How much do I love my family?

I love my family. I knew that before, but I realized it full-force after returning from Alabama.

I'm not just talking about my sister, mother, and father. There is my grandmother, 5.5 uncles (only one who lives all that far away; and the half includes a new-ish, not-yet-married-into-the-family one), 5 aunts (again, only one who lives all that far away), and 10.5 (again, one new-ish, not-yet-married-into-the-family one--who I can't wait to meet!) cousins. (And I suppose it would only be fair to also include a mother-in-law, sister-in-law, nephew; oh yeah, and my father-in-law and his wife.)

I know not everyone is lucky enough to be so close to their extended family. During the lesser holidays, like Easter, when my parents aren't in Chicago, I spend it with my relatives and feel enveloped by warmth and love. It is truly spectacular. If I seriously consider it, I'd say family parties are among the most fun I can have in a large (and I mean large) group of people. There's just such a level of comfort among people who have known and loved me for 31.5 years.

And yet, one of the things I treasure the most is how that hasn't remained static for my entire life. I'm able to be friends with my aunts and uncles now, and my cousins, after not knowing them much since I didn't grow up in Chicago like most of them did, well, they've turned into really awesome adults.

Next weekend, we are going out for a Family Dinner. Deciding on the right restaurant took about thirty e-mails, which is what happens when you have twenty opinionated Polish-Czechs trying to come to a consensus. In the past year, we've started gathering, every three, four months or so, outside of the regular family parties for holidays and birthdays, to try new restaurants and drink a lot of beer (in fact, the restaurant was chosen primarily for its BYOB-ness, since, holy crap, the Bartas can put away the zimny piwo). It's fantastic. I love so much that we're getting together . . . because we want to. You know you have something special when you want to spend time with your family outside of the requisite holidays.

I guess the next opportunity for a party will be my graduation. I have made a lot of great friends throughout the whole grad school process, and I want to commemorate it somehow with them. However, all I can think about is: what a great family party that will be!

Smashed

This weekend, I couldn't put down Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood. I was enthralled. It was first a love letter to alcohol, then a cautionary tale. (All in all--a memoir.)

I must admit, her first words about alcohol put me in the mind to have one more drink than usual. I remembered the softening, the expansion, the glow of alcohol hitting my brain. The way I throw my head back and laugh deeply, instead of quiet smiling. I thought about how gathering over beers is a good way to end the week, or to bond with new friends.

And then I went out Sunday, to a tavern, to drink two Blue Moons and meet Tim's cast. I wish I could achieve the same relaxed state without alcohol, but I'm not going to lie about it: I also just love Blue Moon, so I'd probably drink it even if it weren't fermented. The next day, I was in agony. Obviously I don't drink frequently enough if two beers--two!--are going to slay me, and mightily. My head ached all day, despite fountain coke, a greasy lunch, and many ibuprophens. (Not to mention that my allergies--to dust! Not alcohol!--are heightened by drinking, so I couldn't breathe in addition to the hangover.)

It made me reflect on a different part of Smashed, where she talks about binging five to six nights a week. I just can't imagine. I've never even been able to get through hair of the dog, for the thought of more alcohol after a night of excess makes me swear off it for days. The craving leaves me--my own refractory period for the next drink. It's worse as I get older, of course; I remember partying to oblivion in college, and feeling no worse for the wear the next day.

I suppose I'm lucky that the joy of excess does not continue to be lure enough to make up for the recovery time. But I can understand the author's love. The way she described her painful shyness and insecurity in high school, that could have been me. I think the things stopping me from going down her path were a healthy (un?) love of maintaining control and a strong group of friends who did not drink. (I would also include parents who would have allowed me a drink with dinner, but it seemed like the author's parents were as permissable, but it didn't make a difference one way or the other.)

Sundays in the South

I have my weekends planned out pretty well. One day is for relaxing, the other for shopping. (It always surprises me how many groceries we go through a week.) The shopping day often also requires a trip to Target, which is never an appealing way to pass an hour or so. So this weekend, I defied my usual practice and spent Saturday relaxing, cleaning, and napping with the kitties. It was perfect. But that didn’t mean Sunday dawned and I jumped out of bed ready to shop.

But it helped that it is gorgeous today. Sixty or 65 degrees, which I believe is unusual for this time of year here. The streets were quieter than usual, and I decided to go to the music store first as a treat. I was looking forward to walking in wearing my J. Lo velour track suit, and completely confounding the clerk when I asked for a “Teach Yourself the Concertina” book and a go at the drum sets. Of course, being Sunday, it was closed. I was disappointed, but since the day was so beautiful, and it was good to get out of the house, I instead thought about what I love about Sundays here.

Most things are closed. I used to love spending Sunday mornings having breakfast at a diner, or at Café Selmarie, so it was hard to adjust to nothing being open here. Now I love how quiet it is. Everything shuts down, so I’m forced to relax. I appreciate the slower pace of life. In Chicago, Sunday was a mad dash to do something, to maximize my weekend, my time off before I went back to a job that I (irrationally) hated. If I didn’t do something cool, I’d end up in the evening with a heavy feeling in my stomach, a serious depression facing the rest of the night. Angela Chase did say it best: “There’s something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.”

