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There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Nobody Knows Me

And I like cream in my coffee
And I like to sleep late on Sunday
And nobody knows me like my baby
And I like eggs over easy
With flour tortillas
And nobody knows me like my baby

And nobody holds me
And nobody knows me
Nobody knows me like my baby

But it was a dream made to order
South of the border
And nobody knows me like my baby
And she cried man how could you do it
And I swore that there weren't nothing to it
But nobody knows me like my baby

And nobody holds me
And nobody knows me
Nobody knows me like my baby

And I like cream in my coffee
And I hate to be alone on Sunday
And nobody knows me like my baby


When I was 17, I met my boyfriend at a church youth rally. He was tall, lanky, with a shock of dark hair hanging in his eyes and a deep scar on his cheek. He spoke French to me and tucked me into his beat-up motorcycle jacket, and when I found out how embarrassingly too young for me he was, it was too late. I was already smitten.

We lived two hours from each other, so our relationship was a torrid, letter-writing affair that lasted for a month or two. I invited him to my senior prom, and he was excited about wearing a thrift-store suit with giant safety pins instead of cuff links. I was a grunge girl; I should have rejoiced in my hip, hot boyfriend, but instead I was mortified by the idea, and soon we broke up.

The one thing I got out of the relationship was this Lyle Lovett song. I bet somewhere at my parents' house, in my old bedroom, I could still find the mix tape he made me, stuck between yearbooks and old prom pictures. There was no play list; the song came on between folky alternative songs, and in the context of those, I assumed it was a folk or acoustic rock song.

Four or five years later, I was getting to know my classmates during my stint in a creative writing program in Ireland. Someone brought a Lyle Lovett CD and put it on the stereo. His big-band country sound gave no indication that the album contained this song. In my vodka and orange juice-induced daze (a typical state that summer), I may have started crying at the song. It reminded me of my past, and a song long forgotten.

So then I knew who performed it. Yet I never made any attempt to own the CD. I still don't. I have tracked down a copy once or twice to put on mix CDs, but it's not a song I want to own. It's one I want to be surprised with in unexpected moments.

Like at roadhouses in the middle of Iowa, during road trips with Tim, when we knew nothing of our future, only that we loved each other fiercely. He put a few coins in the old jukebox, and the song came on. We sat in the sticky bar booth, looking at each other, tears prickling our eyes as we listened together, and part of our future together fell into place.

On that note I'd like to end, but I have to add, it wasn't until Tim that I actually listened to the lyrics in the second verse. I was so smitten with the beautiful melody, Lyle's lonesome voice, and the beauty of the idea of knowing someone so well that I didn't realize the song was actually about infidelity. I wondered why I have always been so drawn to songs about pain and heartbreak. (Another noncontender and gorgeous song completely unfit for our wedding was Zepplin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You." Rats.)

But I'm reminded tonight of The Princess Bride, and a line my friends and I would recite to the screen every time we watched it: "Life is pain, highness!" (Prince Humperdink--I think) and I think part of the beauty of heartbreaking songs is the music putting eloquent words to what we know of our own lives.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Hatred

When I was a kid, one of my mom's friends learned massage therapy, and taught my mother what I now believe was a simple form of reiki that she practiced on my sister and me. Or, tried, anyway. It relaxed my sister, as is its purpose, but as soon as mom's hands hovered over my body, I would howl with laughter and couldn't take anymore. I didn't even do it on purpose--I just had an instant reaction to it.

A friend from high school eventually got into massage therapy. I was about to volunteer my back for some practice until I heard he quit. The reiki did him in. Evidently massage therapists pull out bad energy and emotions through reiki; once he took his patients' bad energy out of them, he didn't know how to release it from himself.

I don't take it personally if a client doesn't like me. It doesn't affect how I feel about myself, or about my job performance. The hard part is dealing with the effects of that hatred. Three times a week, I sit behind my desk, just sit there as wave after wave of hatred and rage hit me and are absorbed into my body. This person doesn't yell anymore. She just sits there and answers my questions with abrupt, one-word answers while refusing to look at me. The meetings take anywhere from 30 seconds to five minutes. If they take longer, it means we've gotten into an argument about something, and both one of us refuse to budge until I realize it's just prolonging having to deal with her, then I give in.

