Ten

One of the first hot days of spring, and it makes me think of putting on this Pearl Jam album. I don't listen it that frequently nowadays, but there was a time when it was on permanent rotation in my CD player. Initially that was because it was only the second CD I had ever purchased, after I got my CD player for my sixteenth birthday.

And then, of course, I became obsessed. I never connected with music before quite as much as I did with that album. I've said before that I'm not much for song lyrics, so it wasn't the words that pulled me in (even now I had to look up some of the lyrics to see specifically why I didn't identify with them. They're not even tattooed on my brain after nearly 15 years). It wasn't really their specific angst that drew me, but that they had angst.

By senior year, I grabbed hold of the grunge look like I'd been waiting my whole life for it. Hung up my first pinup poster ever, and it was Eddie. And when I heard Pearl Jam had a tour date in Wichita, I had TicketMaster on speed dial, having already arranged with one of the guys in my class--someone I might not have had the nerve to speak to outside of class were it not for our mutual appreciation of the band--to ride with him if I got lucky enough to find a ticket.

I didn't. Which was probably not a bad thing, considering I was a naive 17-year-old and had no idea what could be in store for me, roadtripping with a bunch of guys to see a raucous band with a roving mosh pit.

But it gave me the idea that next time, I really could do it if I wanted.

Money

Tim's grandmother Liz worked for nearly 40 years and was brilliant at saving money. She's the reason he was able to go to New Zealand after graduating from high school, and why he emerged debt-free from college. When he started his first year of grad school, she gave him a check that was nearly equal to one-third my yearly salary in Chicago.

I've never been around money like that. I know a lot of people who have inheritances. I knew that was never my lot in life. When I'm feeling particularly greedy, though, I daydream about my grandmother loaning me money for grad school, then forgiving the debt in her will.

It's shitty to think like that. But money will do that to you. After the first year, we started to expect another check the second year. It slipped grandmother Liz's mind. Or maybe she never intended to fully finance us. We didn't exactly ask her about it, and planned our budget on Tim's stipend and my salary. We get by. We cut corners more than I'm used to, and live more luxuriously than Tim's used to.

But the idea of money in the family is hard. As soon as Liz got sick, I started to think, "what if she put Tim in the will? Maybe we'd get enough to put a down payment on a home." I knew family was important to her--it seemed completely plausible that she might do that. I felt like an asshole. This was Tim's grandma, his last surviving grandparent, but instead of worrying about her health, I thought about her money.

It turns out, her two sons were the sole beneficiaries of her estate. Tim's uncle is a multimillionaire. For real. And his dad does well for himself. It just doesn't seem fair.

But I realized that getting money ourselves wouldn't have been much better. If Tim had been bequeathed a thousand dollars, I would have thought, "one thousand?? Why didn't he get five?" If five, why not ten?

Ten? Why not twenty?

No amount would have been enough. In the end, I am really very relieved we didn't receive anything. We'll get by on our own, and be happier about it.

Growing up and away

Even before I was aware of changing, I was so desperate to show that I had. I don't know why, exactly. I had this idea that everyone had a deep rooted idea of who I was, and I wanted to shatter it completely. Prove them wrong, though wrong about what?

I have a hard time allowing others to change and become someone different, though. I know it's selfish and unfair, but I don't know how to change the gut reaction.

Collections

I've started a sequin collection at work. So far it consists of:

One large-ish red faceted
One medium peach faceted
One med- to small black flat wide-holed
One med- to small orange flat
One tiny gold flat

I don't think I like the faceted ones as much.

Random Thursday

My sister is coming tomorrow, and I'm dying from excitement, but somehow I'm having a hard time rousing myself to actually clean the apartment.

Work was near-hellish today, but that's almost how I prefer things. It was my turn on the crisis line from 12 to 4:30, and I worked the crisis line from 12 to 4:30. Some days it doesn't ring once, and I have time to work on other things, but today it was nonstop. I got calls while I was on calls. So when I get to work tomorrow, I think my client load will have doubled. We haven't been at full capacity in about six months. It will be nice to be busier--hopefully I won't be online as much.

It was full-moon crazy today. Which, according to the calendar in my office, was one day late, but driving home in the dark tonight, I saw a big peach of a full moon sitting on the horizon. Yesterday's moon was a big silver dollar, and tonight was twice as big. I always wonder how the moon makes such a drastic change in one day, for it slips in and out of its phases so quietly that I lose track of it.

Googling the phases of the moon yielded a Daily Moon Phases module for websites. I might put one here.

In Publix tonight, I was standing in front of the strawberries tonight (16 oz. for 99 cents. 99 cents!!) when a woman walked up. She was tentative about strawberries, so I extolled the virtues of the current cheap--and highly delicious--berries. We talked for a minute or two, then I continued on with my shopping. Her cart was blocking mine a little bit, and she said, "Can you get by, baby girl?" It was seriously the cutest thing I'd ever heard. I don't think anyone has ever called me baby girl before, and here was a stranger saying it in a darling southern drawl. I couldn't stop beaming for the rest of shopping, thinking about how much I love the friendliness of Southerners. I am going to miss feeling so comfortable striking up conversations with folks in grocery stores. What I remember about shopping in Chicago was always being pissed off about how crowded the grocery stores were.

