Franziaaa . . . the wine in the box

For what seemed like every single day in Physics class senior year of high school, David Rowe sat behind me and sang this jingle. I remembered it the other day when I was thinking about how I needed to start drinking red wine on a regular basis, but how it probably defeated the health purposes to drink a whole bottle in one sitting because I don't want it to go bad. So really the perfect item for me would boxed wine that wouldn't turn to vinegar if I only had one glass a night.

Oh, if only it was good wine!

I thought about the red wine because I need to start eating heart-healthy. Because I just found out my cholesterol level is currently on red alert, danger zone.

Though it could primarily be from genetics, I do eat what could technically be defined as an ass-ton of cheese. It is, after all, my number one favorite food. And as much as it kills me to cut down on the cheese, and despite the genetic predisposition, I just can't wrap my head around going on medication when I'm only 30.

Like I blogged about earlier, my resolution is to maintain calm in the face of stress, so my first thought was, "(damn it) I'm going to have to start an exercise program (damn it)." And so I did.

And then I decided to get rid of all the unhealthy food in the apartment--by eating it. (Don't want to be wasteful--and Tim sure isn't going to polish off that half-pound of sandwich ham!)

And I announced to my classmates my newly discovered condition, and that I was starting an exercise program, and several of them said they'd join me, so now I have to stick with it.

But the thing about remaining calm is that it doesn't always work inside. My head knows all the logical things, but I guess I didn't give myelf time to acknowledge what a potentially huge thing it is to have proof that there is something terribly unhealthy and dangerous in my life. Dad says, "well, it's not like you're going to drop dead from a heart attack tomorrow . . ." but doesn't that happen to 30-year-olds sometimes? I mean, it's not outside of the realm of possibility or anything.

And I do eat a lot of cheese!

So I'm upset and depressed, and scared, and I'm worried I'm going to develop an eating disorder. I came home with low blood sugar tonight and needed to stuff some food in my face just so I wouldn't pass out. Normally, that would be cheese and crackers. But instead I looked for something healthier. I found a Trader Joe's frozen bag of chicken fried rice (and all the ingredients were good) and made that. And then ate it worrying that I used too much of the spray olive oil in the pan to fry it, and what about the fatty bits on the chicken, and is white rice merely not the greatest thing to eat or is it in fact raising my cholesterol by fractions of a point as it heads down my gullet?

It's pretty ridiculous, I know. I know what's healthy, and that we do eat very healthily. (I guess I did marry someone who is beyond anal when it comes to the food he puts in his body.) But I suddenly feel paralyzed and in the dark, like I forgot all of that, and as though I was just deluding myself into thinking we were healthy when actually we subsist on McDonald's supervalue meals.

I guess that year of mozarella sticks and hot wings, aka 2002, is catching up with me.

Preparation

I think one of the great things about being married to Tim is that I have gained a handle on preparation.

I didn't own any snow boots until he came into the picture. Actually, not until now. Six years in Chicago awful winters, and I never wore snow boots.

Each day at the office, I'd get low blood sugar and start shaking, barely making it home before I collapsed, face-down into a pile of cheese and crackers. It wasn't until we explored the South Beach diet that I was able to control that, and arrive home each night not feeling like death.

Now I don't leave the house without an energy bar (homemade), a nail file, hand lotion, and enough layers to deal with whatever the weather throws at me.

I make granola a few times a month so we have breakfast (and snack food for when the low blood sugar sneaks up on us). Our cabinets are stuffed full of canned vegetables and falafel mix, so if we come home without an idea for dinner, we don't have to go out.

Preparation has bought me a great deal of calm, and I love it.

Break

I have been relaxing and cooking like I used to--really taking advantage of my break. Not feeling guilty about my excessive laying around watching TV or reading. And I thought, "I could really get used to this. Damn us not being independently wealthy!" How I'd love to be a lady of leisure, rising late, being able to spend time making my home beautiful and lived in, gourmet cooking when the mood strikes. My non-existent stress level has made things utterly lovely for Tim and I. Our weekends are lazy and filled with happiness and cuddles.

And then, when I started to freak out that I had just a week and a half left until that whole world would be turned on its head, and school would start, my internship, my second part-time job, I also started to get a little restless. So now I'm ready. Good timing, that.