Then she leaves, and my limbs collapse. My veins feel shot through with lead; I feel poisoned and exhausted. And I can't help but think of how bad this is for my body.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Oh stunning day

I had my performance evaluation today. It couldn't have come at a worse time, since I have one client raging out of control and going to the executive director to complain about what a horrible case worker I am, and another bullying the hell out of other clients. However, my boss was incredibly generous. I even scored Almost Perfect on two or three things, the only one of which I remember being "Remains calm and non-judgmental in all circumstances." In light being being the target for some vicious hatred and disrespect, I think my boss was inclined to bump that up to Perfect after hearing about my latest run-in with That Client. It was good to talk about it; my boss very tactfully stated that she'd like to see me learn how to be more assertive.

So would I. So would I. But I feel very empowered and confident from the very positive review. It is really fantastic to feel appreciated and supported, and to hear constructive criticism on the job. It's been, egads! nine months, and I feel settled in my job, but I didn't know objectively how I am doing.

And I discovered one of my favorite parts about the job is one completely incongruent with my meek personality: leading support group. I, strangely, feel in my element in front of a group of clients, leading discussion. Last week we discussed the Power and Control Wheel of Domestic Violence relationships; today I brought homemade treats, a CD of piano music, and led a quiet hour of reflection and writing. I had the women write a letter to themselves from three perspectives: to the self they were when in their battering relationship; to themselves now; and to who they want to be in the future. After a while, we discussed what it was like to reflect on their lives and experiences. Hard, most people said. But good.

I get all excited when I hear quiet, shy, or traumatized women share something personal and hear others saying, "Me, too," and supporting each other. I know it's about getting comfortable with each other, but I can't help but think that my quiet, comforting, safe presence also is a reason for that, too.

And more on the stunning day: as I write this, thunder rolls, crashes, and, well, thunders above my head. The weather phenomena here are spectacular. Each night this week there have been gorgeous lightning storms in the sky.

Tim and Meghan were featured in the Lifestyle section of the paper today: an interview about their roles in "Winter's Tale," and darling pictures of them dancing. I showed the spread to all my co-workers and clients; I even sent an all-staff e-mail around bragging about it.

I am came home to a big Crate & Barrell package. Evidently it's customary to send anniversary presents? (Pony up, bitches. Our one-year is in nine days.) One of my parents' friends sent an orange glass vase and matching platter. And a friend sent me a kick-ass Wilco, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot concert shirt.

What a good day.

Monday, July 18, 2005

Cats

"I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its invisible soul."--Jean Cocteau

Friday, July 15, 2005

Friday nights

Used to be, Friday nights I'd stumble, either from whisky or fatigue, home, the best Thai takeout in the city under one arm, a Cafe Selmarie dessert under the other, and spend the evening in my beautiful apartment. I'd light candles all around, and the wood floor would gleam almond in their glow. The soundtrack was my boyfriend Josh Collinet doing Afropop Worldwide, and life was bliss.

It's impossible to compare single life to life with Tim. Evenings of adventure with him are in a completely different league with a nice in and a good radio program. Each are perfect in their own way.

Here, I'd considered starting a Friday night movie tradition. I don't know. Tonight wasn't, because Tim begged for granola, and we needed groceries. On the way to the store, I heard the last bits of "Thistle & Shamrock," which melted into "River City Folk," a special Alabama program. It was awesome. (Along with rediscovering Eliza Gilkyson and Martha Wainright, I also heard Richard Thompson do an amazingly hilarious "Oops, I Did It Again.") I came home, turned on the radio again, and spent the evening listening and cleaning. As much as it made me miss Afropop, it made me very happy with what I now have. Well, the kind bud helps, too.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Creative swear words

There's a whole world between those who say "Shit!" when they botch an easy tennis serve, and those who say "oh snickerdoodles!"

I gotta say, I will never understand people who say the latter.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Spanking

I think I earned a few miffed comments and judgmental raised eyebrows when I said, about a wailing, temper-tantrum-throwing child, that I'd spank him if he were my child.

And I would. Of course, if this particular child were mine, he wouldn't have been horse-whipped by his grandparents, called "bastard" and "retard" by his father, and he wouldn't have watched his dad push his mom out of a car speeding down the highway. For a child like this, I understand spanking is entirely inappropriate. I understand why his mom disciplines (or doesn't) the way she does. I don't think her permissiveness is doing the child any favors, though. Because of her attitude as well as her abusive husband's, he'll grow up not only to beat the hell out of his girlfriends, but he also won't have any respect for any authority figures. What could the police and the legal system do that's any worse than what he's experienced in his life?

