartment complex. Half-way there, though, we saw a roadhouse across the street we'd never been to. Crossing the street on bikes isn't particularly a good idea (biking on streets here, never), but traffic was light. And all it took was "are you up for an adventure?" and we crossed and had good beer, delicious fries, and nasty cheeseburgers.

Having adventures is my favorite part about being with Tim. Exploring new things together. It was a wonderful evening. Getting to bond with Tim again, bike around, drink some beer . . . We didn't have to think about work, and we tapped out drum rhythms on the table in time with the piped-in classic rock. We finally rolled into bed late, happy and cuddling.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

A sense of belonging

I guess my whole problem here is that I don't feel like I belong. It's more than being new to the area. Sometimes it feels like being alien to the whole culture. Co-workers, the ones over 40, complain about the city, saying it's clique-ish, and difficult to meet and make friends here. I start to agree, then hear them blaming it on the society class here. Society? That's definitely a foreign concept to me.

I figure I'm in the best position to make this city mine. While Tim sees the inside of a theatre twelve hours a day, I'm getting to know the neighborhoods, businesses, jails, courthouses . . . Since it's my weak spot for the job, I'm making it my mission to know the city inside out in a matter of months.

So today, a gorgeous Saturday that was almost too hot for jeans, I drove around, shopping and taking new streets to new places. I discovered a post office in the middle of town that's the "Green Lantern" station. (I usually go to the Shakespeare station across the street from the theatre.) I found a tiny grocery store/butcher shop in my quest for corned beef for our St. Patrick's Day feast (none to be had in this town). After stopping at the indie movie theatre to see what was playing tonight, I headed out of that neighborhood on a different street, and found a whole other block of cute stores. Following that street further, I drove around the back side of a small private college--gorgeous with its old buildings and flowering trees.

I ended up on a street whose name I recognized, but I had no idea what direction I was going. But eventually I emerged onto a main street that I regularly drive. I went to Marshalls for a beautiful new (cheap!) purse and swishy skirt, and I thought about the routines that I have settled into since living here. I am used to shopping on Saturdays, and relaxing on Sundays. I thought about how much I love spending time on the porch with the kitties when the weather is warm. I got excited for the summer--baseball games every Monday night, swimming, peaches, sandals and skirts. And I wondered if maybe this is belonging?

Belonging to this moment, this time in life.

Friday, March 11, 2005

Getting tagged by Big Brother

I got fingerprinted last night for work. I'm assuming it's standard practice for employees who might be working with children. I don't know. They didn't exactly explain why we needed to participate, just told us when to show up.

It wasn't exactly the right situation for me to explain that I am extremely opposed to being tagged by the government. 1. I don't think they'd understand when I started saying stuff like, "I just don't like it, ok??" and 2. It's probably a requirement to work here.

It's probably a moral stance, not wanting my fingerprints to go on record, because I really doubt I'm the sort of person who would ever be involved with crime so my prints could be used to track me down.

I just wanted to go through life being fairly anonymous. I have friends who have FBI files just because they travelled across the country to protest the School of the Americas. It makes me livid that expressing your [what amendment? There's got to be an amendment.] right to protest would catch the notice of the fucking FBI so they could keep an eye on you.

I think it's bullshit.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Laundromats

So I've had a life-long obsession with laundromats. Actually, Laundromat is a trademarked term, so I should actually just say "laundry." (And I know that because I'm obsessed.)

As a kid, we'd go into town once a week or so, family-time, to wash the clothes. It was the most exotic place to me. First we'd stop by the Dairy Palace for a treat. Dilly bars, lime-flavored slushes, everything they had was amazing compared to the carob chips I sometimes ate for snacks.

The laundry was old and small. Katie and I would run around collecting used lint sheets, hiding under the folding tables, and sometimes, if the adjoining door was open, peeking into the dry cleaner that was attached. I remember, back then, the lint sheets were fluffy pieces of foam. The dry-cleaning steam press was an enormous, amazing piece of machinery. There was something elegantly ordered about the neatly pressed clothes hanging on the moveable clothes bars.

And the dryer smell! It's always been comforting to me.