(Was it really the frenetic pace of Chicago that made me feel like I never absorbed enough culture or city life? Or was it that I hated my job, felt stagnant in life, had a bunch of dreams that hinged on “next year” and “when x happens, I can do y”?)

At any rate, being here forces me to make the most of the little that’s here, and since I don’t like most of what’s here (though there is a real, authentic coffeehouse I keep meaning to check out), I feel more comfortable not doing anything. Relaxing, and enjoying my time off work.

I love this slow, deliberate pace of life. A quiet, reflective Sunday afternoon is my church. Wind in the trees the hymns, and a still pool of water my prayer.

Could I really spend my life in a small town that afforded this to me? Maybe I could, if it weren’t this small town.

July 4th

"Gorey Stories" opened tonight, and I was disappointed by the timing. Running until 9:30, we missed almost all of the fireworks set off from Navy Pier. Disappointed because in all my many years in Chicago, I've actually never seen them, and this year I was right at the lake doing the show.

I had forgotten, though, that sometimes the civilian fireworks are just as spectacular as the city's. Biking home, west on Fullerton, the night spread out before me as a sparkling jewel. The last mile home was particularly livid. I biked through a fug of gunpowder and falling embers, and nearly hit a few parked cars as I swerved on my ride, watching the sky.

I love how into the holiday this city is, though given the high density of undocumented immigrants in my neighborhood, I suspect the fiery celebrations are more for a love of pretty explosives rather than the history of this country.

This time last year, I was also sitting under a shower of fireworks, but at a Biscuits game in Montgomery. As soon as the last play was completed, every light in the stadium was cut, and music started up as the pyrotechnics blasted. For a good ten minutes or so, the sky lit up. Finally, "Sweet Home Alabama" was played, and the crowd went wild for the finale. Tim and I grinned at each other, deliriously happy to be in that spot at that moment.

And forever since then, that song makes me happy. It reminds me of a time when I felt like part of a community. I felt like I was an Alabamian, like that sweet home was my home. For a little while, it was.

And I love that now any time I see fireworks, that's what I'll think of.

RIP Fergus

Tim says how you know you've met the right kitty is that it picks you, not that you pick it.

I've spent hours at shelters before, looking for exactly the right cat, going into it desiring an all-black cat, and keeping my eyes focused for what I thought I wanted. And it was frustrating, seeing all the wonderful cats who seemed only just good enough. Not The One.

And then the right one will come along unbidden.

Fergus found me the summer of 1999. I went to Harmony House for Cats, entered a room filled with black kitties, and one jumped onto my lap, curled up, and fell asleep. I fell in love, but he had a bronchial infection, so I had to wait a week to pick him up. I think when I went back, they gave me the wrong cat, because Fergus never once sat in my lap for the rest of his life.



He was my punk kitty. He loved racing around the apartment (even better when I lived in a two-story apartment with a long, carpeted staircase to the basement), chomping down on my hair while I was sleeping, and climbing my clothes hanging in the closet to perch near the ceiling. He went crazy whenever there was a newspaper to dive under or a box to climb in.



For a long time, it was him and me against the world. He was my rock for a few years. I went through a lot, but I never got lonely at home with him by my side. I'd come home from work, and he'd run to the table to relax and watch me make dinner. While I ate, he'd lay beside me on the table, then curl up on the couch cushion next to me while I read or watched TV. After about three years together, I began waking up in the middle of the night to discover him curled in my arms. I could scarcely breathe; it was so special. He hadn't been a very affectionate cat, which I didn't mind so much because he had so much spunk and intelligence. But for a good year or two, I didn't get much sleep because I'd lay awake, treasuring those quiet, cuddly moments where he deigned to act like a cat instead of a little furry person.



When Tim entered the picture, it was all over for the punk kitty. Tim lavished so much love on Fergus, believing--accurately--that the way to my heart was through Fergus's, and he turned into a little love bug. A year or so after that, Tim was convinced he needed a friend, so we went back to the same shelter, and Olivia found us.

Fergus tried to kill Olivia the first day she was home. But after about a week, the hissing stopped, and after about a month, he allowed her to eat out of the same bowl. I don't think he ever loved her the way she loved him, but there was tolerance, and sometimes he'd give up the fight and let her snuggle him.







The happiest time for Fergus was in Alabama. He'd snake through our home-made cat door onto the balcony and roll around deliriously on the concrete, dirt-sprinkled floor. He'd "walk the wire" of the balcony, and click his tongue at the birds. And he'd spend a lot of time asleep on the World's Most Comfortable Chair, a place he always let Olivia share. I always felt bad leaving that apartment, and his outdoor freedom.

And then we came back to Chicago, and he started to get sick, and that's not something I want to remember right now. I want to remember his wise eyes, and the way I wasn't sure he ever knew exactly what I was saying, but certain he always knew my meaning. How he'd meow a kitty "bless you" every time I'd sneeze, or come running to my side with a concerned look on his face if I ever made a cry of pain or sadness. How he was staunchly anti-laps or cuddling in the living room, but could be counted on to curl his head under my chin at night, or let me rest my head, using him as a pillow, to listen to his purr.

And in the end, Olivia proved a good partner, whether he ever acknowledged her or not. At a time when another animal might have attacked him for being weak, she didn't push him to play, but instead licked his ears while he ate, grooming him carefully.