Only I found out today, third-hand, that three of the supervisors at my internship (my direct boss one of them) all quit and their last day will be Friday, before I even return. Talk about a world being turned on its head. I don't know what my future will hold there, now. I reeeeally like my boss, and she is/was the only LCSW on staff--a certification needed to sign off on intern's hours. There are five of us students in total, so I hope we get taken into consideration when planning how to proceed with new hires. I love the placement, so I don't want to get shuffled off to a new one.

And I also hate the timing, for I wanted my boss's job when I graduate--in 1.5 years. But I know there's some hospital fuckness, the extent of which I'm not even sure, so I'm sure she and the others have a good reason for leaving. (But despite the horror stories I've heard, I still harbored the desire to at least get my foot in the door, to get some experience there.)

I'm trying to spin it positively (because I haven't yet heard any details) and think that maybe this is a good opportunity for me to take on more responsibility. Or maybe she's going to a cool new place and will take me with her. I don't know. I'm trying to chill out and not worry about it.

My New Year's resolution is to remain calm and relaxed when things get stressful.

Winter solstice

I've always wanted to celebrate the solstice. The last time I did was in high school, when Hannah had a solstice party. I think we probably had dinner, then sat around talking all night. Though that's probably how our group of friends passed many of evenings together, this was different because we didn't usually hang out at Hannah's, and celebrating the solstice was special--almost deviant in the area we grew up--which probably led to its allure.

Though I've never actually took the time to become knowledgeable about ancient pagan rituals, I've always been drawn to them. Being able to celebrate the solstice--well, what does that even mean?

Tonight we had a few friends over, and we grilled and ate by candlelight. I don't know if Tim thought there was a bunch of frozen meat we needed to eat, or if he wanted to cook by fire--for he mentioned a tradition that on the solstice, you extinguish all the fire by the end of the night. (And I'm too lazy to Google for that information.)

I do a lot of apologizing for our apartment. The carpet is dirty and stained, and we never seem to have control over the clutter.

But in candlelight, it's perfect. And as Tim and his castmates left to do another run of "Christmas Carol," I blew out the candles and was left alone with only the weak light from our tiny Christmas tree.

It was peaceful. Quiet. Calm. Mindful.

It seemed like the perfect way to celebrate the solstice. And lo, another tradition is born.

Being a mom

I was a mom this week. Or, was mistaken for one.

I took a client to the health department for one of her children, and I watched her other, a 5-month-old, during the appointment. I don't know a single thing about babies. Do you still need to support their heads at 5 months? I didn't. He seemed to be able to do it himself. I bounced him on my knee, and swayed back and forth to hang him upside down. I couldn't tell if other moms in the waiting room were looking at me disapprovingly, or it was ok to hang a baby upside-down, but since he was squealing with laughter, I thought, oh, what the hell?

He also gnawed on my fingers. If he actually had teeth, I think I might have lost a digit. And it reminded me of The Truth about Cats and Dogs: "You can love your pet, just don't LOOOOOVE your pet." I may have gotten a rash from it.

Anyway, it was comforting to be able to keep him calm, and to stick a bottle in him when he started fussing. But most happily, he didn't stink up his diaper when I had him. He fits in my arms, though he is muy pesado (which I quickly understood from his mom as "heavy"). I think I held him so much that my back was sore the next day.

So I guess as long as they don't stink up their diapers (because I'm not quite that advanced in babycare), I kind of like babies.

The weird thing, though, is that I can't figure what to say to them. I can't "ooga-booga" them, and I can't talk to them like they can talk back. Considering how vocal and gushy I am over the kitters, I don't understand my paralyzed silence in the presence of babies. Oh well.

Slipping

I feel myself slipping again.

Becoming unmoored.

Untethered to life around me.

I feel like I'm sinking slowly to the bottom of a swimming pool, releasing all my air to sink further. Down there everything is calm and still, and a buffer from the noise above. I can only hear the murky silence of water.

It's quiet, but unnerving. I can't get my mind to focus on anything. It's blurring at the edges. I grasp and I grasp, but my brain is full of smoke and nothing substantial.

Just drifting.

I sometimes attribute it to not using my brain as much as I used to. Specifically, reading. I don't do it as much anymore because I don't have a train commute, or as much time to devote to it. I finally picked up a book a few months ago, and the static in my brain smoothed down. I thought, "I am home." And I never wanted to lay the book back down.