In college, needing extra money, I got a job at the laundry and dry cleaners across the street from my apartment. Forget the money--it was primarily because of the beautiful hippie boy who worked there. He wove me a hemp necklace one day as my clothes swirled and sloshed in the machines behind us. I got free dry cleaning if I stuck my sweaters in with each load, and I became addicted to the steam press. I never looked so neat and presentable as the 4 months I worked there.

In the end, screaming kids, a steady influx of clothing needing attention, and late nights prevented me from reading my Shakespeare homework during my shifts, and I had to quit. But it has always been one of my favorite jobs.

Then I moved to Chicago and fell in love with every single dingy, divey laundry I'd pass on the bus. There was one in Andersonville, the Swedish/Middle Eastern neighborhood, that was--oddly--an Indian laundry. Djani. It was teeny--big enough for one wall of machines. By then big chain laundries were springing up everywhere: Spin Cycle, or some such. No romance there. None of the dust and steam, lost clothes and plants everywhere.

I took a photography class at Northwestern, continuing ed. After, I wanted to embark on a project--taking pictures of the old laundries. I never did. I still want to.

I am thankful every day that my apartment has its own washer and dryer. The apartment complex grounds has about 30 spread-out buildings, so any communal washing would be a trek from the apartment across the lawn. But laundromats are still magical.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Being married

I never knew I'd end up in the sort of relationship where I could tell my husband: "I'm having a hard time being married this week," and have him hug me and say, "I know, I know," instead of freaking out and thinking we needed a divorce or a couples therapist.

Because he knew exactly what that meant: I'm having a stressful week, and I really wish I could be able to come home and be absolutely alone.

Last week was possibly the most stressful week I've ever had at work. Even the first week of work, when I didn't know what I was getting into, or how I'd ever be able to do the work--that was less stressful than last week.

I'm used to hiding out with my stress. Being alone, not having to interact with other people, being mindful of every second I have to myself, that's the way I de-stress. It would be so much easier if I could just take a bubble bath, or work out my aggressions at a gym, but I can't.

The good part about it, though, is that Tim is the same way, so he gets my need for being alone. The better part is that talking about it: the stress, the difficulty in learning to deal with having another person there at all times, remaining two people when at times it feels like we're one--it makes me appreciate what an amazing, rare connection we have, and then I'm glad to be married. It's pretty fucking awesome.
I love grocery shopping at night. It feels more leisurely, since I'm not shopping to rush home and cook dinner with the new groceries. At Fresh Market, I can spend a few extra minutes drooling over the bakery case, at the truffles and tiramisu, and even stop for a teeny cup of the coffee of the day to sip while I shop. And the store is empty and quiet, and the parking lot bare. There's a beautiful loneliness about shopping at night.

Which sound contrary--that I would revel in that particular loneliness while at the same time have a hard time getting through each weekend without becoming terribly depressed.

We usually have people over for dinner Saturday night, so my Saturdays are spent preparing deliciousness and cleaning. The hard part is after--when the food has been eaten, games have been played, and then the guests and Tim go back to the theatre for rehearsal. I like having my week nights to myself, but the weekends are too much. This Saturday, I was in the mood to take the evening out to the burrito place, and sit at their bar getting drunk on Coronas with lime, eating their amazing cheese dip.

There's a chance I might be able to, the next time I see her at task force, ask my new potential friend to go out for a drink. I think our conversations have been working up to that, and it wouldn't be awkward, and I wouldn't stutter over my words.

But Saturday, it wasn't that I wanted to go to the burrito place and get to know a new friend over beers, it was that I needed an old friend to go with. Someone with whom I can talk about everything and nothing. Where it's completely comfortable, and I don't have to worry about getting too drunk if I'm in the mood to get too drunk.

It's hardest of all not to have these friends here.

So my Saturdays are spent industriously, so I can relax on Sundays. But there's nothing particularly relaxing about laying around all day because I can't motivate myself to leave the house, or even to clean up the breakfast dishes, call my family, or fight with the cats over who gets to sit on The World's Most Comfortable Chair (I just let them win). When, if only I could leave the house, no doubt my depression would lift.