I think we all have one kindred animal spirit in the world, and it doesn't seem right that he's gone, but I feel lucky to have known him.

Four years

Today is the four-year anniversary of when Tim and I got together for good. I am not bored yet. I am vaguely surprised by this, but not. I just never anticipated loving someone for this long.

I know it's not that long in general. But for me, it is.

Four years ago, I needed some comfort, some change, and he was there and a good friend. And then about a week after that, I woke up in the morning and couldn't see for the stars in my eyes. Just like that. I went to bed, glad he was my friend, and woke up so crazy in love that I couldn't stop smiling for about four months. I just remember that time as a haze--just existing for and within that circle of our love. Things change as time goes on, though I do still sometimes miss that first heady rush of infatuation. But I wonder if maybe the solidity of our life together now is even better. I just love being so certain and never doubting. When I think about us not being together, it's because we're old folks and one of us is not around, not because we decided we needed to separate.

Though of course we've decided that we have to die at the same time. I don't think I could live without him.

Football season

I love football season. Football, I am indifferent. But football season I love.

It hearalds the fall, newness, and the memory of high school games. Racing to the stadium an hour early for pep band. LeAnn and I careening down Main street, pulling on our uniforms as we drove. (Well, I was able to wiggle into my flag corps outfit and flash passersby; LeAnn had to wait until she could stand up straight before being buckled into her straitjacket of a marching-band uniform.) In the early days of the season, the late afternoon sun would still be hot, and we'd stretch across the concrete steps amidst a cacophony of brass and woodwinds warming up. Then we'd line up by the locker room, instruments aloft, flags whipping in the breeze. The toms started pounding out our school song, drumbeats on the warpath, and the football players would stream through our tunnel and onto the field. There was a glorious feeling of belonging, of togetherness. Sometimes catching glimpses of a grass field crisscrossed with padded, uniformed players, and rickety stands holding family and friends makes me nostalgic for my own Friday Night Lights.

(It wasn't until my senior year that I could even follow the game, that I understood the direction our team was running pointed to our goal. I still don't know which positions stand where on the field--and I really don't care--but at least I have some sense of what happens.)

In college, the season signified lazy Saturday afternoons in the dorms, distant cheers from the stadium and, for one year, a glimpse of the field from my room. Rising late, lunch in a nearly empty cafeteria, and trips to Walmart in the afternoon. Blaring Alanis's "Jagged Little Pill" while preparing for a night out, drinking screwdrivers from plastic mugs if we were lucky enough to corral a 21-year-old before the liquor stores closed at 9 p.m.

After college, it took me a few years to lose the fall expectations, to get used to life continuing as usual, no school year to begin. And football became related to my relatives, turkey and stuffing, ham, kielbasa, and sauerkraut. Holiday dinners.

This weekend, I treated the apartment to a deep cleaning. Tim didn't have class. I scrubbed the stove while he exercised in the living room. He had the game turned on while he lunged, squatted, and did various exercise-y things. Alabama spanked the hell out of South Carolina. Periodically we'd chant: "Roll Tide! Roll!" (I feel that since Alabama is paying for Tim's degree, we should have some school pride.)

It was a perfect, beautiful day. In the evening, we went to a class dinner; at 7 p.m., twilight had already settled in, and the night vibrated with excitement, with beginnings. The biggest, orangest, Georgia peach of a full moon sat on the horizon.

I love football season.

Adventures in cooking

The task: pudding shots. At the last party we had for Tim's classmates, someone brought jello shots, and we riffed on the idea of pudding shots. As there is another party tonight, I feel compelled to experiment.

The puddings: Devil's food chocolate, and sugar-free (gross) banana.

The liquors: homemade kahlua, and spiced rum

The directions: Mix powder with 2 cups cold milk. Stir vigorously for two minutes; place in fridge for five as the pudding sets.

The first attempt: I used one cup of cold milk, and one cup kahlua with the chocolate powder. I didn't think about chilling the liquor. I might should have. The mixture got syrupy, but never gelled into pudding consistency. Tim and I brainstormed ways to thicken it, which ran the gamut from introducing a lot of corn starch (that didn't work) to making custard to combine with the pudding to adding whipping cream . We ran to the grocery store for some heavy cream. I whipped it to stiff peaks, then folded it into the chocolate. It immediately melted and retained no semblance to whipped cream. The pudding still wasn't thicker, but it sure tasted more decadent! In the end, I half filled Dixie cups and put them in the freezer.

The second attempt: Banana. Less than one cup spiced rum this time--more like 3/4 c. After leaving it in the fridge for a little while, it seemed to set up nicely, and puddingly, but when I poked it, the mixture sloshed around like a melted malted. This time I poured the cream into the bananas, and blended it for a while. After about ten minutes, my arm got tired of holding the mixer, and it wasn't much thicker. The taste was vastly improved by the addition of the cream. I started pouring it into Dixie cups, and by the time I was halfway through, the consistency was a lot closer to pudding than the chocolate had become. Because I kind of really hate fake banana flavor (not to mention aspartame), but had twice as many banana cups as chocolate cups (due to some experimentation with the chocolate), I tried to sweeten the deal by chopping real bananas into tiny pieces and sprinkling them on top. I even wanted to finely chop some walnuts to dust the tops (I love love love bananas and walnuts together), but the taste testers said that might be going overboard for "shots."

