Day 33: Getting Blond Now

(Cue today's theme music: Getting Strong Now from Rocky---http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnqZl_blT7E)....

Even though this is my 40th year, I am really a 12-year-old at heart about some things.   Today is the day that I am going to become considerably blonder.  Excited and nervous.   Feeling a bit like a cowgirl in old western as the blonding commences at high noon.  Thinking that I should have worn my cowgirl boots and spurs instead of black dress pants and a teal blouse.  

(Wardrobe digression but somewhat relevant to the issue of being a 12-year-old--the teal blouse is new, bought on clearance last night.   Paired with new vintage-y earrings with teal and tiny seed pearls and matching nail polish, even though I seldom wear polish on my fingernails, named "Mermaid to Order" and matching eyeliner "sparkling emerald" and a matching, vintage-y bracelet, which I already had in my jewelry arsenal.  Both the matching and the purchasing of nail polish based largely on the name also serve as evidence of my inner 12 year old self.  For the record, the earrings were also on sale!)

On the way to work, excited about the next step in my blonding, I catalogued my progress on my other--mental, emotional, and financial stability.  So far, my progress has been mixed on the mental and emotional and a failure on the financial with one notable exception.   Today marks my 9th day sans liquid crack from Starbucks which is a $50 savings.  Progress on my other recently added goals--drinking more water, a minimum of 3 gym workouts per week, and more sleep have also been a mixed bag.  Near total fail on the drinking more water, at least 1 workout per week, and some real progress on the sleep.  Hoping that the getting blond now will help ignite a spark and get me strong.

So, in sum, the state of my union remains in flux but with forward progress.  Life is a marathon, not a sprint. It's training to build up endurance for challenges big and small.   Here's to moving forward, embracing our inner 12 year olds, and discovering the beauty in the ordinary....And to the weekend as an almost blonde!  Cheers.

"It was chaos. Rocky, you went the distance. You went the 15 rounds. How do you feel? "

"[about Apollo] I've never seen a fighter that concerned about his hair."

"Tonight, we have had the privilege of witnessing the greatest exhibition of guts and stamina in the history of the ring!"

Day 32: On sex and other random musings

Let's talk about sex.   Frankly.   I like to talk about sex and sexuality and various sexual acts.  In generalities. Not who did what to whom and when and where. I find the topic fascinating and under-discussed.  But is it possible to talk about sex, especially with men, without been viewed as a sexual object or a pervert or a bad girl?   Does living in a Christian society guarantee that we cannot talk about sex or that we must necessarily view sex and sexuality as something inherently secret or bad or sinful or dirty?  And is the intimation that sex is secret or inherently sinful part of what makes it thrilling?  In other words, would we still like sex as much as we do, if we discussed it openly and frankly?

(Am listening to Salt-n-Peppa singing "Let's talk about sex."*   I do tend toward being thematic, apparently even when blogging.)

Theoretically, men want a woman who is sexual and open about her sexuality.   Maybe, even practically, men want to have a sexual relationship with a woman who is sexual and open about her sexuality.   But, do men marry women who are sexual and open about their sexuality? Do men take women who are sexual home to meet their mothers? Or are sexual women destined to be relegated to the category of "whores in the bedroom", playthings--online or in the imagination?  Or is being sexual and open about sexuality tantamount to being a bad girl?  And I am not even talking about women who look overtly sexual or who you meet online in a sexual chat-room.  I am talking about real-life women, who do not look like they work the pole.  Who are ladies in the parlour.   Can a man have a long-term, serious relationship with a woman that he sees as sexual and open about her sexuality?  Or does the sex get in the way?

I guess that I will have to keep this one in the category of things to be continued and that make you go hmmmm....**

Day 2 of No Starbucks fared better than Day 1.  Just like my merry band of supporters said it would.  Of course, I started my day off with a large, black coffee from McDonald's with a shot of espresso.  At 12 pm.  After I woke up with a combination extreme migraine and sinus headache.   And locked my house key and link to civilization (blackberry) in the house.   I proceeded to break into my ex-laws house (not really--I know where they hide the key) and obtain their spare key.  I am fairly certain that it is not breaking and entering as they have given me permission in the past to do that and have not yet revoked their permission.  I also took some lilacs from the large lilac bush.  (Is it a bush or a tree?  Believe it or not, I once got into a debate with someone over the difference between a bush and a tree.  The green thumb having skipped a generation when it got to me, I still have no idea what the difference is or why it makes a difference in the context of a general, non-gardening conversation).  

