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.

Then, and now

This has been stewing in my brain for a while. A few months, really, since I started school and really got absorbed back into Chicago.

This time it's different. I've started to distinguish my Chicago lives as in Single Chicago and Married Chicago, and while that's not necessarily always the best descriptor, it is mostly apt. There was an excitement, an unpredictability, a wildness to Single Chicago. I was discovering everything for the first time. I don't know if I expected to pick up where I left off by moving back.

I'm seeing a whole new part of the city now. A part that feels old and settled, and not so flighty. More real. For one, I live further in the city than I used to. School takes me to an area I've never been, as well as my internship on the south side, and my school tutoring, on the west side. These areas and existences are so far removed from the (it seems like, now) priviledged life I used to have.

Sometimes I miss the constant rapture, the moments where I absolutely lose my breath over the fact that I live in Chicago. It feels more solid in my bones. Not something I even think about anymore.

And I think about what I used to love about the city, and most of it revolved around a life I don't have anymore. One that I can't afford to have anymore. It gives me a different perspective, not having money to do the things I used to. But really, I used to have the money to do whatever I wanted, and now I just have the money to do what I need to do.

I don't think Married is any better than Single, or vice versa. Just different.

Saturday night random

I think my hands feel lost without a keyboard underneath them. Folding the laundry tonight, I thought an undershirt was inside out, so I reversed it, only to discover it was then inside out. My left hand twitched for Control + V so it would go back to the way it was and I wouldn't have to turn it out yet again.

I added up expenses for next fall so I could figure out how much financial aid to accept. I don't know if anyone ever turns down portions of what they're offered. Being out-of-state first semester is going to keep us strapped for a while. But it occurred to me that I was basing all the estimates on the entirety of our expenses and financial aid, and not taking into account Tim making an income. Though there's no way to predict what he'll bring in, at least it will be something. I feel a little better.

But thinking about money freaks me out, period, and I'm starting to get really angry for purchasing three small red peppers for $6. That money could be put elsewhere. Like a gorgeous satchel I am coveting for my birthday but would really be horrified to actually own (it costs more than I think is necessary). I hate having money issues. I'm going to be second-guessing every single thing I purchase for the next three months, from groceries to clothing, to a dollar for a coke with lunch.

Done

Spending the evening cleaning the apartment is a pretty mild (no, nonexistent) way to celebrate being done with the semester. This time last year, I was two pitchers into the evening and on my way to Delilah's with classmates, some of whom have now become good friends, and some of whom, well, I drank too much to remember who those others were.

It's different this time, because I still have to go to the police department tomorrow and instead of the usual slow, lazy Friday, I have four families to see. I don't get a full month off to laze about and forget entirely about the internship. Simply taking away the classes relieves some of the workload, but not a lot.

This semester, I slacked off hardcore. I didn't love school last year, but this year it has been torturous. I'm scared to death about what kind of job I'm going to be able to score come May, but I'd give anything to be there now and not have to suffer through 146 more days. You know, not that I have a minutes, nay, seconds, countdown going in my cell phone countdown function.

I know so many people who would be professional students if they could afford it. I'm not one of those. I'd rather apprentice. There's a certain social work-y sensibility that I'm getting through being in school, one that I definitely didn't pick up as a case worker in Alabama (far from it), but overall, I find most of the classes pretty worthless and the internships as valuable as gold.

I suppose those experiences are what will make me a good social worker, but generally, I'm pretty annoyed at spending so much money (and I even went to the cheap school!) and putting us in debt for years to come. I think if I had gotten a bachelor's in social work, I might never get my masters. But sadly, they usually don't employ social workers with a background in English literature. Plus, I don't think I would have made a very good social worker when I was 21. As much as I gnash my teeth at starting over again in my 30s, at least I have the maturity now. I just would like the money to match that.

I guess I'll start looking for jobs in the next month or so, which freaks me out, but I have a plan that, while not securing Tim and me any health benefits, will at least give me some experience. I'm going to work registry at psych emergency rooms, doing hospital intakes. I suspect they'll hire any fool with a degree to do registry work, so it's a good way to get some experience and my foot in the door. Having at least a teeny plan makes me feel better, not quite as terrified.