The final taste test: Meghan and Lauren, Tim's friends from his program. Had to grab a chair for support after tasting the chocolate kahlua, they became so weak in the knees. Dear god, these pudding shots are amazing!

Not in love

I got a massage last night. Tim took me so he could get an adjustment first, and when we got there, the chiropractor was on the phone. For a while. After, she told us she had tracked down an old boyfriend whom she hadn't talked to in eight years.

I could tell she was slightly giddy about reconnecting with him, because she talked about him and their conversation during the entire massage, and she usually doesn't say that much to me. I was "uh-huh"-ing and asking questions as she told me how they'd had a tempestuous relationship when she was 18 and he was 31, and how he broke her heart by letting her go, and how later his wife made him give up all friendships with women, so she couldn't even have that friendship in her life.

He asked her, during this last conversation, if there was anything she would have done differently. It was clear that he was angling for her to say she wished they had never broken up, or that they had gotten back together later. She said, no, that she was happy with where she was, and what life had brought. And I murmured an affirmation to that.

Then she said, "I'm not in love. I wish I was."

I didn't have a response.

I'm not sure how you respond to something like that. If I had voiced the thoughts in my head, it would have been, "I am so very sorry." Sorry because I knew she was married, and knew she was settling for comfort and stability instead passion.

Is it naive of me to think that? The only thing I know for certain is that I instantly felt trapped for her. In my experience of being with people I was not in love with, that's the claustrophobic feeling I always had when I thought about being with any of those people for the rest of my life.

In fact, I had always been scared of marriage and any sort of "forever" ideas because I would fantasize about my life with whatever current boyfriend I had. After an envisioned five years in the future, a blackness would rise up and I couldn't even daydream about it. I wanted to run, to shake off the feeling of doom that I saw settling into my life.

I suppose it goes without saying that with Tim, I saw light there, in my future.

I told him about this, how I understand that relationships change, and can cool, and--he cut me off with a raised eyebrow. I need him to remind me, for I forget, and sometimes worry, but at the heart, I know, regardless of its manifestation, we will always have a passionate connection.

But my chiropractor, I think it hurt me so much because of the I wish I was. Regardless of what kind of awareness one might have (maybe some have decided passion isn't worth as much as stability, so they wouldn't regret their choice), the longing has to be the hardest part.

Just the two of us

I love when it’s just us, me and Tim. We have so much fun together, and it’s so damn fun to share a home, and kitties, and just be together. I always believed people when they said marriage was hard, but now I’m not sure why. And others when they said the first newlywed year the hardest. I assumed it would be hard to adjust to living with someone else, taking his life into account when living my own, and . . . it’s . . . not. It’s about the most blissful thing I’ve ever experienced. I love living with him more than living alone. (Now that’s a strange realization because damn did I love living by myself.) I’m so excited that I get to hang out with him for the rest of my life.

So visiting family and being with friends is nice and all, but the best part is when it’s just us.

In the past

The last time someone screamed in my face and raised his hand to me, it was nine years ago—almost nine years ago exactly, and thinking about it still knocks the wind out of me.

When I moved to Chicago, I started working part-time at a cafe to meet people and make friends. I loved it. It was a Northwestern hangout, so most of the customers and workers were college students, but one night an older guy came in for coffee. I could tell he was probably about my age.

He was wearing a Dublin tee-shirt, and I asked him about it. Turned out he had studied there during college, too, so we talked about our Ireland experiences.

I remember that night so clearly. I wasn't a coffee drinker because I couldn't handle the caffeine, but for some reason I was hopped up on it that night. I was having fun and flirting with all the customers. The other worker wandered over and wondered who I was talking to, and I made a joke about Ireland or cute boys or something. I only worked once or twice a week, so I was excited to go back, hoping to see this guy again. It was a few weeks until I did, but he seemed to recognize me, and we sat and talked. Kevin was an aspiring writer, like me. We had a lot to talk about. A few meetings later, he gave me his phone number, but I didn't call him because I had a boyfriend.

I later found out he had gone to the cafe every day after our meeting in hopes of seeing me again. Not because he thought I was cute (though of course he did) but because whatever I had teased him about had angered him to distraction. He prepared a cut down for me, and went back to the cafe to use it on me. As days passed without seeing me, his anger lessened, and then I was so friendly and interesting when we spoke for the second time, he decided to save it.

(I didn't know that until deep into our relationship. I wonder if it would have made a difference if I had known earlier.)

For we did start dating. He was intelligent and witty, could debate about anything. I was skittish, though, not wanting to commit to anyone after the recent breakup with somebody I had loved. We slept together for the first time on Halloween afternoon of 1998, and lying in bed afterwards, I said, "You know we're not exclusive, right?" That evening I went to a party, made out with a much older man, and started dating him as well.

If I had to articulate it, I'd have said I didn't particularly like Kevin that much, if at all, and used my last breakup as an excuse to end things right before Christmas. There was just something about him that was dark and ugly and hurtful, and I could feel it. I didn't like him and I didn't like myself when I was around him. The breakup lasted a few weeks, though. I was lonely and needed a friend. There was also something about him that drew me near, something that made me overlook the darkness.

We got back together and got serious immediately. I got drunk at a blues club and said, "I love you."