I love lilacs.   Lovely and fragrant.  My dream is to someday have one outside my bedroom window.  


*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MT0E72qnjro

**Things that make you go hmmm was a regular segment on a late-night talk show hosted by Arsenio Hall in the late 80s and 90s.  This segment inspired a song by C & C Music Factory called "things that make you go hmmm."  In addition to hosting this show, Hall was also known for dating Paula Abdul.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XF2ayWcJfxo

Day 31 or Day 1 without Starbucks

A great workout and 8 hours of sleep last night should have been the perfect set-up for Day 1 without my liquid crack.   Should have been.   Am currently on cup number seven of super-duper French Roast brewed in my office and I cannot wake up.  It is is like I am running in slow motion, my thoughts and words are moving in slow motion, and I cannot seem to utter an articulate sentence.  There is a space missing between the thing-y that transmits the brain words into spoken words.   (See, the preceding sentence pretty much proves the point).  

My co-workers are urging me on, suggesting that my espresso-addicted body needs a couple days to adjust.   My hands are shaking.  My brain is in open revolt, refusing to do any concrete work until it gets its fix.   And all I want to do is go to sleep.   Like for about 30 hours.   The siren song is strong through the waves of fog, the slow-motion water--just one more quad-grande-skinny-upside-down-caramel macchiato, just to get the brain fired up.   Maybe, Indy's dad is there getting an afternoon fix, and your shared addiction will lead to true love.  As a Louis Armstrong/Ella Fitzgerald duet plays from one of the Starbucks compilations, the earthy, warm smell of fresh, hot coffee brewing, the soft whirl of the milk steamer, the sharp hiss of the liquid crack dropping into my cup....Mmmmm....

Alas, I have .75 in my checking account, which makes me about $5.00 short of a fix.  So unless I am willing to become the first liquid crack whore in history, it looks like I will have hold fast to my NO-Starbucks vow.  And make another pot of coffee.             

Day 30: Things that make me smile

I am trying to make good on my vows.  So far, with the work day over in 25 minutes, I have drank almost an entire 16.9 ounce bottle of water.  It's a start, and I have several hours to make good on the remaining 40 or so ounces.   The others are more long term goals or cannot be accomplished yet. 

I am beginning to feel melancholy.  Listening to Rain Delays by Crash Parallel and Somewhere out there by Our Lady Peace a gazillion times is probably not helping.  Yet, somehow, I cannot seem to stop myself from hitting replay.  

So, I am going to work on Vow 6 and list some things that have made me smile today.   First, the drive into school and work for me and my sunshine girl.  She was in a particularly silly mood, and her silliness and smile are always contagious.  We were pretending to be mice/mouses.  She pointed out that her nose (and mine) are already pink and that she has whiskers like her dog except that hers are invisible.   I have my rear-view mirror titled so that I can see her sweet face.   She can also see my face so we were twitching our noses at each other and cracking up.  When we got to her school, I made another comment about our mouseness, and she felt the need to remind me that we were just "pretending, mommy, to be mouses."  In fact, I smiled so much that I thought my face might freeze in a permanent smile. 

Second, after dropping my sunshine girl off, I decided to get my next-to-last coffee at Starbucks.  The magic Starbucks is right by her school, and in the back of my mind I realized that given the lateness of the hour that I might run into my Starbucks crush.   Just in case, I freshened up my lipstick, ignoring my frizzy, rain-affected hair.  As I walked in and headed to the counter, I saw his shoes, combination running/hiking shoes, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was him.  Indy's dad!  Another addict, er patron, separated us in the line.  He looked over at me, his blue eyes met mine, and we smiled at each other.  Sometimes, I am shy.   And  I quickly rifled through my bag looking for a distraction.  Our eyes met a couple more times, including when he passed me again as I placed my order and he heading down the long aisle to the door.  He stopped and talked to a barista on her break as I had moved to the other end of the counter--leaving us at separate ends of the store.  He looked down at me, smiling again, and I got those jittery, roller coastery butterflies.  I pulled out a business card and wrote my cell number on the back.  Alas, the dealer, er barista, took too long with my drink, and he was gone, walking off into the morning rain and fog.   Ah, maybe next time....

