Church

We went to church this weekend, mostly at my prompting. I met the band leader, who was excited by the prospect of having a pianist in his midst, and he promised to search for sheet music so I could join them. He and Tim agree on the need to funkify some of the songs, so we'll see what next week is like with Tim behind the electric bass.

I found out they have a social hour small group that meets every other Friday night. I want to meet the couple who leads it, and if I like them, maybe start going.

It feels so foreign to be this excited about church. We struggle a lot with feelings of hypocrisy because, if pressed, we'd have to admit to the congregants that we reeeeally don't believe the things that they do. Would they feel betrayed if they were to ever discover Tim is pagan? Or would they continue embracing us the way that they have, because everyone has been incredibly warm and friendly?

And that's why we want to continue going. Not to mention, it's a nice way to start off Sunday morning.

But all the Godtalk has reminded me that I want to explore the Great Spirit, nature- and spirit-based side of spirituality. I want my own rituals and quiet moments to commune with the world.

Vocation

I was discussing my work history with my psychologist this week. She was surprised to learn in my former career, I was an editor, because it's such a vast departure from social work. But in her reaction, and some of her comments, I felt like she thought I was much more suited to editing than social work. That bothered me.

She asked if my job right now was a vocation or a job. I think that's a pretty stupid question. I'm not sure why anyone would work in domestic violence for the paycheck.

So it is a vocation. I didn't need to explain to her what sheer joy it brings me, being able to give a woman help and safety, and hope. She understands. It's probably part of what she loves about her job.

But what if I am thoroughly unsuitable for the work? What if it turns out I really really suck at my vocation? Is it possible to suck at your vocation?

If that's true, am I deluding myself? Should I go back to editing, because order and definite right and wrong (I know that comma goes here; I know this should be capitalized.) makes me happy? Sitting at a desk for more than an hour reading boring articles made me homicidal. No matter how many mistakes I was able to find.

In the end, I think my psychologist just can't figure me out, and she's nonplussed, because she usually can pigeon-hole people pretty quickly. She said she sees me working one job and volunteering at a wildly different one. Big fat duh. But I think her impression of my different interests is that I haven't settled on a particular path in life, and that's the part that mostly bothers me.

I see my future as wide open because I don't limit myself. (I even have Librarian on the back burner for a mid-life career.) And I don't see that as a bad thing.

Feeling old

In the course of catching up with Bob, I found out a formerly close friend of mine had gotten married, that one couple I'd always looked up to (relationship-wise) was divorcing, and that another couple was plagued by the husband's drug use and fondness for high class hookers (a particularly devastating betrayal, as the wife is a social worker who works with prostitutes).

I'm just getting used to the idea that I am old enough to have a lot of married friends--I barely feel old enough to be married myself but the life is growing on me. It's hard to comprehend that now some of those marriages are failing.

I think what is hard for me is that both relationships I really did look up to and respect (from an observer's perspective). For the husband with the taste for call girls, I remember how softly he'd look at his wife, like she was a precious jewel he couldn't take his eyes from. At that time, I didn't have anyone looking at me like that, and I longed for it. The other couple, they seemed so in tune with each other. At the time, I didn't see the side of that husband others have told me was verbally abusive.

It's also hard to look up to (and in some ways try to emulate) relationships only to figure out later how wrong they really were. I want to believe anyone/anything I look up to is worth looking up to.

Home again

Well, I guess the tide has turned. The home I longed for this weekend was with Tim, not in Chicago where I was. The part that I miss now is family, not the city.

The only time I had a visceral reaction to being back in the city was with my friend Bob. We had a cheap, delicious sushi dinner, and drinks at a cheap dive bar. Maybe it was the whiskies and PBRs we were double-fisting, but that's the part I miss: friends, good conversation in dusty bars.

Also, Sunday morning, I walked through my sister's neighborhood slowly, headed for a cafe more for the experience of being in the hood rather than needing the caffeine.

It was, of course, fabulous being back. But it didn't hurt to leave as much as I expected.

I thought all weekend about how much better it would have been if Tim was there, so I wouldn't have to miss him. And I got ideas of ways to improve our apartment.