"I know," he said.

Then came the day things changed for good. He lent me his car so I could drive him to one of his friends' houses for a party. On the way down we discussed my friend Heather. Heather had told me she wasn't that comfortable around him, that there was something about him that made her uneasy. Kevin wanted to hang out with her, he said, independently of me. He said he wanted to get to know her as a friend, not as my friend. I refused to give him her phone number and skirted the issue, for I didn't really want to tell him that Heather didn't like him.

He started yelling and pressing the issue. Said that I was insecure if I thought he was interested in her. I was surprised he brought that up. Jealousy wasn't in my nature.

I'd never argued with a boyfriend before. I'd never had one so angry at me before. I was terrified. I dropped him off, went back home, and sobbed for the rest of the evening. I decided to break up with him. I practiced what I was going to say, and picked him up again after the game was over. He grabbed me and hugged me tight, so tight I couldn't get my words out. I didn't know what to do, so I rode home with him and he spent the night.

Looking back, I could say that was the moment when I knew I gave up and gave him permission to be abusive, but what did I know then? I just didn't know what to do. (Would you believe I was volunteering for a battered women's shelter then? If I had let myself make the connection, I still probably would have thought, "but my situation is not nearly as bad as the women I'm talking to in crisis . . .")

He hated all my friends. Particularly a girl that I worshipped and adored. She was an amazing, unique individual, and I didn't understand how he could hate her. He also believed I was having sex with all my guy friends, and would yell at me about it until I'd say, "Fine. That's what you believe? Go ahead. I don't care," because saying, "No, of course I didn't sleep with them, don't be ridiculous," was like talking to a wall.

The last time I socialized with any of my male friends was a party I threw with my roommates in the spring. After I finished talking to one of them, I went to sit next to Kevin, and he grabbed me hard and said, "Tell me you love me. Say it." He had a smirk on his face like he had won something. He tried to start a fight with them when they left, and then we screamed at each other all night. We stopped going out, because I couldn't deal with being in public with him. Not because we'd argue around other people, but because I felt terrified going to a bar or club with him, like being seen in public as a couple would make it more real, and I'd have to give in to the feelings of doom and suffocation that I'd been pushing away to the back of my brain and do something about it.

We'd argue all the time. He was so good at it. I've never met anyone who could hit me so hard using only words. I don't remember if our arguments would end up with me against the wall, him in my face, or if the words just make me remember it like that. They got under my skin and tore at my flesh. I had no recourse but to batter my arms against him to push him away and leave the argument. I remember at that time some discussions with some online friends about hitting. One woman in particular I remember stating unequivocally that it was absolutely never acceptable to hit anyone, even hitting back in defense. I thought, "You lucky bitch. You have no idea what it's like. How words can hurt worse until the only way you can escape is by lashing out with your fists." But of course I couldn't say it. Of course I didn't want to make it real by telling other people.

I'd try to avoid sex with him and lay in bed feeling a huge weight pressing down on me until I couldn't breathe. I couldn't envision the future past the next day, because I'd think about ways to kill myself to get out of being with him. Yet . . . and yet? I thought I couldn't survive without him. I didn't have many friends anymore, for those connections had been tenuous at best, and he had made me sever them. One day the next fall (about 6 months after we'd started dating), I was watching a movie with Heather, and started sobbing. I couldn't lie anymore. I told her I had to break up with him.

A few days later, I told him. I said, "Kevin, I'm not happy in this relationship. I want to break up."

He said: "No. We're not breaking up."

I responded, "But I'm not in love with you."

"No. You haven't even given me a chance. We've never talked about this before. We're not throwing this away."

I said, "But I'm not attracted to you anymore. I don't even want to have sex with you."

Yet somehow he battered me down with his words. He was so good at talking. In the end, I didn't even question the idea that breaking up should be a mutual step. I didn't know I had the right to put a stop to it, by the time he was done talking. I agreed to try.

It lasted a week. I couldn't try. I knew I needed to be away from him. The next breakup was slightly better. But he lived with my roommates and I, so getting out was tricky. The night we broke up for good, he said, "it's going to be so hard to sleep in my own bed. . . ." (we still had our own bedrooms in the apartment) and I thought, "I need to hurt him as little as possible," so I could slip out as easily as possible, and let him continue to share my bed. Then it became a habit until I moved out a month later. I was never tempted to stay with him. Oddly, we really did seem to get along better as friends, and I started enjoying the time we spent together again.

Until one night when he said, "Tell me the truth. Are you still attracted to me? Have you at all considered having sex again?"

He wanted the truth? I told it, and it felt good.

No. No, not for one single second.

He leapt out of bed. "Liar!" and then he left.

A few minutes later, he came back, and poured a pitcher filled with ice water and cubes on me under the covers. I started screaming and jumped on him. He threw me off, and dragged me into the living room. I was hitting at him, half angry for the water, and half just trying to get him away from me. He backhanded me across the face, and I shut down, went numb. He grabbed me to hug me, and I couldn't move. I couldn't even tell him to get away from me, to never ever touch me again. I let him herd me back to bed, where he put new dry sheets on the bed, tucked me in, and curled around my stiff, uncomprehending body. Before we drifted off to sleep, he started laughing. "I'm sorry, but that was thoroughly enjoyable, that water."