So, on to Christmas.

I'll never be John Bonham

We sold my beautiful 5-piece drum set this weekend. A music dealer drove one hundred miles to purchase it, and we got $150 less than I wanted, but $50 more than Tim expected. The dealer explained that he bought drum kits as a hobby, that he had pulled a muscle in his back last year, and suffered from serious depression as a consequence. The only thing that could raise his spirits was playing new drums. He and his tattooed, redneck nephew drove up on the spur of the moment, played the drums for five minutes, then packed them into his truck. The dealer was chatty, and excited that they were in such beautiful condition.

They were in near-perfect condition because I hadn't touched them in four months. I kind of hate myself for that. After Christmas, all I could think about was drums. After many "should we really do this?" conversations, we took some wedding money, and a gift card to Guitar Center, and got a great deal on a Tama Rockstar close-out set. I couldn't keep my hands off them. I learned three or four different beats, and occasionally Tim and I would jam. We even got Meghan to sing "Fever," and worked up a passable version.

And then I hit the wall that I always do with musical instruments: my natural ability only goes so far. I'm not good at actually learning things. Spending time, being not good, that's really not my forte.

It's an expensive lesson to learn: don't spend money on new hobbies, because I just don't have the follow-through gene. I feel like I should have learned that long ago.

At least my guitar didn't cost that much. I still play it from time to time. My piano keyboard sits gathering dust. I need another musical to reinvigorate my fingers.

Chicago

What a day.

I don't know if I can even say that with much emphasis, because lately, every day has been one of those days. I came to the realization today, though, that I am not well suited for the job I have. It's just not in my nature to be aggressive and assertive, which the job really demands in order to do it effectively. And I hate thinking I'm bad across the board, when I know there are parts of my job that I really excel at.

So I was thinking about my future. Thinking about the possibility of returning to Chicago instead of sticking it out here and doing my graduate work through an extension program. And I came up with a selling point: Loyola has a really great clinical program, meaning I'd get a lot of experience in counseling, and then maybe I wouldn't have to work in a shelter again.

I also had an odd experience with a co-worker that made me think, "what era do we live in again?" I can't and won't make a blanket statement about how backwards the South is, but one co-worker sure is.

So I had these anecdotes as ammunition for talking to Tim tonight. "I'm not trying to pressure you, but I just have a few more reasons why Chicago would be a good next move . . ."

I didn't have a chance to tell him before he said, ". . . I've been thinking about animals in the zoo. How they're raised there, and if you take them out of the zoo, they don't thrive. That their habitat has become the zoo. I think maybe the Ellie habitat is hard wood floors, elevated trains, and tall buildings . . ."

And so we talked seriously about Chicago--what we need to do to prepare, how we would survive there on a grad student's loans and a new actor's sparse salary. Where we would live. Where we'd work. How we might have to base our lives out of his mom's basement for a month or two--a definite time limit there--to save up some money. How we'd bike to work and school to save on train fare and gas money.

Later, when I thanked him for the talk, I said, "It's good to at least talk about. I'll try not to focus on it too much and think it's a done deal" (because I have a tendancy to assume that when we talk about things, that means we decide to do them.)

And he said, "Well . . . isn't that what it sort of seems like it is?"

Laundromats

So I've had a life-long obsession with laundromats. Actually, Laundromat is a trademarked term, so I should actually just say "laundry." (And I know that because I'm obsessed.)

As a kid, we'd go into town once a week or so, family-time, to wash the clothes. It was the most exotic place to me. First we'd stop by the Dairy Palace for a treat. Dilly bars, lime-flavored slushes, everything they had was amazing compared to the carob chips I sometimes ate for snacks.

The laundry was old and small. Katie and I would run around collecting used lint sheets, hiding under the folding tables, and sometimes, if the adjoining door was open, peeking into the dry cleaner that was attached. I remember, back then, the lint sheets were fluffy pieces of foam. The dry-cleaning steam press was an enormous, amazing piece of machinery. There was something elegantly ordered about the neatly pressed clothes hanging on the moveable clothes bars.