Third, snow showers of apple blossoms falling from the row of trees along my building.   Lovely, magical, bits of flowered hope on a cold, rainy day.  

Day 30: Try, try, trying again

If at first you don't succeed, try again and again and again.  Last week was definitely a week that tried this woman's soul and resolve.  A week where it seemed that nothing could ever be good again, that my goals of becoming blonde, financially solvent, a fully-realized, fully-actualized person seemed destined for failure.  For a millisecond, I even considered trying to reconcile with my ex.  We have been getting along and it's nice to be part of a team, a unit, a traditional family.  But the end of the week demonstrated that he will never change, compromise, or fight for me, for us.  It would be me alone, trying to change, compromise, fight and nothing will ever be enough for him, and he is incapable of giving me what I need, long for--intimacy, emotionally or physically--a true partner.  

It's a new week, and I vowed to try again.   As Annie* was told in Bridesmaids, "you're your problem, Annie, and your solution."   This resonated with me and drove home the point--again--that the crucial part of this journey that I am on is learning to be self-sufficient, to fill myself up, and not to count anyone other than myself.  Appreciate and savour my friendships and "friend"ships but do not count on them. Don't use them as oars.  I am the captain of my own ship, my destiny.  Only I can save myself and get where I need, where I want to be. 

So, I have set some new goals to strive toward this week.   First, I vow to give up my daily Starbucks habit.  My daily crack is $5.67, before tip.  Or over $40 per week.  Or over $160 per month.   At least until I get my financial house in order.  This is vital because I need to get out of my current physical house and into my own place.  I have $2.99 left on my card and when it's done, no more Starbucks.  I am not giving up coffee (I am not insane, just a little nutty from time to time) but will stick with that brewed in my office or in my home.  

Second, I vow to get to the gym and my classes this week.  At least, three times.  I went to kickboxing on Saturday morning.  Got my ass kicked but kicked some metaphorical ass myself.  I have a lot of anger right now.  It scares me and kickboxing provided the perfect outlet for releasing it.  Master Sensei T taught our regular teacher V, who is pregnant and has been ordered to take it down a couple notches for the duration of her pregnancy.  Master T is a former Navy Seal and is tough as nails but he also has this zen-like quality about him.  He started from the beginning and to the chagrin of some of my fellow women warriors, he began with the fundamentals.  Think wax-on, wax-off.  Teaching us the correct form and breathing for each punch, cross, hook, and kick.  Integrating some yoga and core work into the class. The first class was even without music.  Last Saturday, we had music and it was more intense, more cardio.  We are still mastering the fundamentals but we did end the class with the crane technique as Master T chanted "Ralph Macchio, Ralph Macchio, RM, RM" as we jumped from leg to leg trying to perfect the crane technique.*  Plus, I got to punch him several times, very hard, on his rock hard stomach.  

Third, I vow to drink at least 64 ounces of water per day.  

Fourth, I vow to try and get a minimum of 7 hours of sleep per night.  

Fifth, I vow to stop living in the past and ruminating over the "if onlies" and the "why not mes?."  It is counter-productive and lacking a time machine, I cannot go back and change anything.  Truthfully, much of what I'd like to change would also alter the best parts of my present and my future, specifically my daughter's existence.  She is the best thing that I have ever done or will do.    As much as I have come to accept that her dad was unavailable to me and that I knew that before I married him, before I created a human life with him, she is my true love, my destiny.  She is what keeps me here on my worst days and what propels me forward on my best days.  She makes me want to be a complete, whole woman so I can help her become a complete, whole, self-sufficient, confident woman who cannot be held back by her fear, her insecurities.

Sixth, I vow to acknowledge every day at least one moment of beauty or one moment of goodness or one thing that has made me smile  

Seventh, I vow to stop making decisions based on superstitions or stemming from "magical thinking" or acting for the sake of acting.  But I vow not to do this at the expense of acknowledging that magic and beauty and passion do exist.   (I have already broken this vow because I wanted to end my vows with an odd number, which is superstitious.  Baby steps.)