I moved out, and we stayed in touch a little bit, mostly because I was scared of what his reaction would be if I cut things off entirely. In the end, he gave me a reason to, and I stopped answering the phone. After a very, very long while he stopped calling. After, I unlisted my phone numbers, and kept my name off apartment buzzers. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got promoted at work and got a new extension number he wouldn't know. We never spoke again.

I've seen him three times since. The first, two years later, he was walking in my new neighborhood, the second place I moved after leaving him. I kept my head down--luckily, I was wearing a hat--and was terrified that he had moved into my neighborhood. I had a panic attack every time I saw a turquoise Ford Focus driving past me on the street. It became instinct to scan the backs for the particular bumper sticker I remembered.

Nine years later, I doubt he's still in Chicago, or even has the same old car, but I still lose my breath at turquoise Ford Focuses.

The second, a year or two after the first incident, I was volunteering for a concert at my guitar school. I was sitting near the sound booth, keeping track of the set list. I was hidden in back. I saw a guy up front. He shook his hair out, raised his arms to tuck his hair behind his ears, and my stomach dropped. It was a specific gesture I will remember as Kevin's forever. It is branded on my brain. I spent the rest of the concert reminding myself to breathe, and ran out the back door afterwards.

The third and last time, I was on a date. This was perhaps four or five years after we broke up. The date was going horribly already and near the end of it, I got up to go to the bathroom and walked past the bar. Kevin was sitting there, waiting for a table with a woman. I don't know if he saw me. I went back to my date and started crying. We left. How do you explain to a second-date why you start crying after returning from the bathroom?

I don't think much about him anymore. I made pretty specific choices to date guys a whole world of different from him. I don't flinch at anger anymore and bow my head. But it's surprising how quickly I can remember it all like it was yesterday.

Art

I sit on Tim's side of the bed when he's gone because from the head of the bed, he has a perfect view out the bedroom door to the stairwell where the three uppermost birds soar. It pleases me to see the image I love so dearly in a more visible place than my back, and I love that I was able to paint them in my stairs.

I've decided to consider myself an artist.

My whole life, I have never given myself credit for being an artist because I've always been surrounded by real artists. What I do has never seemed to qualify, is never something that I can frame and hang--as though that's the only qualifier art needs.

But I finally gave myself credit for looking at the world as an artist. Our house is slowly getting filled with things that might prompt a sensible realtor would remind us to consider resale values, but our thick wooden back door is sturdy enough to withstand 56 holes that I put in when I created an installation with old keys.

My art is never going to change the world, or even attract much notice from anyone besides myself, and that's ok with me. I am recharged by the buzz of excitement new ideas give me, and the sense of satisfaction and peace that creation brings.

I need more of those feelings in my life, as work is becoming an increasing black hole where peace, hope, and optimism go to die.

I've decided to give myself the goal of doing one creative thing a day, to give myself something to think about and look forward to when work makes me despair.

My next project is to replace all the ceiling fan pulls (which are currently round medallions at the end of each chain that advertise the fan brand) with beads made out of Sculpey. Next up, I am going to make a futon cover out of oatmeal-colored muslin for the library. After that, I'm going to write a story or two for This I Believe. My long-term goal is to learn how to use audio-editing software and write some podcasts.

It's good to have projects to look forward to. Here's to hope, optimism, and peace!

Mary of the underpass

At a Kennedy expressway underpass, the one at Fullerton, there's a shrine against one wall to the Virgin Mary. I didn't know why until Tim explained that someone thought they could see an image of Mary in the waterstains. I bike past it daily, but didn't think to look more closely until tonight, when I saw three people standing at it.

I could see her. There was a ghostly pattern there that, given the suggestion of a face, was clearly visible.

I have always loved the idea of Mary. I love that in all the male-dominated spirituality that's out there, she has such a devoted following.

And I love roadside shrines. Handmade shrines have always been special to me. They're a place to lay tangible mementos of your spirituality, and a place to collect and center your thoughts. Far removed from gold-encrusted cathedrals, they are accessible to commonfolk, indeed, created and cared for by them.

Playing music

I've started playing the guitar again. I'm not sure why. I was talking with a new school friend who also plays, and I got the brilliant idea of playing together some time. I suppose that made me think, "I better brush up on all my music!" and suddenly I'm hooked again. I find myself longing, in quiet moments, for my guitar and songs in my throat (I'd like to say, "for its familiar touch under my fingers," but in fact, my fingers ache right now from playing. I haven't had my guitar callouses in quite a few years now, and thus my fingers are raw from the wire strings.)

What I love about it is that it's the only time I feel comfortable singing. I really do love to sing, but years of unuse have warped my pitch. I remember church choir in high school and the director commenting on my lovely high soprano, but now I'm a low, gravelly alto, and a woefully out-of-tune one to boot. But somehow, with the guitar guiding me, my voice sounds better. Maybe it's that when I'm focusing on my fingerwork, and hitting the right strings, I don't have time to be self-conscious about my voice.

This summer I heard an Emmylou Harris song for the first time that I loved, and I thought, "I could play that!" It's called "There'll Never Be Anyone Else But You," and I worked it up to play for Tim on ouranniversary. I guess playing him a song I learned special just for him is about the greatest present I could ever give him (well, second best). It was a lot of work, finding the downloadable song online, the lyrics and chords, then playing along to the recording--and adjusting the key signature when mine just didn't fit with the recording. But every minute was fun. It was exciting creating something like that.