Fives

Five years ago I was vowing to spend at least 6 months single. I had just gotten out of a long, serious relationship, and I was spending lots of time treating myself gently. Good alone time.

Five months ago I was starting my reapplication process for grad school, and realizing I felt confident in my job.

Five days ago I had dinner on the porch and enjoyed a bottle of wine and a cigarette on an incredible, unseasonable March evening.

Five hours ago I rolled into work, barely on time, to discover suddenly I had twice as many clients as the day before.

Five minutes ago I had a crisis call on someone who did crack yesterday.

Five minutes from now, I'll turn my attention back to work.

Five hours from now I'll be playing tennis with Sally

Five days from now I will be saying goodbye to my sister after her weekend visit here.

Five months from now I'll be in living in Chicago!

Five years from now I'll be done with grad school and hopefully will have some idea where I want to focus my attentions.

The Notebook

Fucking The Notebook. That movie reminded me of my two greatest fears in life, impending dementia and not being with/knowing Tim.

My memory is already pretty terrible. From not remembering key moments in my past to occasionally asking Tim a question thirty seconds after I asked it in the first place, I do kind of expect I will someday have Alzheimers. It's such a scary prospect.

And the idea of not being with Tim. Damn it. Sometimes in my lowest moments, when I'm not feeling like being around anyone, I think about running away, getting a cottage by a stream, and spending the rest of my life alone. It sounds idyllic. I think in reality, I'd be able to last about a week.

Man I hate thinking about this. I think thoughts of eventual death are supposed to spur you on to live your life to the fullest, but it really just paralyzes me. Stupid fucking movie.

Photos

Last night I put on some good music and dug through my photo pile. As much as I love having a digital camera, I am so grateful for the old cameras that spawned loads of pictures of my past. I learned a lot, too--mostly that most of my hairstyles were serious missteps, and I need someone to sit me down and firmly tell me exactly what haircut I am best suited for.

I also used to be a lot more photogenic. I have millions of pictures of me leaning into a friend, us beaming widely and authentically--and beautifully. I don't remember having more self-confidence when I was younger (in college and after). But I do see so much happiness in the pictures, which is a universal beautifier. And friends. I see lots of friends. That's got to be what's missing now.

Another reason for looking through pictures: A friend asked about summer camps, and I thought of mine, Googled it, and found a web page for it. There were enough pictures that I could tell how much it had changed--and hardly recognized it. I made my way to the staff list for the upcoming summer, and saw a name I knew under Art Director. It took the wind out of me. If my memory does not fail me, she was my favorite camper 4th- and 5th-grade week my second year of counseling. That would have made her, what, nine or ten? And now she's the art director at the camp that, when I was there, could barely sustain crafts hour once a week for the littler kids.

I feel so old.

So I looked through my camp photos, and found a few pictures of her and me. I think I'm going to get copies made then send her a note with the pictures this summer at camp. I feel a bit tentative about it, as I always do contacting people with whom I'm long out of touch, but I remember what it was like at camp. I hope they still do post-lunch mail call, make a big fuss out of people who receive a lot of letters, and sign them up for an act in the weekly talent show. I would have loved to get a letter from an old counselor sharing memories with me, remembering me. I don't know, though, if I had been a camper at ten, if I would have remembered my counselor ten years later. I do know how influential counselors are, and I do still remember the ones I had the years I attended in high school. It could be like always remembering your first-grade teacher.

God I feel old.

Wine. Herbal cigarettes. French hiphop. Good night.

I think my favorite drinking takes place by myself on our porch on a beautiful spring night, a glass of wine in one hand, a (legal) herbal cigarette in the other hand, and MC Solaar's "Prose Combat" album on the stereo.

It's a great way to center the moment and brush aside the earlier stress of the week, let everything blur, and melt into the music.

I said this today

"There is no easy way to say this, and I am certainly not trying to offend you, but it's been reported that you and your daughter have a very strong odor. It's important to that you bathe yourself and her every day."

Yes, I did indeed say that. It was a growth experience for me.

A day in my life

We sleep in. My new boyfriend, Acceptance Letter from UIC, is a good cuddler.


Acceptance Letter and I spend a lazy day in front of the TV, watching movies with Fergus.


Later I make a romantic dinner for us. Cheers!


After dinner, we go for a walk in the Shakespeare garden, and rest by the daffodils.


Then Acceptance Letter helps me take a clipping of rosemary for home.


Then the evening takes a dangerous turn and I learn Acceptance Letter is much better at holding his liquor than I am.


But all in all, a wonderful day with the new love of my life! In five months, we move to Chicago and begin our new life together!

Music at home

Last night Fran invited me to an event one of her classmates was putting on. She didn't know many details, so I didn't know what to expect. It was a musical review (revue?) that had been picked up by Broadway recently, a play written by a local singer-songwriter based on Lee Smith's Fair and Tender Ladies.