And the dryer smell! It's always been comforting to me.

In college, needing extra money, I got a job at the laundry and dry cleaners across the street from my apartment. Forget the money--it was primarily because of the beautiful hippie boy who worked there. He wove me a hemp necklace one day as my clothes swirled and sloshed in the machines behind us. I got free dry cleaning if I stuck my sweaters in with each load, and I became addicted to the steam press. I never looked so neat and presentable as the 4 months I worked there.

In the end, screaming kids, a steady influx of clothing needing attention, and late nights prevented me from reading my Shakespeare homework during my shifts, and I had to quit. But it has always been one of my favorite jobs.

Then I moved to Chicago and fell in love with every single dingy, divey laundry I'd pass on the bus. There was one in Andersonville, the Swedish/Middle Eastern neighborhood, that was--oddly--an Indian laundry. Djani. It was teeny--big enough for one wall of machines. By then big chain laundries were springing up everywhere: Spin Cycle, or some such. No romance there. None of the dust and steam, lost clothes and plants everywhere.

I took a photography class at Northwestern, continuing ed. After, I wanted to embark on a project--taking pictures of the old laundries. I never did. I still want to.

I am thankful every day that my apartment has its own washer and dryer. The apartment complex grounds has about 30 spread-out buildings, so any communal washing would be a trek from the apartment across the lawn. But laundromats are still magical.

Too late. Too loud.

I forget sometimes, how much I love live music. I don't like standing up for a long time, and I don't like crowded, smoky clubs. I think I'd rather lay on the floor of my own home, listening to the CD instead.

And then I went out to this odd little venue called Heart of Gold.

It was hard to figure out at first. The top floor of what appeared to be a business, it looked like an art gallery. The lobby was filled with a variety of stunning art. Maybe it was a performance space; there was also a door that said "recording studio." But inside this colorful room, people lounged about, smoking, and the bartender refused to take my money, pointing me instead to a fishbowl filled with cash for me to make my own change. When my friend B and I waited for the bathroom, a guy filled us in: it was a loft converted into a living space for about seven or eight people. What a living space!






Everyone there seemed to know each other. Three different bands or solo artists played, as we tried to identify the person we were there to see: Bleu, someone a friend in L.A. knew. The night dragged on, and my feet hurt. We sat down, and they still hurt. People milled around me, blowing cigarette smoke freely so my contacts started to burn.

And then Bleu started playing. It was just him with his guitar, a drum machine, and a feedback loop. As we approached midnight, the sound system got progressively louder. His voice coasted on the beautiful edge of hoarse, of cracking. He played his own stuff, and Tears for Fears' "Shout," and the crowd sang with him. I closed my eyes and sang along.

It was too late. Too loud. The vibrations of voices, soundwaves filled my body. I couldn't tell where I ended and the music began. I melted into the night.

Happy International Women's Day!

I am celebrating (if you can call it that) today by preparing for my internship interview tomorrow with an agency that specializes in working with sexual trauma. I am beyond nervous. I wrote up possible questions and role played with Tim to practice. He pulled out all the stops and acted like it was a real interview, and I don't know if it was that or what, but I got so nervous and tense that my body actually started spasming. Sometimes I feel awkward talking shop in a pretend way, with people I know. It just doesn't feel natural. I hope that's what it is, and not a preview of how the real interview is going to go. I am simultaneously 100% terrified of this internship and committed to having it for my very own.

Ack.

Edited to say: wow. The potentially most nerve-wracking interview ever, and I left there bouncing up and down and couldn't stop smiling! There was a group Q&A period (seven of us), and then we each took turns interviewing with two different people. They really were racing through it, so I had to make sure to really put as much of myself into each answer, and add things when they didn't ask. I'm glad this wasn't my first interview--I've learned a few things since I've started this process.

I interviewed first with a woman, and it seemed to go well, but when I interviewed with the man, I knew that things were soaring. He had lived in Mississippi, so we bonded over the south, and when I asked what he was looking for in an intern, pretty much everything he said fit exactly who I was. Also, he said that when he and the woman were looking over resumes, they'd put either a check plus or a check minus on each one (for whether they wanted to interview the person), and rarely did they have the same opinion. Then he showed me my resume, which had their checks plus plus on it!

