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There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Days like this

Saturday.

Unseasonably warm at 74 degrees, and windy.

I left the porch door wide open while I cleaned the house, then later, when I drove to volunteer for a fundraiser at a local TV station, I rolled the windows down and the wind whipped through my hair. Radio cranked, foot to the floor, it felt like the day rolled out ahead of me and thundered in my wake.

Days like that, I pass cars on the road and wonder if I know them, like it's a possibility because I live in such a small city. The world becomes smaller in a pleasant, neighborly way.

Days like that make me happy.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Old grey shirt

I have an old grey tee-shirt that rests at the bottom of my shirt drawer. Over the years, it has acquired a tiny bleach spot on the front, and pale underarms from fabric-fading toxins in deoterant. It's way past its prime, but I can't throw it away.

Mostly, it's the perfect shade of charcoal grey, and the shirt that started my love affair with the color. It's also the first item of clothing I bought out of college, when I realized I had to start taking charge of my wardrobe. I didn't even know where to begin--I'd not really thought about clothing or fashion for most of my life. So I ended up in a boutique and bought myself a glossy, smooth, fitted dark grey tee-shirt and a knee-length, silver nubby skirt. It was the beginning of my work wardrobe.

The shirt looked good with anything: dark jeans for a night of drinks, dress pants for a casual work day. It also made me realize that the grunge era of loose flannels didn't really show off my body the way this shirt did. I figured I wouldn't always be so happy with my body--my stomach eventually would thicken and my boobs would sag--so I might as well take advantage of it then. And it was lovely.

Last year, my hips outgrew the skirt, and with much regret, I gave it away. But I kept the shirt--still holding onto the beginning of my fashion sense, the start of life as an adult. It reminds me of being independent, on my own, making decisions, and understanding what looks flatter me. I can't bear to put a symbol of that in the trash. I'll have to figure out something special to do with it.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Sound

For Christmas, an aunt and uncle got us an alarm clock. It is the clock to end all clocks, with a laser display that will shine the time and outside temperature (there's a remote sensor) on the ceiling when the alarm goes off. And it has soothing sounds to help you fall asleep. Things like Rainforest, Waves, Thunder, Rain, Summer Night, and so on. They're all really cool, and for digital sounds--impressively realistic. So much that when we tried out out Thunder, I felt this sword go through me and I couldn't move.

I was instantly transported back to Kansas springtime. Junior prom, to be exact, when it started storming after the dance, on the way to the after-party, and Sarah and I held our dyed shoes in our hands, and skipped through the puddles to the parties. My first party that included beer, boys, and an NC-17 movie, and arriving home at 5:30 a.m., the first light on the horizon, and fog lifting off the sodden ground.

I guess smell is supposedly the best sense memory we have, but for me, it's sound. I have so many sound memories that affect me on a daily basis, but only a few smell memories I remember right now (one of which was a random whiff of junior high locker room while crossing the street in Chicago a few years ago). And I can't even conjure up what that smell could possibly have been now, yet I can still hear refrains from songs in my head, the way my first car sounded when I revved the engine, and what our phone ring sounded like when we shared a party line.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Being good

I was reading last night, and there was a passage about an interaction between a psychologist and a patient. I know I'll never be quite at that level, but I'll do some type of therapy in my work. And I had this thought: "I'm going to be good." I'm going to be a good good social worker.

It was exciting to think about. I've never been good at things I want to be good at. I've never cared enough about the things I'm good at to work hard before. It's so exciting to actually want to work hard at something. It feels a little bit like freedom.

And because of those thoughts, it dawned on me that I'm pretty ok at my job right now. I've been so frustrated lately. Not the same as the burnout I felt before Christmas--more like despair that I wasn't doing enough, didn't know enough, to really help my clients. It occurred to me (as it does every now and then) that caring as much as I do is almost enough. I slept better than I have in a few weeks last night, once I figured that out.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Is this heaven? No, it's Iowa

Movies like "Field of Dreams," and the one I caught on TV yesterday, "Thousand Acres" makes me long for a white clapboard house in the middle of farming country. Miles of yard, a wraparound veranda porch with a swing, old sheds and barns behind the house. I wouldn't even mind a flock of chickens pecking about--as long as I didn't have to be the one to gather their eggs.

Places like that exude such a sense of peace to me. I always thought I was a city girl, but I can't escape the dream of someday owning a place in the country.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Chicken soup

This week, driving home from work and stopping by Bruno's to pick up some chicken soup to sooth my cold, I thought about what I would have done in Chicago.

Walking home from the train, I would have stopped by Rosded, a Thai restaurant, and ordered take-out Chicken Tom Ka Kay, extra spicy. At home, I'd take the lid off the soup and breathe in, the steam itself so hot from the extra chili peppers that my sinuses would clear instantly. I'd strain the soup to pick out the galangal and lemongrass, so the broth was clear with its chicken, and sometimes cabbage. The takeout container was so large, I'd often get two meals out of it, which only got spicier by the second bowl if I didn't take out the peppers in the beginning, too.

Thinking about that while heating the Campbell's on the stove made the noodle soup seem so bland and unappetizing, and I realized how completely different my life is now. Though its simplicity is finally comforting and appealing to me, I'll always pick living someplace where I can walk home and pick up Thai food on the way above all else.

Monday, January 02, 2006

Family

So I was ready to kill my mother after spending two days in a row with her.