The hard part was returning to a cluttered, messy apartment, carpet stained by spills and cat puke after being in airy apartments all weekend that had hardwood floors and high ceilings. But it prompted discussion of how to make things more habitable--a necessity since we're staying for two extra years. So we reorganized the living room and dining room, and it looks more spacious now. I am happier.

But I realized finally that my home is Tim. It doesn't matter (too much) where we're living, as long as we are together.

Sweet home, Chicago

My heart starts to skip a beat when I realize that the days have melted away, and it's TOMORROW that I get to spend three long days there. With my family! I think it's been long enough that I've forgotten--or repressed--a bit exactly how much I miss the city, and them. Today every now and then it would occur to me, and I'd get a huge rush of emotion, a welling in my chest, I am so excited to see them.

The thing is, though, now that the time is upon me, I'm scared. I'm scared it's going to be too good. (I know it will. Chicago always exceeds.) I'm worried as soon as I'm back in the city of my heart of hearts, leaving will be twice as hard. And the recovery--the hangover of 36 hours of friends, family, beer, chana masala, and naan--will be harder than ever to get over.

I've worked so hard. This week, as I was driving to my first official tennis match (0-6, 0-6; we sucked hard), I thought, "This is my home now." I like the life I'm starting to carve out here. I am having so much fun playing tennis. I am so excited by the possibility that I might be able to play the piano in a church band. It makes me so happy to socialize with the costume girls, and other stage crew members. And my job, well, that's a big amazing reason to love it here. But the city, too. Things are becoming familiar and comfortable.

I caught myself saying something in a decidedly un-me-like drawl the other day. This went waaaay beyond "fixin' to" or "y'all." And I liked it. I don't want to be around my family having to choke back y'alls. I have finally gotten my mouth around them, and "you guys" is now a thing of my past.

Workity work

Pro: Running into the executive director and program director in the copyroom after hours scores me major suck-up points.

Con: Still being at work at 7:30 in the evening sucks ass.

I sure do hate being so busy; I managed to cram an extra work day into the past two weeks, so I don't have to take any vacation time for my vacation day tomorrow. But late work always seems so productive. The hours crawl until 4:30, but if I stay after, suddenly it's dinnertime, and I'm still flitting around, getting things done.

I wonder if this means I don't use my time wisely. I suspect that's the case, though I'd prefer to consider myself overworked. After hours, things seem more relaxed. I have no deadlines but the next day.

On the stressful work front, I am not longer terrified and speechless at the feet of my Spanish-speaking client. What little I knew is coming back to me, though it's heavily peppered with French, thoroughly confusing both me and her. While most of me hates it, and feels frustrated at the language barrier, I get so excited when I'm able to say something. I was sssooo excited by Yo no trabajo manana. Hasta lunes! With trilling Rs and soupy Ns with tildes and everything.

Part of the reason why I worked so late was at 5 o'clock, she came to me with her WIC voucher, and I decided it was best to take care of then, instead of making her wait until Monday. We went to Winn-Dixie, where I remembered jugo, and learned the really complicated word for "eggs." And I got to make faces at the sweetest one-year-old I've ever met, who I am trying to win over so she doesn't cry when I want to pick her up. I sure do love well-behaved children.

Am I too idealistic?

What a stressful week. The worst yet. If work had been this stressful from the beginning, I probably would be working at Starbucks by now, so at least it goes in waves.

Lots of second-guessing myself this week. Internal strife among clients, which brings out my meek and timid side. The side I hate, the side I wish didn't exist, yet the side I am learning to come to terms with because I just am not an aggressive person, and no amount of wishing will make me so.

I work with a lot of forceful personalities. A lot of cynics (not that the two go hand in hand). But I'm encountering the cynical side a lot lately, and it's hard.

One co-worker tells me frequently that I let people get away with murder. (In her defense, she's very blunt, but a kind-hearted, not cruel, person.) I can do nothing but agree. She's right. I can't seem to get clients to toe the line. Client from hell, bane-of-my-existence knew exactly how much she could get away with when she was with me. She didn't try it with anyone else.

But lately, this same co-worker has been spewing too much cynicism for me. Today, I got a new client who came in and decided she wanted to leave two hours later. "You know she got here, didn't like what she saw, and is going back to him," this co-worker (our follow-up counselor) said. "You'll know when you've worked as long as I have, that's what they always do."