(It occurs to me later that if, like they said, they had 50+ applicants and only interviewed 12, probably all of us twelve were the check plus pluses, but in the moment, it gave me great confidence, and I settled down and felt very comfortable in the interview.)

Everything their agency does is amazing and terrifying, and I want to work there so badly. It would position me incredibly for finding a job after graduation. I would learn SO MUCH there.

There's just one issue I have, and I wasn't sure whether or not to bring it up, but I was feeling so comfortable with the man that when he asked if I'd seen their web site and was there anything on there I was nervous or uncomfortable with, I was honest. I told him it was the fact that their agency seemed like a private practice, and since they essentially were, and the interns exist mostly to help the DCFS-mandated clients, Public Aid, and others who can't afford it, do they feel like they're doing a disservice to the underpriviledged?

I worded it better than that, though, and he wrote down my question before answering, so I think he was impressed I brought it up. He said yes, and it was a struggle the agency was constantly dealing with, and I can appreciate that.

I don't want to help people who can afford to pay me a lot of money. I want to work with those who can't afford it. It makes me uneasy to think about working in a private practice, but the place also really excites me for the therapy opportunities it presents. No way could I turn that down.

At any rate, I left feeling on top of the world. I was only with six of the other eleven people they interviewed, but out of that group, I felt very confident that I was the perfect fit for the internship.

Revision

I got the results of a second cholesterol test, and it's 28 points lower than the first one (done one week previous). I don't know . . . well, anything really, about cholesterol, but that seems like a drastic dive in only seven days. But I'll take it. Still in the high-risk zone, but it seems much more manageable than the first score.

And I am taking extreme measures with my diet, so I have high hopes that a healthy score is within reach in a few months.

So I'm exercising, and understanding why people get addicted to the post-exercise exhaustion/happiness hormone rush, but it's still hard to get excited about actually doing it. I've been in a serious funk the past few days, though. It's hard to figure out whether it's PMS-induced, or cheese-withdrawal. I was actually so pissed off for some unknown reason a few days ago that I said, "fuck this cholesterol noise, I'm having cheese." And it wasn't just plain old cheese, it was Boursin. And I loved every single tiny (for even in my "I deserve some happiness!" indignation, I still couldn't put out of mind how I really shouldn't be eating it) bite of it. God it was delicious!

As much as I love being around my classmates again, this school business is getting on my nerves. I have little motivation to sit down and study, when really I should be vigilant so I make straight As again, thus hurtling myself to the top of the scholarship list. Being awarded big sums of money for doing my work well should be good motivation, but right now it's not getting me off my ass in front of the computer to sit down with a textbook.

Plus, I've gotten a few back-to-back freelance jobs (which I suppose should bolster confidence that I'm not actually losing my skill since leaving publishing), and in choosing between reading something that I'm getting paid for, or something that I'm paying for, it's hard to dedicate time to schoolwork.

Meme from Lesley

And Hannah and Jen.

1. List two things that are true of you that are not stereotypically true of members of some group that you belong to.

I think if someone wants to commit suicide, they have the right to, and it's not always my place to talk them out of it.
I don't give money during NPR pledge drives. I change the channel instead.

2. List two unusual talents that you have.

I can fix vacuums
I can whistle at an ear-piercing volume

3. List two unusual weaknesses that you have.

I never think anyone wants to really be friends with me
I still can't watch scary movies

4. List two unusual things that you aspire to.
I want to be a lounge singer like Mary Steenburgen in The Butcher's Wife
I want to someday walk a red carpet because Tim is a famous actor

5. List two words that you use more than most people do.
"So anyway . . ."

6. List two foods that you dislike and most other people like.
Mushrooms
Banana-flavored anything

7. List two strange habits that you have.
Any time I am around adhesive papers (like a sticker sheet, or a page of stamps, or a FedEx package), I have to take all the excess off, like the edges of the sheets, and put them on the back of my left hand. Maybe this is only strange because I am occasionally allergic to adhesives.
I like to drink soda from a straw, not sip it. And I like to squeeze the straw shut so it's hard to suck the liquid through.