So, it is written.  So, it shall be done. 

*Bridesmaids is Judd Apatow's new movie that has been marketed as The Hangover for chicks.   It was good and funny but Apatow did not quite hit his mark.  Annie reminded me very much of Meg Ryan, like a 2000s version of the character that Meg Ryan perfected in the 80s and the 90s.   But updated to fit the current times and current challenges--the failing economy, the new un-dating dating rules like Friends with Benefits.   

**Ralph Macchio was the original Karate Kid in 1984 (what a great year--the Karate Kid and the Tigers won the world series after a magical start  that included over 20 wins in a row to start of the season and a no-hitter).  I was in middle school and we got these magazines every week, and they featured bits of screenplays or just regular plays and we had to read them in class.   The Karate Kid was one of them.  

Ralph Macchio starred in two Karate Kid sequels but there was no improving on the first, which also had a killer soundtrack, including Banarama's Cruel Summer.   Naturally, I had a crush on him.   Back then, I fancied myself a would-be novelist and wrote a novel about a girl named Elizabeth Sanderson who was selected to be an intern with him in real life and live in his house.  Of course, we had Tiger Beat back then and so I knew all the details of his life, which I integrated into my novel.  (Tiger Beat was a magazine geared to teenagers and their celebrity crushes.  All told, my novel consisted of over a 100 handwritten pages, which I burned in a fit of temper and the recognition that I would never be a great writer and was unwilling to settle for being a mediocre writer.   During my tempestuous 20s is when I burned it along with a bunch of short stories and poems.   Of course, now, in my reflective 30s, I wish that I had not burned these artifacts of my youth.  

Besides the dreaminess of Daniel-san and the David vs. Goliath, rich vs poor themes, the Karate Kid contains several quotable lines that are often uttered by those of us who came of age in the 80s and that have become enmeshed in later incantations of pop culture.  For instance, the evil sensei who leads the Kobra Kais instructs one of his students to "sweep the leg" during the karate match.   "Sweep the leg" found its way into an episode of the Office where Michael took the office on a field trip to watch a match between himself and Dwight.  Kevin utters the infamous line "sweep the leg."   Those already of age in 1984 (my ex) and those not born until the 1980s undoubtedly missed this reference which increased the hilarity of the scene by a thousand-fold.   

Moreover, Mr. Miyagi shares several bits of wisdom imbued with good-old fashioned common sense that seem relevant to my own "vision quest":   (1)   "We make sacred pact. I promise teach karate to you, you promise learn. I say, you do, no questions"; (2) "First learn stand, then learn fly. Nature rule, Daniel-san, not mine"; (3) "Wax on, right hand. Wax off, left hand. Wax on, wax off. Breathe in through nose, out the mouth. Wax on, wax off. Don't forget to breathe, very important"; (4) "Punch! Drive a punch! Not just arm, whole body! Hip, leg, drive a punch! Make "kiai." Kiai! Give you power. Now, drive punch"; (5) "I tell you what Miyagi think! I think you *dance around* too much! I think you *talk* too much! I think you not concentrate enough! Lots of work to be done! Tournament just around corner!"; (6)  "Better learn balance. Balance is key. Balance good, karate good. Everything good. Balance bad, better pack up, go home. Understand?"; and (7) "Lesson not just karate only. Lesson for whole life. Whole life have a balance. Everything be better. Understand?"



The first photo is Daniel-san (Daniel Russo) and Mr. Miyagi.  Daniel-san demonstrates the crane technique on the beach.   The second photo is just the Karate Kid in his dreaminess.  Elisabeth Shue was his love interest, Ali Mills.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T99hbumhePA (Cruel Summer)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCRTbh3D_us&feature=related (You're the Best)

Day 29: My Dad

May 15 was my dad's birthday.  May 15, 2005 was his last birthday.  It was sunny and warm, and he grilled cheeseburgers for us.  We sat in his backyard, in lawn chairs near his Japanese koi pond.    Owing to distance and my evil stepmonster and her reciprocal, mutual affection for my dad's offspring, we generally only saw my dad on holidays, his birthday, our birthdays, Father's Day.  I always remember his birthday being sunny and warm.  