I'm no Mozart, or rather, Jimmy Page. I'm not about to compose my own music. I don't know if I ever would have the skills to. But it's like a puzzle, figuring out the chords that already exist in a song you want to learn; say, if it includes G, and C, then it probably has a D chord in there somewhere, too. And then being able to play it . . . ! It feels like an accomplishment.

And I'm playing the piano again, against my better judgment. All Blindfaith Theatre has to do is say, "we're desperate," and I'm putty in their hands. I don't know how they rated this, but they're doing the world premiere of a Rebecca Gilman colloboration called "Lord Butterscotch and the Curse of the Blackwater Phantom." (Rebecca Gilman, for those of you who don't know--I didn't used to--is a highly acclaimed Chicago playright, and tops the list of playrights whoseplays Tim wants to perform. I would score major wife-of-the-millenium points if I somehow could wrangle an occasion for Tim to meet her.)And there's creepy, eerie music set in the background. They need a sub for a few nights, not someone for the whole run, and I couldn't say no.

Come see it! It's running at the storefront theatre until Jan. 6.
http://www.blindfaiththeatre.org/butterscotch/index.html

I'm as bad as a crow

Yes, that's me. I'm like a crow. Only my bright and shinies aren't actually bright and shiny--usually.

Mine are pens. They wink seductively at me from the mailroom office supply shelf, whispering, "Wouldn't I fit perfectly in your fingers? I'm the answer to all your ink-blotted scribblings!" And they wind up in my fingers, in my pockets, in my desk drawers at home, in my mouth as I gnaw on them pensively, thinking. (Usually thinking, "well, no one will want to use this now that it has my saliva on it; I might as well keep it . . .")

Or maybe I'm more like a squirrel. I find pens I love and store them away for emergencies. I find a pen I love, and use it to death. I have backups for my backup pens.

I can't write unless I like my pen. But I'm not terribly posh in my taste. Rollerballs make my handwriting messy. My favorite end up being the cheap ballpoints, with a firm, not too fine, line, and leaving no splotchy blobs of ink at the upswings of my loops. The right pen makes my handwriting legible, sometimes even downright romantic.

I moved to Chicago the day after I graduated from college. I couldn't wait to leave Kansas in the dust and get to a place where I really belonged. I spent most of my early 20s trying to forget where I came from. It made sense in my head. In a way I could never exactly name, I didn't feel like I belonged in the place I grew up. I always felt like an outsider. Strange, to spend 21 years in one place and feel your connection tenuous at best.

I'd visit Kansas again on holidays and feel uneasy. The wide open spaces were hard to take in. My depth perception would be wonky for the first day or two of each visit, and I wouldn't be able to look outside at the hills.

Chicago seemed to bring out who I really was, though being a naive country girl suddenly urbanized was an adjustment. I'm sure I made a lot of missteps and tried on a lot of different "me"s before I found the right fit. But it was my city, and I was deeply sunk in a long-term love affair with it. Every experience I had confirmed my love and sense of place. I met glamorous city girls, and dated underground music geeks. One I fell for hard for several years, and when we discussed our future, I only felt a slight twinge that I'd be settling down with another die-hard city boy. Only once or twice did I wish he were the camping type, and after him, I dated boys so urban that if you put a tire iron in their hand and pointed to the flat, they wouldn't know what to do.

It started to seem ridiculous, these skills that I had (I was changing flats at 14!) that I didn't find mirrored in my dates. I stopped revering encyclopedic knowledge of obscure bands above rugged survival skills. And I despaired that I'd ever find a good combination of the two.

Tim brought back my sense of place, only it's no longer Chicago. I can't escape my past. The small town, the rural homestead, lonely flint hills that are the most beautiful lands I've ever seen. I'm fascinated by it all, amazed even now at growing up in an existence so far removed from any kid I know today. I've worked with kids who don't even know where Kansas is on a map, nor have ever seen a real farm. I write so frequently about the past because it intrigues me, and, I think, helps me get to the bottom of who I am today. It may in fact be the most interesting part about me.

Putting it out there

Tim thinks I need to be specific about what I want out of a job, and put it out into the universe to let it simmer.

For the first time ever, I can be specific. I finally know exactly what I want to do. I guess this is why I went to grad school, but in some ways, knowing exactly what I want to do also blows. If I had a wider view, it would probably be easier to find a job. I could look at the job listings, usually around 25-50 each time I look, and actually find something that looks at least appealing enough to apply for. I wouldn't be crippled with anxiety, wondering what I can possibly do that won't make me feel like I'm wasting my time, or finding something that will at least position me well for what I can do eventually. Now that I know what I love, anything less than that really will feel like a waste of time.

So here goes, universe. Work your magic for me.

I want a job at a community mental health agency, doing family therapy with adolescents. I want the job to allow for some group work, perhaps with self-esteem or social skills training, maybe anger management. Maybe music therapy! Maybe dance! Anything creative that will spark the kids' interest. I want the job to have the room to grow into restorative justice and peace-making circles. I want to be able to some day write a grant for the purchase of a bunch of drums so that we can have drum circles.