Still dreaming

Still dreaming. I had another one last night, after nearly a year. This time we were both students at Emporia. I was sharing a dorm room with him and some other guy, sleeping on the floor so I could save money. I was trying to be cool, a friend, and then he told me he was dating Jen, who was a single mom in the dream. What did she have that I didn't? (I think my justification for being jealous was that she doesn't have any many piercings as I do--though now awake, I don't know if that's true).

Still trying to be cool, and wait it out, we walked to the cafeteria, and ran into Gabe on the way, who I knew I could date in an instant if I just said the word. But I knew it was poor form to hook up with the cousin of your crush, and besides, maybe Jen was a passing fancy.

And then I woke up, and was still actively jealous of Jen for a few moments until I remembered the real world.

Call me the vacuum whisperer

After a month of not blogging, this is what I blog about? All this school work is killing my creativity.

I wonder if there's more money in vacuum repair, because I don't even need to go to trade school to do that. I've taken apart every vacuum I've ever owned, pulled things out, readjusted things, put them back together (only several times with bits of hardware still sitting on the floor afterwards), and kept on vacuuming.

Two times my current vac has stopped suctioning, and I've dismantled it to see why. Once, a huge clog was stopping air flow from the hose, and this time, a belt had melted around the bottom brush. A little duct tape repaired that easily, but it turns out that duct tape melts pretty easily and smells like a potential fire hazard, and besides, Target sells the replacement belts for cheap.

It makes me feel a sense of accomplishment to be able to fix things. My brain just seems to fit well around figuring out parts and knowing how to fix them. When I was a kid, the first thing I took apart was an old 8-track tape player. Of course, back then it wasn't about fixing, but just seeing the innards that used to make it run. Next was a broken stereo.

I think I missed something, not working with my hands. It's harder to feel definatively like you've "fixed" a person. The successes aren't always so clear and tangible. I know I'm doing what I should be doing, but there always feels like more I could do, if I had a day or two more in the week.

My future

Freaking out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tennis across [my town]

Today my agency held their big yearly fundraiser, revolving around tennis. A coach from a local private college brings instructors to teach under-priviledged kids how to play, and there's a serve-a-thon to raise money. I served 42 m.p.h., and raised about $150 myself. I think the total was ~$7.5K.

The day was cloudy and cool. I almost needed a sweatshirt! It's so exciting to finally see some fall-ish weather here.

After clean-up, Sally and I had lunch, soft-serve cones, and shivered our way through talk about grad school. We are planning on seeing "In Her Shoes" tomorrow for lunch.

It's an incredible feeling, having friends again. I'm such a homebody, a solitary person, that I forget the comfort of other people sometimes. But I like it. A lot. Or maybe I'm still coasting from my sugar high. I feel drunk off Dr. Pepper and soft-serve frozen yogurt.

Getting things done

Last night at the last minute, I filled in playing doubles for one of my teammates. We played in slot 2, instead of 3--the spot I'm used to playing. (Two is more skilled than 3.) I'm already playing up a skill level; I am ranked 2.5 (or beginner) but our team is competing at 3.0. So basically, my partner (who, objectively speaking, is slightly less good than me) and I went up against a team who was much better than us.

I always say (I have to. I lost every game I played this summer.) that I don't mind losing, I just don't like playing poorly. But since getting a taste for winning last week (my first time ever!), who am I kidding? Winning is still better than losing.

Nevertheless, I wouldn't have minded losing, but that I could do nothing right last night, and our opponents were skilled enough to place the ball exactly out of my reach. I did a lot of running, lunging, and cursing mightily. I am never sure how much I offend my teammates and opponents by my swearing, but words seem to escape my lips no matter how much I try to avoid obscenity.

So I wasn't able to bring myself to get a chocolate malt after, for that's a treat for playing well. Instead, I went home and downloaded transcript requests for all the colleges and universities I've attended. I completed the forms, wrote the checks, and put them in the mail. Then I prepared the letters of reference forms for my supervisor, who has agreed to write a letter of recommendation for me.