Friday, March 04, 2005

A home

In Chicago, I had just about the perfect apartment. Well, minus the paper-thin walls, lack of closet space, and living room layout. There was just something magical and peaceful about the way the hardwood floors gleamed in candlelight; the bamboo shades in the windows of the living room alcove outlined in tin star lights; the squat Art Deco orange chair always adorned with a sleeping black cat; the purple velvet couch; plants everywhere . . .

But the only way to get that was late at night, filled with candles. The living room was the main part of the apartment, and being the thoroughfare from the front door to the kitchen took away from its living-ness, and turned it into a huge hallway.

I had always daydreamed about the kind of city apartment I'd have. Sparse. Dusty. Book-filled comes to mind. And it took me forever to realize that didn't reflect me. I crave coziness. Hardwood floors don't exactly ooze coze. What I think of as me never was.

So as much as I really can't stand carpet, my living room now is so cozy. I never sit on the couch. I sprawl on the floor on scattered pillows. The living room is a place I want to be.

I was cleaning tonight, throwing out papers that gather like dust bunnies on every spare surface of the apartment. Shuffling candles, recipes printed off Epicurious.com, scraps of paper with notes and lists scribbled on them into some semblance of order. My liquor table doubles, no, triples, as a cookbook shelf and a cat blocker to spare the carpet from pee in the dining room. A litter box sits against the floorboards, because it was easier to cater to the cats than disinfect the carpet every day.

The living room holds a drum kit, scads of hand weights, piles of books and CDs. The walls: collages, origami stars, and some random paper mobiles--all by Hannah.

I looked at it all, and wondered what people thought of the first time they walked into it. It's not what I ever thought I'd create for myself (and that's probably because I had to share creation with Tim, but still). I wish there was a place to put the handweights other than underneath the gorgeous, elegant walnut coffee table my dad made, or that we didn't need to put a fucking litter box in our dining room.

But I finally realized (or came to terms with the fact) that it's my home. My space. I'll never have the spare, Asian-inspired empty rooms, or the intellectual's towering bookshelves in a dusty bare room* (see comment). This messy warmth is really what I am.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Monk

My latest obsession. The detective show "Monk."

1. Tony Shalhoub is pure genius. He plays an obsessive-compulsive germ-a-phobe with beautiful nuance and subtlty. I couldn't even begin to describe how sometimes he doesn't even have to say anything, and you can read everything in a glance.

2. Amy Sedaris guest-starred as Monk's assistant's horny sister. Any show that gives her work has got to be great. She excels particularly in the oversexed housewife roles. I would go gay for her. I love her so much.

3. The episode following Amy's opened with Willie Nelson singing with his band. Cool, but it could have just been stock footage. Until he stopped in the middle of the song to complain about the sound levels. And then he became the main murder suspect in the episode. He gets me just by playing "Georgia on My Mind." But when he can also act half-way decently? (I'm grading on a curve based on other singers' forays into acting. Hi, J. Lo.) Love. (There was also a subtle and well-played joke about pot smoking, too.)

4. In the Willie episode, I also noticed a tiny incident at the beginning of the show that played into the "Aha! Now I know exactly how the murder happened!" moment that Monk has in every episode. So really, you know, I could be a detective, too. Or at the very least, I could go back and reread all the Encyclopedia Brown books and figure out the mysteries without looking at the answers first.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

It's the kids

The kids kill me every time. I put my hands on my hips, cock my head, and watch a 4-year-old mimic me, realizing that in doing so, she's saying that she finally trusts me. And I think about wanting to protect her, from her father who hits her mother, from her mother who isn't the best parent in the world.

A 10-year-old who catalogs the abuse his mother has suffered, and lists it readily for her when she asks for clarification (even after I've told her not to treat him like a partner, and to let him be a kid). And the 7-year-old who has suffered more at the hands of a sick and twisted relative than I ever want to know about. Who looks up at me and hangs on my arm like I'm going to save her from all that.

I can deal with women in pain and crisis. Because they're adults. Theoretically they can help themselves; my job is only to listen and give suggestions. But the kids. There's no use in saying, "Things will be ok. I'll help keep you safe." Because I can't, and who knows if things will ever be ok?

I couldn't ever work just with kids. It's too heart-breaking. I think about them long after I've forgotten their mother.

 
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