But the books are now also contributing to my sinking, my daze. I emerge from a lunch break spent in story, and I can't fully return to my life. I can't enter and leave the stories the way I used to.

Reading

I'm ashamed to say this, but I haven't read a real book in about a year. All my co-workers think I'm a bookworm because I read over lunch every day, but of late it's been magazines and trashy novels. I don't have a hour's commute on the train anymore, and the libraries here are worthless.

A real book is something engaging, thought-provoking, or well-read. I'm not much for non-fiction, I just want my novels to be great. I know there's enough good ones out there, that I shouldn't waste my time with crap.

But I haven't been reading. Then last night, I picked up a collection of short stories anthologized by David Sedaris. His intro said something about how stories can save you. It's something I've heard many times, but not thought about recently. But when I opened up the first story, I could see his words in my mind again. As I read it (by Richard Yates, someone I've never read before), the static in my brain smoothed out and I felt so calm. I remembered what good literature can do to you.

It was hard to follow though. I'm scared my brain has turned to mush, that my year of not reading has rendered me incapable of reading something above a sixth-grade level.

Smoking

Tonight was the perfect weather for porch sitting. We had Meghan and Lauren over for grilling and s'mores. Afterwards, Lauren left, Meghan and Tim read magazines in the living room, and I sat on the porch, amidst some citronella candles, enjoying my two-cider buzz and an herbal cigarette. (And by "herbal," I really mean herbal--a blend Tim makes, with a lot of spicy weedy planty things, mostly mullen). It was a perfect, calm moment, and it made me think about smoking.

During one of the rare times my family owned a TV, the rules were "one hour of TV a week." My pick when I was little was--I don't know why--"Hollywood Classics of the 30s and 40s." So ingrained in my subconscious is the sheer glamour and sexiness that is smoking. Movie stars back then knew how to make it look so appealing.

This didn't particularly lure me into the addiction as a teen or anything, but it did lead me to date at least one person simply because of the way he looked with a cigarette in his fingers.

I met him in an English class. Sort of. He sat across the room from me, piercing blue eyes, during a time when I was receiving mysterious secret admirer notes. I marched up to him and asked if they were from him. He said, "no; I wish I had thought of it, though," and we went to a poetry reading together. We had a few dates, then he vanished off the face of the earth (an mysterious thing--in my opinion--for a college student mid-semester) for a few months (I won't even go into the psychotic lengths to which I went to locate him). When he turned back up, it was obvious we were unsuited to each other, that it was the smoking that lured me in. It was the satisfaction and the ease, the downright sexiness of it.

I haven't dated many smokers, though. I prefer to admire it from afar. The first one, though, broke my heart, and after, I took up smoking because I missed him. An odd thing to start at 25, 26. It didn't take. I only smoked for about four months. But in some ways it gave me purpose. Not purpose exactly--something to do with myself in a bar.

During my single times in Chicago, I pushed myself into solo activities. Movies, cafes, even dinners at nice restaurants, those I accomplished with ease. But I always wanted to be able to sit in a bar and have a drink by myself. It never really worked because I didn't know what to do. I didn't go to sports bars, so I couldn't pass the time watching the game; I never went anyplace enough that the bartender would shoot the breeze with me; and the bars I frequented were always too dark to read in. Smoking solved my problem. Thus my greatest accomplishment in that regard was going to my favorite swanky bar to have a dirty martini and a few cigarettes. No one came up to light my cigarette or offer to buy me a second drink, which was something I halfway expected due to movies, but since I didn't really like people approaching me anyway, it was ok.

Then I dated a hard-core smoker for a few months, and it really lost its glamour. If I drink enough, I'll crave a smoke, but in the end, it's not a good thing.

The herbal mix, though, it's good at the right moments. Like right now, in the cooling fall night, under a nearly full moon, with a happy belly and a cider in my hand.

My sister's wedding

So she's bugging me to write about it.

It was lovely. All the celebrations were fun and not stressful (for me anyway).

I planned the bachelorette party, dinner out at a nice restaurant. No strippers, penis cookies, nothing. It was wonderfully low-key. We had plenty of wine and got to see old friends. Katie likes to act like she's an old fogie, and doesn't want to party like a rock star, but after a few glasses of wine, her tune changed, and we stayed up way too late. I really can't think of much I enjoy more than being surrounded by girl friends, good conversation, food, and wine.