Small things, but the beginning of the grad school application process, and I'm glad I started. It's pretty terrifying to think about--mostly the expense of it all. We were discussing it this week, and Tim said, "It's like we're waiting for a deus ex machina to resolve our money concerns." And I think I had been. Hoping that my grandmother would pick up on my psychic vibes, and offer me loans for school; hoping grantees picked up word of me through the grapevine, and were preparing their big checks for me; hoping Loyola revised its policy of distributing the wealth to a bunch of students and decided instead to grant me a full scholarship.

I don't know how to make this work. I don't know how to return to the city I love, the city I need to be in, do the work I love, and survive. Forget about psychic nourishment; what about the physical nourishment? How will we afford groceries? Rent? Utilities?

Cheese high

Fondue party last night. Tim and I spent an insane amount of money on good cheese. And it was worth it. I wonder if the recipe was for appetizers, because it claimed to feed 6, but Tim, his classmate Lauren, and I polished off the whole pot.

The cheese high is a spectacular, strange phenomenon. As the cheese disappeared, we started laughing more, smiling wider, scrounging for the last bits of cheese at the bottom of the fondue pot because suddenly it tasted even more delicious. It wasn't simply joy at good food and good conversation--we had a physical (physiological?) reaction to it. It felt exactly like being stoned--minus the desperate need for sleep that usually kicks in half hour after I get high. Tim and I have experienced it once before, at a previous fondue party. (Everyone around the table sat around going, "Whoooa. Dude. What is happening??")

This high contributed to "Hell yeah! Let's make chocolate fondue!" and believing white chocolate liqueur and amaretto would be for thinning and flavoring the baker's unsweetened and semi-sweet chocolate (the only chocolate left in the house) and heavy cream. The result was a fudge-like sludge that slowly separated, yet everyone claimed was delicious. By that time, three other people had arrived, and the bliss of chocolate and friends overroad the dubious consistency of the fondue.

Now the sludge is mixed with strawberries and walnuts and packed into wax paper because Tim, who was subsequently experiencing the chocolate high (I didn't), thought it would make good fudge. We'll see.

Music survey

So Jen passed me this musical baton.

Total volume of music files on my computer

Right now, it's 591. This is on my work computer. There are more at home.

The Last CD I Bought

Suzanne Vega's greatest hits, I think. I was feeling nostalgic. Or two Samples CDs, which I bought for Hannah.

Song Playing Right Now

Once a Week, on the Mystic album Cuts for Luck and Scars for Freedom. I am generally not much into rap or hip hop, but she has amazing lyrics and musicality. RealPlayer categorizes it as Underground Rap. Ha.

Five Songs That Mean a Lot to Me

Hardest question ever. I'm changing this to albums.

1. Greg Brown's Dream Cafe. The first time I heard it, I was sprawled on the couch at my friend Karen's house, stoned out of my mind, the empty wine bottles scattered on her coffee table. She was making me a mix tape of folk music she loved, which struck a chord in me as being the music of my childhood. God, I miss her--and that tape. I have fantasies about tracking her down to say hi, and looking for the worn tape among my messy collection and making it into a more durable mix CD.

2. Alejandro Escovedo, either More Miles than Money, or A Man under the Influence. My favorite is the latter, but he does a kick-ass version of "I Wanna Be Your Dog," which competes with "Jolene" for being my favorite song. He is so soulful, mournful, moving. Everyone to whom I've ever recommended him is eternally grateful.

3. John Renbourn's Faro Annie. This album isn't available anywhere. JF was an English folk singer/guitarist, and his solo stuff is pre-Pentangle. In high school, I'd drag out my parents' record player and put this album on repeat. It's a dirty, hippie, commune folk album. In my opinion, the best of its kind.

4. Oh dear god, how could I forget Ani until #4? Ani DiFranco's Little Plastic Castles. My feelings about this album were best chronicled previously in my blog.

5. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People. Obviously. It was the anthem album for my high school friends. I remember laying out at the lake, cruising Main, listening to the mournful songs.