We walked into her classmate Joe's tall, Colonial home, into a big living room stripped bare of furniture, filled with people watching a man on bass and a woman on guitar, singing. They did a few songs, then other people picked up instruments and moved into what I think was the dining room, filled with amps and microphones. A tiny boy dressed in a flaming cowboy shirt, snakeskin boots, and a black ten-gallon that fell to his nose swaggered out, carrying a guitar that covered most of his body. He was 7, and a Hank Williams impersonator. It was really the most precious thing I've ever seen. His singing was, well, you know, he's seven. But I was blown away by how his teeny fingers hopped from chord to chord with ease--he didn't even have to look! (Sometimes I have to look.)

The crowd was mostly grandparents and middle-aged folks when we arrived, but as the night went on, a younger crowd started showing up, and it was clear by the time we left that an afterparty was brewing in the backyard. Joe's friends seemed like the type I would enjoy. He seemed to be about my age, very personable and good looking, goateed, with a poplin fedora, thick silver ring on his pinky, and trendy pointy black shoes like I'm always trying to interest Tim in.

Fran and I mostly stuck to watching the music, and talking to Joe whenever his rounds would place him in our vicinity. He introduced us to his friends once, and they seemed really cool, but we weren't feeling that social. It was fun for me just to get to hang out with her. The music was easy to sit back and listen to. I haven't been able to hang out and listen to live country or folk in a long time.

Towards the end of the evening, Joe played a few songs. One of them, "Valentine," stuck in my head like a burr in cotton. I knew it front to back, but couldn't remember from where. I asked, and he said, "Old 97s." Of course. I started talking about music, and as soon as the words "alt-country" left my mouth, I could feel the light go on inside me, and I knew if things were different, in my old life, that would have been the moment when the evening changed, and lengthened, the water in my hand would have become a beer, then another, and the crowd would thin, then disappear, and eventually, I'd tiptoe out the next morning in the bright sunlight with a phone number in the back pocket of my jeans.

Musicans get me every time.

In a much more wholesome way, the night reminded me of being a kid and going to the Music Emporium for concerts. It was a dusty music store that would open its storage space in the back on weekends for shows. It started out small, a potluck dinner, people sitting on boxes or bringing their own lawn chairs. The kids would run around in the front where the instruments were, and try to count all the frog trinkets and figurines (plus the lazy cat named Frog who slept in plush guitar cases) that the owners collected. I once spent a concert sketching the guitar player bent over playing. I remember the folds of his workshirt and the smooth, reckless curve of the instrument were my favorite parts to draw. My parents pushed me up afterwards to present him with the picture. I was probably eight or ten.

The evening made me think of how I want my home to be someday, filled with laughing people with a beer in one hand and an instrument in the other. I want to host evenings like this, in our spacious home somewhere--preferrably in the middle of the country with a wide porch and a living room big enough for dancing. I want to draw creative people to me with temptations of my cooking, and Tim's love of playing music.

It was a really wonderful evening.

Self Portrait Tuesday

Jamie intrigued me by posting about Self Portrait Tuesday. I decided to attempt it. Not by actually following the SPT blog's assignments, but by making my own up.

Then it immediately occurred to me that taking my own picture is basically my worst nightmare. It gets worse the older I am. There's something about a camera in my face that makes me panick. Something akin to that pathetic Friends episode where Monica and Chandler try to get their engagement photos taken, and Chandler makes a hideous, pained face in every one. I feel my face freeze in a grimace as the camera flashes each time.

I don't want to take pictures of myself warts and all. I want to take pictures that show me as devastatingly beautiful, graceful, and stylish. Because in my head, that's what I am. But then I see photos, and I look pudgy, blotchy, gangly, awkward. I don't want those photos to be a physical reflection of me, because it's not who I feel I am.

So it kind of breaks my heart every time I see an ugly picture, because the more I see, the more I start to think, "but what if I'm just delusional? What if I really am this unattractive?" I know everyone really is her own worst critic, but I do have Tim agreeing with me that I'm not a very photogenic person.

The hardest part for me is that I've always struggled very hard to find myself beautiful and be at peace with my body. It's been so important to me to have self-confidence, and I feel like, nearing 30, I should have had it figured out by now.

It's strange--I expected that being in love would do it for me. Not having to worry about being "perfect" all the time, because I finally have someone who tells me no less than a million times a day, in all seriousness, that I am the most beautiful person he has ever seen. But it's almost too much. I don't believe it. I still thrill for the moments when he mentions a co-worker or classmate has said something to him. It usually takes the form of "how'd you get such a beautiful wife?" And I blush and say, "No really, they didn't say that! Ok, wait. Tell me again!" And he'll smile, and boast again how he's always been picky, and only dates really outstandingly gorgeous women.

And I hate myself a bit, for not believing it until I see it reflected in someone else's eyes. I want to be better than that.

Spring

Jennifer nailed it: Spring is here. It's been warm here since mid-January, but only in the past week or two has the air taken on the rich heft and scent of spring. Despite my allergies also coming back full-force, I'm in heaven. The scent settles in early evening, and pressing me down into my wooden picnic chair on the porch, so I can't leave and must only stay and relax in the quietly creeping dusk. We leave the porch door flung open so it can creep into the house and breathe new life into all the musty corners. Ah, heaven!