The next day was the rehearsal, then an afternoon spent with the other bridesmaids, mom, and mother of the groom at a nail salon. We drank iced coffee, read magazines, and absolutely blissed out to manicures and pedicures. I don't get those ever. They were such a treat. In the evening, rehearsal dinner, where Chris's brother made a slide show of childhood pictures. I was in most of them. We were darling.

And that's when the picture taking started.

How is it that Katie looks like a California surfer girl? We're Kansas girls!


Where did my round eyes come from? Clearly I was adopted.


Day of the wedding. For Tim and I, it was pretty leisurely. We slept late, walked downtown Evanston to get some Dunkin Donuts (for me anyway. Hey! We don't have a DD here!), and then lunch in the hospitality room. My parents had the stack of photos that Chris's brother sifted through to put together the slide show, and I looked through them. I wasn't but a few pictures in, looking at baby Katie and I hugging each other like we actually got along as kids, when I started sobbing.

It wasn't the wedding so much as just her. I miss her so much it's like I have this hole missing in my heart. I just can't bear to be so far away from her.

Cool, calm, and collected, ready to head to the wedding space. It really took two people to carry that dress.


On the way to the space. That's Eliza, Katie's best friend.


Before she got dressed, I modeled the crinoline under my own dress.


We tied her into it.



Posing for pictures pre-ceremony.



Then we went back to the dressing room to hang out and wait until it was time. Chris's brother's girlfriend procured a bottle of wine and we did a round of toasts.


Then it was time. I love the look on mom's face. Halfway between laughter and insanity.


No pictures of the ceremony, for someone was sitting right in front of Tim. All I remember is that the minister wore a cell phone speaker on his lapel so that Chris's grandpa in Florida could listen to the vows; that Katie spoke so quietly I couldn't hear her, and I was standing right next to her; and that my feet hurt so badly it was all I could do to not fall down on the spot.

After the ceremony, a quartet played for cocktail hour. I think quartet is too fancy of a word. They were a folky bluegrass band. Exactly the thing that inspired dad to pick up an extra guitar and join in.


Then it was dinner time. The DJ announced their arrival.


In case you can't tell, here's a closeup of Katie. She'll kill me for it, but I love the look of sheer happiness.


Hopefully some day I will see the video, because I made an spectacular toast to Katie and Chris. Best maid of honor speech ever. Trying to recount it to Tim (who ducked out after the ceremony to go to another wedding) didn't even do it justice. Let's just say I made people laugh and cry lots. I should be a professional toast-giver.





BFF




The evening took a wild spin when dancing started. My certifiably insane uncle got out his drum and started playing along to the music.


But it was fun. So much fun. It was demonstrated, the clear link to insanity in the Moran family because my dad also tore up the dance floor. I'm so disapointed I didn't get a picture of that hilarity. I was afraid he was going to throw out his back.

And I got to spend most of the evening with Hannah and my cousin Andy, two of my most favorite people in the world.

Finally, some of my favorite notes that guests wrote to Katie and Chris.

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.

Sunday

I woke up in time to go to one of Tim's staged readings that was part of the Southern Writer's Project. His part was a 27-year-old brother of the main character. He was extremely sensitive. The whole play was a beautifully written piece of magical realism. I loved it. Afterwards the playwright and the dramaturgist did a Q&A. Whenever I'm around theatre buffs, I feel like such an idiot. Folks were spouting off stuff like "The dichotomy of illusory plot and the physical presence of . . ." Oh shut the hell up. Theatre for me boils down to: "I liked it," "I was bored," etc. And one theatre bitch was talking about how she didn't buy x, y, or z about the plot. I hate it when people dismiss magical realism because they aren't able to stretch their imagination around it, and so they call it "unbelievable." I felt so bad for the playwright, because it was seriously the most well-written play I've heard in a long time. I even cried a little at the end. And plays? Don't make me cry.

Then Tim had the afternoon off, and the day was gorgeous--60 degrees and sunny. We threw open the windows, let the cats frolic on the balcony, and flung ourselves into the heady joy of setting up the drum kit! One of the boxes that the equipment came in was badly torn up when we received it, so the tension rods and support legs for the bass drum were missing. But we were able to put everything else up. With the mutes on everything, it's not that noisy at all. I spent a while tapping out the only beat I know. I have a tendancy to speed, so I got out the annoying metronome to keep my beat. It's an easy pattern. Hit the high hat on 1, 2, 3, 4; the bass on 1, and the snare on 3. I thought I'd get bored quickly, then frustrated because I didn't know any other patterns, but, oddly, it's fairly entrancing to spend a while on the beat. And since I have to focus otherwise I lose it, and start hitting on the off-beat, or my foot misses the pedal, I need lots of practice. I'm going to keep working until my mind can wander and still hold the rhythm.