This year marks the fifth anniversary of my dad's death.  Several of my friends lost their dads last year, and I have reassured them it gets easier.  And it has gotten easier.  But sometimes, it comes rushing back and the loss feels palpable and new, like it just happened.  And this year, this May 15, I really miss him.  His sarcastic, at times caustic wit, his politically incorrect sense of humor, his dark eyes exactly like mine and my daughter, his granddaughter who he never got to meet.   Yes, he was the tough guy who pushed a burning plane off his base in Vietnam, who scared the hell out of my sister's beaus with a single look, and who his co-workers called Rambo at work.  But he had this inner gentleness.  Gentleness is not the right word.  He was much more emotional and passionate than my mom.  Kindness, maybe.  Behind this gruff, tough exterior, he was kind.  Taking my nephew downstairs into his basement at Christmas to feed the Japanese koi that he kept there during our freezing months.

Today was dreary and rainy and cold.  (Yes, more weather talk).  My dad hated the cold, and yet, he spent his entire life in it, working outside in it.  He loved going on trips to warm, exotic locales.  To see giant turtles and snorkel, to watch scantily-clad women frolicking on the beach.  About our "fair" state and its highly changeable weather, he always said "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute and it will change."

Anyway, I woke up feeling empty and sad, the steady rain providing a maudlin soundtrack.  My sunshine girl asked me if she could sit on my lap, and as I held her close and breathed in the scent of sunshine and joy and loveliness, she told me that she loved me and gave me a big hug.  I told her that I love her hugs and that I really needed one today because I was sad.  She turned and looked into my eyes and touched my face and asked me why I was sad.  I told her that it was my dad's birthday, and she asked if I was sad that I missed his birthday party.   I reminded her that my daddy was in heaven and our guardian angel but that I really missed him today.  She said: "you don't miss me, because I am not dead, right?"   I have explained to her that my daddy is dead but being 4, she does not grasp the finality of death and easily tosses the word "dead" around.  Hell, I am going to be 40 all too soon, it has been nearly 5.5 years, and I still cannot fully grasp that my dad is dead.

Dead.  Just writing that word made my heart seize and the tears flow.  What is it that makes certain words seem so taboo?  We try to disguise the word and make it more palatable with sayings like "we lost him" or "he passed away" or "he is no longer with us" or "he has gone onto a better place."  What horse shit.  I do it too but it's utter horse shit and I feel Holden Caulfield's disdain for phoniness even though I am equally phony for mouthing similar platitudes.  My dad is fucking dead.  He will never breathe in the sunshine that is his granddaughter, who has his eyes, his no-bullshit look, his love of nature and gardening.  He will never get to feel the love and light of her hugs, her kisses (real and fake), her wonderfully twisted sense of humor, her laugh that is joy and silliness personified. She will never get to feed the koi with him or sit on his lap and pull at his beard.  I will never get to hear another man, another person tell me that I was the best thing that he ever did.   I will never get to argue politics with him again; he probably would have thought that Sarah Palin was hot.   I will never get to watch another Michigan football game with him or a Tigers' game or listen to him rail against the government, his wife, or the democrats.  

He is dead.  I tell my daughter that Papa John is our angel in heaven and watches over us and keeps us safe.  But I have never been sure that I believe in heaven or angels.  I was raised to believe that there is a heaven, but I am a doubter, a skeptic, and have never been able to take things on faith.  I wish that I could but I cannot.  My dad was a doubter and skeptic and questioner but he did believe in God.  He claimed to have seen Jesus when he returned from Vietnam.  

Later in life, after having a falling out with the religion of my youth, I attended a Catholic law school and was impressed with the compassion, intelligence, and social justice of the Jesuits.  My ex's

Yet, still I doubt.  Not in the existence of God or a higher power.  I do believe in that.  I am just not sure that I believe in the constructs and tenets of religion, like heaven and hell.  It seems to me like it is a way to hedge our bets and a useful construct to keep humankind from contemplating the inescapable truth--that we are all born to die.   I hope that I am wrong.  That there is a heaven after we fulfill our ultimate destiny and that it is filled with unimaginable joy and peace and that it is never, ever cold.