Maybe that's what they always do. (Or I should say usually, because it takes a battered woman seven to ten times to leave an abuser for good--or until he kills her.) I know my clients, no matter how much I help them--get them set up with Food Stamps, counsel them on the dynamics of domestic violence, help them raise their self-esteem--I know they're likely to end up going back.

I'm not naive in that respect. A few months ago, I found out my favorite client of all time, a precious jewel of a sweet woman, left the fantastic independent housing I helped her gain to move back in with her husband who has threatened to kill her many times. Disappointed? A little. I was so proud of everything she accomplished on her own. I thought she was on her way to a better life. Surprised? Hell no. And I didn't feel personally offended that she did not take everything I was offering and become Superwoman.

But I have to act like they're not going back. Like the work I'm doing is so important, it will change her life, give her hope, and give her a future without fear. It's absolutely the only way I can do this job. I just don't think I could stand to help someone, to stay late, work overtime to find shelters in another state when I was thinking, "Why bother? Why should I work this hard to find info for you when you're not going to use it?"

I've always striven to work without strings attached. To not attach importance to someone taking my advice or help, or ignoring it. I thought I have always done a good job of that, but I wonder if I need to pretend, at least, for the sake of my optimism, that they are going to use what I give them.

That my work is not in vain.

Bodies

This week, there was a fancy reception announcing the new artistic director at the theatre. It was such a big deal that the company rented out the swankiest restaurant in town for it. It was gorgeous--concrete floors, granite bar tops, cream linen wall hangings. It was a lot of fun getting dressed to the nines to mingle with theatre folks and drink strong gin and tonics. I just don't get many opportunities to dress up.

It's a bit of a mind fuck to be a woman in theatre. I am somewhat immune to it because my size does not determine what jobs I am offered (If anything, I've noticed a trend towards pillowy matrons in the social work field, so, whew.), but still. It's hard sometimes to be surrounded by jutting shoulder blades and collar bones that could slice off your head, without thinking, "I used to be that little. What's wrong with me now?" But the catch is, I am in love with my now-voluptuous ass, and my boobs that show off splendidly in a deep v-neck. Maybe boobs moreso than ass, but as long as my pants still can be zipped, I'm ok with it. I can't ever look at women who are still shaped like girls--flat stomaches, tiny body structure, without longing for the days when I was like them. In my mind, that's the perfect body.

And I know it's unrealistic for me. Sometime in the past few years, my body decided to become all womanly (damn all the biking for giving me thighs!), and I don't think there's anything I can do about it but accept it. I look at the bonier actresses at the theatre--one to whom I'd like to sit down and feed a good big meal, who said, "since I lost 20 pounds, I haven't stopped working for one single week."--and cringe. I know I don't want my ribs to protrude.

But it's so hard to just ignore all of it. One of the main topics of conversation sometimes among some of Tim's female friends is how much they hate their bodies, and how they need to lose weight. At least--I suppose--they make sure to eat healthily and work out a lot, instead of just complaining. It's hard to listen to that a lot, though.

Music survey

So Jen passed me this musical baton.

Total volume of music files on my computer

Right now, it's 591. This is on my work computer. There are more at home.

The Last CD I Bought

Suzanne Vega's greatest hits, I think. I was feeling nostalgic. Or two Samples CDs, which I bought for Hannah.

Song Playing Right Now

Once a Week, on the Mystic album Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom. I am generally not much into rap or hip hop, but she has amazing lyrics and musicality. RealPlayer categorizes it as Underground Rap. Ha.

Five Songs That Mean a Lot to Me

Hardest question ever. I'm changing this to albums.

1. Greg Brown's Dream Cafe. The first time I heard it, I was sprawled on the couch at my friend Karen's house, stoned out of my mind, the empty wine bottles scattered on her coffee table. She was making me a mix tape of folk music she loved, which struck a chord in me as being the music of my childhood. God, I miss her--and that tape. I have fantasies about tracking her down to say hi, and looking for the worn tape among my messy collection and making it into a more durable mix CD.

2. Alejandro Escovedo, either More Miles than Money, or A Man under the Influence. My favorite is the latter, but he does a kick-ass version of "I Wanna Be Your Dog," which competes with "Jolene" for being my favorite song. He is so soulful, mournful, moving. Everyone to whom I've ever recommended him is eternally grateful.