Best Sex Song

Fuck making love. It's all about the fucking. Ok, top 5. Bill Withers' Use Me; Ben Harper's Please Me Like You Want to; Nina Simone's I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl; Portishead's, well, really any song on Dummy; and, um, the song Tim wrote about me: Sweet Kansas Woman.

Five People I'm Passing the Musical Baton to

Megan
Joolz
Jamie
Tish

Staying in Alamaba

So this woman that I wrote about previously. She was told today that our services to her would end on June 10. She got angry, demanded money she had given us for savings, and said she'd leave the next day.

I can only hope. I felt strange after the meeting, like I was scared to believe it had really happened, that we were really taking a stand against her, not allowing her to treat us like trash.

I can only imagine how much less stress I'll have after this is all over. Well, different, more manageable stress.

That will be a good thing. I've started thinking about beginning grad school while I'm here. It seems like it would give us so many more options, because then with my degree, we could move anywhere, instead of just a few places where I would be willing to go to school. I knew of a Saturday program that took place at DHR, so I pursued it. It appears to be the same program of study I was accepted to at the University of Alabama last year, only distance education. I thought I was looking into it way too late, as I wanted to start in the fall, three months from now. But the timing is out of my hands, as I discovered this is a new program that only accepts one class at a time. The current one is halfway through, so I wouldn't be able to start classes for exactly a year.

With that, I'd start classes a few months before Tim graduates. Which means we'd have to stay here two extra years. The thought of that, well, it's not my favorite one. There's no guarantee that he can get work with the company as a professional, though the incoming artistic director seems to like him very much. (I know there's a difference between liking him as a person--because who wouldn't??--and thinking his look and acting style could fit a wide range of parts.)

But regardless, it seems like this is the best thing for us to consider. I compared in-state tuition for the program here to the program I want to attend at the University of Denver. Here? Slightly over $9,000 in tuition (not counting that for the first semester, I'd continue working full-time). Denver, slightly over $55,000, and I would go full time, no work, unless it was part-time. We could pay for Alabama from our savings and not have to borrow a penny. Denver, I'd be an indentured servant paying off loans for the rest of my life.

And still, I don't know. While we'll probably swing towards staying, the thought of being around friends in Denver, going to a well-regarded grad school with a gorgeous campus makes me so happy, the cost of it is overwhelming.

And I'm doing things here to be happy. I think we could make it here.

Sharing

I never know how much to share of myself. (I guess I'm speaking primarily of work, because if I'm nervous around someone new, I have a tendancy to babble about myself way too much.)

This week in my support group, I did a creative exercise to get my clients to think about their lives, where it's been, what they're proud of, where they want it to go. Since this group has a bunch of new people, I thought it would be a good way to get them comfortable with sharing and opening up about themselves. And I participate, too, so they can get comfortable with me. One of the parts of the activity was drawing a representation of something that others could do for you to make you happy. Most everyone drew dollar bills, for money. I drew a sink full of dishes, and I explained how much I hate doing dishes, so my husband always does them for us. You would have thought I'd won the lottery, by the reaction of the ladies. I felt ridiculous, because what's a dirty dish to wash compared to trying to survive your life of abuse and poverty?

One of my clients said, "See how much I knew about my counselor! I didn't even know you were married!" And I thought, why would I advertise to battered wives that I have an amazing husband and relationship? Or am I some kind of good example, that there are good relationships and good men out there?

In Chicago, when I worked at the shelter, clients never learned my last name, or what career I had outside of that part-time job. I was very tight-lipped, and a little paranoid about it. Of course, 75% of each shift was spent trying to catch some sleep, so I only rarely listened to clients talk about their lives. Now they have to tell me about their life. I really need to know everything about them, so I can figure out the best way to help them individually. And then I feel bad for it--that they have to be so open and vulnerable--so I share more with them.

I remember chatting with three of my ladies at the beginning of the year (three of my favorite clients ever, so the dynamic was probably different), and admitting to them how hard it was to move down here not knowing anyone, and to find a job and make friends. And I was surprised to discover after the words came out of my mouth, I didn't regret them. And they were greeted with nods and affirmations. It felt good to let them know I was human, too.

I still register the phone number until Tim's name, not mine. I'm not completely naive.