I want the hours to be flexible, so I can start late and work late, and still maintain my shelter job. I want it to be maybe Tuesday through Saturday, so I can take my Sundays and Mondays to be with Tim.

And lastly, I'd like it to be within biking distance on warm days. I don't want a drainingly long commute. I won't mind doing home visits, I won't mind if I have to drive clients around in my car. I just don't want to have to drive for an hour or more in bad traffice to get to work.

That's it. This is exactly what I want. This is my job description of heaven.

Edited to say: I thought of something else. I'd love to also be able to run a movie series or book club for teens that had some therapeutic value to it. I am thinking of this as I proofread a library journal, and it seems like the young adult librarians are always doing cool things that I think could somehow be woven into a social worker's job, too.

I always thought I'd become a librarian, after spending years in the cult of ALA. If there was some way to combine the two--no, three, including the editing bits of my life that I miss--that would be the perfect job.

I suppose what it all really boils down to is that I want a job where I can be creative. I never realized what an asset that could be to therapy, and it's exciting to see that I can include that in my work. But I need a place that values it, and lets me run with all my wild ideas.

I love Monday nights

Monday nights have become my special treat. Coming off the weekend, I'm ready to work again, but about halfway through Monday, I realize it's not this night I have to work, it's the next. No matter how much I like my job, the Tuesday night deadline looms for when I have to put on my pajamas, pack up my overnight bag, and drive to work.

But Mondays, I have off. No matter that most days, and most evenings, too, I have off. There's something different about Monday. I make my dinner and find something to watch on TV. The whole evening stretches ahead of me, and I love being at home with the kitties.

Finally

The past month and a half has been so stressful. I felt like I was suspended in limbo, waiting to hear back on internships, and it didn't even dawn on me until after that it took so long. My whole body was clenched tight the entire time.

And then I found out that none of them wanted me. What a big blow to my self-esteem. It seemed like a waste of an excuse, saying, "well, that's what happens when you apply for the most competitive ones." I started to mistrust my gut, which had told me at least two of the three interviews I went on were really fabulous. In fact, one of them, I just knew I nailed it. I went really quickly into the anger stage of grief with that one. How couldn't they pick me? They must not be the quality agency I thought, if they could turn down someone so obviously perfect for them.

Though I really hate it when people say, "everything happens for a reason," and I generally felt like punching Tim throughout the past six weeks when he did say that, now everything has fallen into place and has seemed like a lead-up for the internship I did finally get.

I think I had focused so heavily on the first three that I didn't allow room in my brain for not getting them, or for considering others. So when I had to, I felt like I was striking out blindly, just randomly picking places to look into because there's no getting around having to do a second-year internship. I randomly called a woman at the Evanston Police Department and she said, "I just offered the spot to someone yesterday. But I haven't heard from her yet. If she doesn't take it, I'll call you back." And an hour later she called me and we set up an interview. Then in the interview, they said, "What do you think of this place? Think about it and call us tomorrow." I wasn't sure, since I'm ignoring my gut right now, but that didn't sound like the other closers to interviews that I've heard lately, which is: "We'll let you know."

I might be back to trusting my instincts, though, because when I called back this morning and said, "I'm very interested in your placement. What's the next step?" the response was, "Well, you just accepted the internship!"

I'm not jumping up and down, I'm just chill. Which of course makes me think that this isn't the right thing for me. But maybe I just burnt out too much emotion with the earlier options, only to have them snatched from reach?

Throughout this whole process, I've been torn. Should I go back to working with adults, or stick with adolescents? I thought internships were for choosing your whim, and getting to do something you might not ever be able to be hired for, but it seemed like most of the places I interviewed needed me to choose firmly. I had so much adult experience, why did I want to/was qualified to work with teens, the youth services organization wanted to know. And with the adult counseling center, I thought, "Now I can get back to my first love, working with women," but felt a pang at the thought of no more teens.

I just couldn't decide, I couldn't pin myself down, and probably that's why, in the end, none of my first choices worked out. But in the end, I can't believe my luck.

I'm going to be working through the police department, with youths aged 12-15 and their families, primarily doing family therapy. What I didn't realize as I started the selection process earlier in the semester was how much I like working with families. Back then I had barely done any family work at the hospital, and now, a few families later, it's striking me as the most difficult, yet most interesting part of therapy. And this program I'll be in is a phenomenally progressive idea. Prevention and intervention work with youth and families in a police department? It really strikes me as working on change from within the system. I love that the police department is supportive of the idea, which really puts the focus on positive interaction between youth (potential) offenders and the police, rather than punitive, "afterwards" interaction. And there are no mandated clients. Everyone is there voluntarily.

Hmm . . . come to think of it, I am pretty damn excited about it! I can't wait for next fall!

I must confess

That I love reading people's blogs in a way that is slightly obsessive. Slightly obsessive? Try "to a stalker-ish degree." Like if you have a statcounter, you've probably contemplated getting a restraining order against my IP address.

I really wish everyone would post on a daily basis, because that's about how often (if not more) I check them. It's so fascinating to me to get to read everyone's thoughts. It's also a good way to keep track of old friends.

So get to posting, people!

Also, can you see a vertical black line separating the left and the right columns? I was feeling up for a change, and I do so love these new colors, but I think the middle black has disappeared. Oh well.