3. John Renbourn's Faro Annie. This album isn't available anywhere. JF was an English folk singer/guitarist, and his solo stuff is pre-Pentangle. In high school, I'd drag out my parents' record player and put this album on repeat. It's a dirty, hippie, commune folk album. In my opinion, the best of its kind.

4. Oh dear god, how could I forget Ani until #4? Ani DiFranco's Little Plastic Castles. My feelings about this album were best chronicled previously in my blog.

5. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People. Obviously. It was the anthem album for my high school friends. I remember laying out at the lake, cruising Main, listening to the mournful songs.

Best Sex Song

Fuck making love. It's all about the fucking. Ok, top 5. Bill Withers' Use Me; Ben Harper's Please Me Like You Want to; Nina Simone's I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl; Portishead's, well, really any song on Dummy; and, um, the song Tim wrote about me: Sweet Kansas Woman.

Five People I'm Passing the Musical Baton to

Megan
Joolz
Jamie
Tish

Sunday

This Sunday, I awoke sad. Tim went to church, so I was alone for most of the morning, breeding grounds for worse depression. The odd thing was, inside, I felt like being in a good mood, and I couldn't understand the sadness. It was as though I am used to the pattern of being depressed on the weekend, so I fall into it even when I'm not really in the mood for it.

But in the afternoon, I had arranged a tennis date with a girl from work. I was worried she was humoring me, and I had trapped her into playing with me. I don't know why I'd believe that. Surely if she didn't like me, or didn't want to play, she just would have said "no thanks," right? At any rate, we went during the hottest part of the day. I think every time I play tennis during the afternoon, I get sun stroke. So we didn't last long. But it was so much fun! It was easier to talk with her outside of work. I may have convinced her to come play with the other women I have tennis with on Thursdays. We already know one other woman at work who plays, so if we can find another, we could do our own doubles. It was a good idea to get out and be active, regardless of how hot, and it was really nice to connect with her.

For the past few weeks I've been craving El Rey, their fantastic organic cheese dip and margaritas. Tim came home for dinner and announced he didn't have to go back, so we took off with Meghan and Lauren to pig out. Meghan is also doing South Beach, and Lauren is trying to just eat healthier, so it was a treat for us.

El Rey, unfortunately, is closed on Sundays, so we ended up at a subpar Mexican restaurant, ten minutes before happy hour ended. Cheese dip, chili rellenos, and half-price margaritas are hard to argue against, even when the margaritas are from a mix, not fresh, but are pale and syrupy from the amount of tequila in them. And hot corn chips! Oh god, the corn chips! I swear, corn chips are what I miss MOST about dieting.

In the middle of the meal, someone remembered hearing about an Indian grocery store that was planning on expanding to have carry-out service. We swerved our way through several mall parking lots to find it, and it's true! It does exist! We picked up spices, frozen dinners, and a tip from the owner that it's best to come Thursday through Sundays, early, to get fresh, hot samosas.

It was heaven. We'll have to wait until August until they start with the carry-out food, but in the meantime, we have frozen paneer, and box meals.

Peach cobbler

This morning I got up early and went to the farmer's market. It's held at the state fair grounds, in the open barns there. One was filled with produce, and the other a flea market. I only went to the produce barn. I'll have to check out the flea market next week.
I had the vague idea that peaches could be had, considering we are only about an hour from the line into the peach state. I had no idea what other fruits and vegetables were grown in Alabama. It turns out, a lot. I got beautiful cucumbers, green beans, and the smallest yellow squash I've ever seen. Actually, I only bought the squash because the vendor was so friendly, telling me about them, how you pick the first of the crop, and fry them up with onions and butter until they melt in your mouth. I also only bought some local honey because the old couple selling honey and preserves were so sweet and answered all my questions, like what was chow-chow, a yellowish preservative (a cabbage relish, actually). But I figure once we're back on eating sugar, it couldn't hurt our allergies to have some local honey. It's made about 20 miles away.

There's a farmer's market cafe on the grounds, too. I don't know if they use the farmer's produce, or if it's the typical Southern-fried breakfast. I am excited to show my mother-in-law the market and to have breakfast there when she visits in July. It's a neat place.