And we watched more Buffy. We're up to Season 3. We're addicted. We were going to watch The Gift, but NetFlix has been sucking lately and the DVD was thoroughly cracked.

After, we found some coupons for a steak place and spent half an hour talking ourselves into going out to eat (something we probably shouldn't do for a while). But we're bad at monitoring ourselves, and since we shared a steak, and ended up spending $45 less than the last time we went there? Not so bad. While we were in there, we listened to their piped-in, cheesy country music, and patted out the drum beats on the table. Obsessed, who?

And the Superbowl, of course, which was on in the background. All in all, a perfect day. It was such a treat to get to spend it all with Tim, who ordinarily has to spend most of Sundays in class or rehearsal.

It was good to store up calm peaceful times, because today I found out someone I know was shot in the stomach. By her husband, I assumed initially, but it was more upsetting to later find out that it might have been self-inflicted. Should get to the bottom of this.

PMS

When I got out of the shower this morning, Tim was awake, sitting up in bed, looking for all the world like a puppy who was about to explode.

"I need to smother you right now!" he said.

"I have PMS," I responded.

"Oh," he said. "I'll give you space then. But just remember, if you need to be smothered, I'm in a smothering mood."

I love how understanding he is. It puts me in a much better frame of mind to be smothered. So I let him smother me once right before I left for work (late, so I was even grumpier), and now that I'm at work, the only place I want to be is back home in his arms. But I suspect that if I were actually there, I'd be grumpy about something new, and not want to be touched.

But he's working late this week, 9 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. with only a break for dinner, so I'll have a chance to properly miss him if my hormones would stop acting so wily.

Before I ever shared a bed with anyone on a regular basis, I'd hear women talk about not being able to sleep when their partners were gone. And I thought, "poor, pathetic woman. What's wrong with you, can't you sleep on your own?" I thought I'd love having a break from sharing a bed, because all I knew was how much I liked sprawling across my own. And how hard it was to share a bed with someone, the every now and then that I did it. (Although on my own, I rarely slept through the night, tossing and turning.)

Now I'm the poor, pathetic woman, because I toss and turn, only briefly napping, until he's home, and then when he gets into bed and the cats settle down on top of us, I fall deep asleep. I wonder why that is? His presence seems to calm all my jitters and antsiness.

Home again, home again

Thursday, petting Tim's fuzzy, shaved head while he tried to exercise around me, I said, "I am ready to go home."

"Me, too, back to our kitties, and our own space."

"I'm glad we're considering it home now."

So I assumed the kick in the stomach I was feeling as we drove to the airport was actually excitement to return south. But it really must have been more like a premonition.

We got home Saturday night to an upright bass sprayed with cat pee, a $200 lab bill for a Chlamydia test I never requested, a food cabinet filled with strange black bugs, and no good Thai restaurant down the street from which to order take-out.

So we dealt by yelling, then retreating to our own corners of the apartment to do the only things we could handle: clean. Somehow I only feel motivated to deep-clean the bathroom when I am very, very angry. And thank god Tim does all the cat clean-up. I like that our relationship doesn't involve much yelling at all, but when the urge arises, we take space to calm down, then come back together when we're ready. And cleaning or unpacking speeds the recovery process, because it's more fun to hang out than actually work.

Then we opened a bottle of champagne, and watched some Arrested Development. It made the homecoming infinitely more tolerable.

But I hate being back. I like the slower pace of life, but I feel this big hole in my chest, where family and friends, and tall buildings and el trains, Indian spice markets and handmade paper stores, and good sushi and quiet bars with good whiskey used to be. I'm trying to figure out why I was looking forward to being back.

Getting to laze around in 70 degree weather in January is a compelling reason, though. And getting to see the kitties, who were very happy to have us around again. And being by ourselves again, in our own space. I forget when in Chicago at other people's houses, how much more comfortable I am in my own.

So we're home. And work starts tomorrow, and I hope it helps stop up this hole inside me.