But my (theoretical) children will not experience this kind of pain camouflaged by love. They will, as I did, understand that disobedience has consequences, and if it continues past verbal warnings and unsuccessful time-outs, the next consequence is a spanking. Not once in my sassy, asshole childhood did I ever confuse violence and love. I knew exactly why I was getting spanked. I knew it was something I brought upon myself because of my behavior. Kids are a lot smarter than we give them credit for. And if the kids get Tim's genes, boy howdy will we have some genius kids.

Of course I want to be a loving parent with consistent discipline, so that situations never reach the spanking point. But if they do, I will.

I know it's an extraordinarily controversial opinion. But it's one I've thought quite a bit about.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

I've got the spirit

Or not. Church freaked me out today, and it was only singing. Then the minister dismissed us to prep for Dennis.

Most people close their eyes, sway, clap their hands, or reach upwards with their arms. Everyone really gets into the music here. I don't. I never really do, whether it be church music, or listening to my favorite alt-country band in a smoky dark bar. My body doesn't respond to music unless I specifically mean to dance. Though I think that I can enjoy music just the same without tapping my feet or clapping my hands, I feel completely awkward around others who physically get into it more.

I'm using to singing in church clothed in choir robes, holding a hymnal. It's what I'm comfortable doing.

I like to think that I'm comfortable in my skin, but I guess if I'm not comfortable with my surroundings, then I'm not. I shift from foot to foot, not sure what to do with my hands. I need something to lean against, something to hold. Though everyone around me seems to be in a reverie, their only personal communion with God, I still feel like they're watching me, and judging me for not being moved by the spirit. And the truth is, I'm not. I feel like an imposter taking part in such meaningful moments with folks who take their religion seriously, when I don't believe any of it. My mind wanders during prayer, and I play with harmonies during the singing, instead of taking the lyrics to heart. I only listen to the sermons because the minister is an incredibly dynamic, down-to-earth speaker.

I used to enjoy church solely for the music. Suddenly it's become the part I'm least comfortable with. They don't even provide any musical notation, the way a traditional hymnal will have all four parts written out on the staff. We just get words up on the movie screen, and we have to haplessly follow the tune of the band. Most of the time I can't even pick out the melody.

I used to be good at this. I used to be so musical. Now the music I'm surrounded by makes me so insecure. What's happening?

Saturday, July 09, 2005

Hurricane Dennis

Hurricane Dennis is coming, due here on Sunday night. It's being compared to Ivan, which was our first experience with southern weather last fall. And honestly, it wasn't that scary. Ivan mostly petered out by the time it reached us. In parts. I know a lot of people who were out of power for a few days to a week. Ours just flickered once. The wind didn't even seem that bad.

So I hope I'm being cautious enough this time. I bought 48 bottles of water at Target, and we have tons of dried food. Tim's class and cast have been joking about setting up a cat room in the theatre if the storm gets bad enough that we have to take shelter. And I hope it's just a joke, because we've already evacuated Fergus and Olivia once this year, during a tornado. They didn't deal well with it.

Fuck. I forgot about the tornados that always accompany hurricanes. The full force of hurricanes rarely make it up this far inland, but tornados sure do.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

4th of July

We went to the Biscuits game for the 4th. After attending a few sparsely populated games, it was a shock to have to argue over seats at a sold-out game. They were even selling SRO tickets for the walkway between third base and the outfield section.

Note to self: fake nacho cheese is a bad idea. Topping that with Dippin' Dots, even worse idea. DUH, self!

The game was initially uncomfortable, because it was humid as hell, and I stuck to the seat in my shorts, so moving around was nigh impossible. But the weather improved, the Biscuits absolutely spanked the Mississippi Braves (farm team for the Atlanta Braves), and there were throngs of Tim's classmates and co-workers in good cheer.

But the highlight of the evening was immediately after the victory. The stadium lights clicked off, leaving us blinking in the sudden darkness. Then the sound system blared out Lenny Kravitz's "American Woman," and fireworks shot into the sky, seeming right above us, the colorful sparks appearing to fall down on us. For half an hour, we were serenaded by songs with America in their title, and a stunning display of color in the sky. The baseball stadium is bounded on one side by the railroad, and on the other side is a fantastic river-front park. They must have been shooting off the fireworks from the park.

The finale was, what else, "Sweet Home Alabama;" and shouts and cheers shook the stadium like the crash of a wave breaking on the shore when the distinctive opening riff was recognized. Everyone sang along, and I felt a shiver go through me, something I can only think of as patriotism. (Is it called patriotism when it's for your state?) I was in love with everyone and everything during that song.

Can I call myself an Alabamian now? I kind of want to with every fiber of my being.
 
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