I bought more peaches than I could carry, for only $5. I spent the afternoon cutting and freezing them. We're on a big fruit kick with the stupid diet, and they'll be perfect for our soy protein smoothies. Evidently peaches have a lower glycemic index than apples, and since in Phase 2 of the diet, we're allowed apples, I figured eating a scrap or two wouldn't hurt.

Peach pie is heaven. Peach cobbler reminds me of being a kid, and my mom making it in the summertime. This diet is killing me.

I don't know why. Phase 1 was fantastic. My body is reacting badly to Phase 2, and I can't figure out why. It's still super healthy. Maybe it's the carbs I'm reintroducing, albeit really healthy ones, like Ezekial bread (barf). I know I probably went overboard previously with the carbs, thinking a piece of bread would stave off my low-blood-sugar attacks, when really it was inducing them, but surely my body needs healthy carbs. So why is it flipping out?

At any rate, I finally broke down and made the cobbler. The peaches were so deliciously sweet, I only put a dusting of sugar on them, instead of the recipe's half cup. And I made the dough out of mostly wheat flour, and honey instead of white sugar. I hope it doesn't suck. I've been dreaming about it all day.

Relationships

This week has been a treat. I had all of Monday to spend with Tim, and then we went to a preview of Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing on Tuesday night. He's in tech for Coriolanus right now, busy as hell, so it was really nice to get some time together. And since the beginning of the week, and getting to spend so much time together, we've been more thoughtful and loving towards each other. Which leads to me to have to admit: it's been hard lately.

I think I assume there's a handbook on how to be married out there that I haven't consulted. When at first, it seemed too easy, I wondered what I was missing. Then it got hard, and I wondered how you dealt. I don't mean how do you deal without breaking up, but how do you get through to the other side intact?

I've not had much long-term relationship experience. While I believe that we can get through anything together, it's not until now that there's really been anything to get through. I hate the way my depression affects both of us. And his stress.

The nice thing, though, is that we've always talked through everything. When sometimes even the talking doesn't help (when I'm super depressed), it's still good to be able to talk about it.

Raggedy

I used the word raggedy the other day to describe something. One of my co-workers laughed at me. I guess that's a "black word" that I shouldn't use? Whatever. I don't like this co-worker much at all.

Staying in Alamaba

So this woman that I wrote about previously. She was told today that our services to her would end on June 10. She got angry, demanded money she had given us for savings, and said she'd leave the next day.

I can only hope. I felt strange after the meeting, like I was scared to believe it had really happened, that we were really taking a stand against her, not allowing her to treat us like trash.

I can only imagine how much less stress I'll have after this is all over. Well, different, more manageable stress.

That will be a good thing. I've started thinking about beginning grad school while I'm here. It seems like it would give us so many more options, because then with my degree, we could move anywhere, instead of just a few places where I would be willing to go to school. I knew of a Saturday program that took place at DHR, so I pursued it. It appears to be the same program of study I was accepted to at the University of Alabama last year, only distance education. I thought I was looking into it way too late, as I wanted to start in the fall, three months from now. But the timing is out of my hands, as I discovered this is a new program that only accepts one class at a time. The current one is halfway through, so I wouldn't be able to start classes for exactly a year.

With that, I'd start classes a few months before Tim graduates. Which means we'd have to stay here two extra years. The thought of that, well, it's not my favorite one. There's no guarantee that he can get work with the company as a professional, though the incoming artistic director seems to like him very much. (I know there's a difference between liking him as a person--because who wouldn't??--and thinking his look and acting style could fit a wide range of parts.)

But regardless, it seems like this is the best thing for us to consider. I compared in-state tuition for the program here to the program I want to attend at the University of Denver. Here? Slightly over $9,000 in tuition (not counting that for the first semester, I'd continue working full-time). Denver, slightly over $55,000, and I would go full time, no work, unless it was part-time. We could pay for Alabama from our savings and not have to borrow a penny. Denver, I'd be an indentured servant paying off loans for the rest of my life.

And still, I don't know. While we'll probably swing towards staying, the thought of being around friends in Denver, going to a well-regarded grad school with a gorgeous campus makes me so happy, the cost of it is overwhelming.

And I'm doing things here to be happy. I think we could make it here.