Sometimes I don't understand how Tim can get so angry that he needs to punch something in order to release the stress.

But I forgot what family can do to you.

It wasn't until she was back home and I was packing to get on the plane, though, that we talked about it. "So your sister says you're mad at me because I told you to [do X]" is kind of a stressful thing to hear at the beginning of a conversation.

But ultimately the only way to bring up an important conversation, I guess.

It did give me a chance to say what was on my mind ("No, it's not specifically that you made sure I thanked Busia for dinner, it's that that instance is an example of how you still try to tell me what to do" sounds kind of petty, like childish whining, but it's difficult to explain how deeply it bothers me.)

I have not yet addressed the fact that she doesn't really listen to me (she asked me about ten times to tell her about my visit to UIC, so by the tenth time--when she actually was listening--I almost exploded), but considering she was listening and being extraordinarily receptive to some of the hard things I was saying, I didn't want to push it.

("Mom, you know how you always complain about Busia? I don't want that to be me.")

The thing I'm most scared of, though, is that I know our relationship is a vicious circle. She initially thought I was entirely blaming her for our bad relationship, for telling me to thank my grandmother like I didn't know better. I tried to make it clear that we're both at fault. (She treats me like I'm ten, so I act like it. How do we stop that?) The hard part for me is that while I think it's a positive step (and it is) for me to be able to talk to her about this, what about when she needs to talk to me about my part in all of it? When she needs to call me on whatever bullshit, reverting back to old behavior patterns, I might do?

I'm getting all self-congratulatory because my communication skills have improved to the point that I can discuss some serious things with family, yet I don't think they're far enough along that I can also accept some criticism from them.

I guess that's a 2006 goal.

At any rate, it feels gooood to be able to talk about this. During the conversation, mom was upset and wondered if we could even change our relationship dynamic. But then she said, "But if we can't talk about this, then our relationship is doomed."

Man, it was so awesome to have that talk.

My future

Freaking out.

The overly hopeful wish of a week and a half ago has not yet come to pass, for tracking still only says "Status: Acceptance. Your item was accepted at 2:50 pm on December 23, 2005, in Alabama"

I know that the mail is slow during the holidays, but I sent it Priority Mail. I asked the mail clerk how much slower than usual the mail was running, and she said PM was mailing like usual. So it should have arrived at the latest on Tuesday, Dec. 27. The school was closed between Christmas and New Year's, so I expected that it would not actually be in the hands of someone important by then, but I believed at least the tracking would have said something like "Arrived in Chicago," when it hit the general post office.

I didn't insure it--probably stupid--but how can you put a monetary value on letters of reference, and a printout of your resume and future hopes and wishes? I even forgot (after quadruple-checking the package) to include the $50 application fee, so it's not like I'm losing that.

I suppose I'm so freaked out because this is it. UIC is the only school I'm applying to--against most everyone's recommendations. Everyone says I need a backup school, just in case, but, as much as I adore the Loyola program, it's not exactly feasible as a backup school. It wouldn't matter if UIC turned me down and Loyola accepted me. I still couldn't afford to go. I suppose, god forbid I don't get accepted, I'd try to find some sort of meaningful job, and apply again in a year. (Surely they wouldn't turn me down three times when I'm so obviously a motivated individual.)

(They didn't exactly turn me down the first time. I applied medium late and was accepted to their waiting list.)

Anyway, while most people think applying to only one school is a dangerous road, a friend who makes $75K a year but is paying $900 a month for the next 30 years of her life just for her law degree supported me when I told her my reasons. (And #2 being, if I am not able to go to the school no matter what, we can't afford the $50 application fee.)

But it does still up the stress level. And it's only worse wondering now if the application is lost in the mail. Having to redo the paperwork is not a big deal. Losing time by redoing it is. The priority deadline was today. I won't get cut if they don't receive it, it just means other people might get ahead of me in the assessment process, so I'm worried they'd fill up their allotment of acceptances before they find me.

I want to go to this school so badly it hurts. For a while, I was just making myself fit, because I couldn't justify spending so much more money at Loyola even though I really did like their program better, but after talking to the director of admissions/financial aid, I am positively salivating over the UIC program, and am sold on it.

So. At least 6 weeks more of stressing out, wondering if they think I'm good enough. (How could they not? But still. There's always doubt.)

Pain

I met a social worker on New Year's Eve who had a wrist band tattoo. I asked her about it, for Tim seems to think that the wrist tattoo I want will prevent me from getting jobs. I don't think it will, and she agreed with me. But she said what a lot of people have been telling me: that the inner wrist hurts a lot.

I don't even know what that means. Every single tattoo I have has hurt a LOT. Each one made me freak out and cry and almost hyperventilate (in my head, of course--don't want to act like a sissy at the tough tattoo shops!) and swear that the one being currently drilling into my flesh is the last one ever--that I'm swearing off them for good. With the first two, as soon as the redness and swelling passed (and I could look at the ink without feeling faint), though, I instantly thought of the next one I wanted.

With the last one, though, there was enough pain that I really meant it for at least six months. With that one, I can still remember exactly what the needle felt like going into my back. I wanted to die, die, die, and beg the artist to stop what he was doing--that a half-finished tattoo was fine with me if the pain would just STOP.

Of course, for all that, and despite my low threshold of pain, I still can't wait to get this latest one. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose an hour of excruciating pain is worth a pretty, pretty wrist decoration.
 
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