The last time we celebrated my birthday together at a steak house playing country music, you expressed a desire for some rock-n-roll, and specifically mentioned Honky Tonk Woman.   You also loved One Night in Bangkok.  These are for you, dad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Kve_N8rmmQ (Honky Tonk Woman)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9mwELXPGbA (One Night in Bangkok)

Day 28: Incessance or a Prelude

Tis is quite early on Day 28.  That time when it is still dark but the birds have begun their incessant chattering that is a prelude to dawn.  All the while the incessant chatter, the white noise continue to whir and churn through my brain...

Just before 3:00 a.m., I finished Jennifer Egan's "a visit from the goon squad" which recently won the Pulitzer or some other prestigious literary award.  Normally, this fact would not be an incentive to read it.  The Brit read it and gave it "at least one thumb up."  His recommendation* and the fact that the first sentence grabbed me led me to buy it.  It's acclaim was, if anything, a secondary reason buttressing my purchase of it.   It did not disappoint; in fact, it was remarkable.

The paradox of a remarkable novel for me is my inability to put it down and the fact that I don't want it to end.  Also, un-put-downable novels often get finished in the wee smalls, making them difficult to discuss with other three-dimensional humans at the moment of consummation, in the first flush of insight.  At least the ones that I know (where oh where is the 1-900 number for a book lover who has  the urge to discuss a novel that has her all hot and bothered?).

To bed.  To sleep and perchance to dream of the deep voice on the other end of the phone discussing plot points and language and themes and whether it was too stylized.

*The Brit's book recommendations have been spot on.  They include: On Love by Alain de Botton; High Fidelity by Nick Hornby; One Day by David Nicholls; and The Corrections and Freedom by Jonathan Franzen.

Day 27, Part II

I realize and appreciate and am grateful for how much better I have it that a large chunk of the world.   Just having a series of grey difficult days and when I try to look forward, to look into the distant horizon, all I can see is grey.  

Sounding off in this forum helped.   As did talking to a colleague, who is also having a sucky week.  (What's up with all the douche bag men lately?)   My colleague, whose mother tried to cheer her up with an e-harmony subscription, explaining that there are "doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs" on e-harmony.  Indian chiefs--what the fuck?  The explanation is that Indian chiefs own casinos.     When her mother subsequently told her to look up a prospective gentleman on Facebook, my colleague asked if he was an Indian chief.   When her mother said no, my colleague explained that she is only dating Indian chiefs.  This made me laugh, out loud and deeply, for the first time today.  

Then, my brother called me.  My brother is one of the remaining non-douche bag men to frequent this great spinning planet of ours, and I believe that he is truly good.  But the beginning of his phone call made me want to put down the phone and scream.  As does any conversation that starts out with, "if I die."  Especially this weekend.    But after explaining that he wanted to talk to me about his life insurance policy and reassuring me that everything was okay, it was a nice conversation.  Invariably, talking to my brother cheers me up.

Huffington Post also provided some cosmic reassurance and comic relief.  First, I feel reassured and relieved to learn that it is not a foregone conclusion that the world will end on May 21, 2011.   Obviously, there are no guarantees to how much time any of us have; nevertheless, it is reassuring to know that May 21, 2011 does not mark the date-certain for world destruction and end times.   Second, Jon Stewart explaining why Newt Gingrich is not cool, no matter how many presidential campaigns he launches from Twitter also provided comic relief.   Isn't the name Newt pretty much determinative of one's coolness quotient?   

Purged of hopelessness, I depart my own pity party and resolve to find reasons to smile and laugh today.  Picking up my own personal sunshine in about an hour is a great first step.    

Some, maybe I still believe in redemption and that "hopey-changy" thing.    At least, I want to believe. 

21 One Reasons that May 21, 2011 is not the end of the world:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/05/11/21-reasons-may-21-not-end-of-world_n_860747.html#s277570&title=21_Our_Milk

Jon Stewart on Captain Beige

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/05/13/jon-stewart-newt-gingrich_n_861477.html

Day 27: A long week of suckiness or Bah-Humbug in May

Day 26: Coming apart at the seams somehow disappeared.  It just has been that kind of week.   This whole week has been downright sucky--for me and a number of my people.   Missing blog posts, bad hair days, far too many people who need to be punched, more men engaging in stupid, weaselly break ups, my sweet girl breaking out in pink spots all over her body (hives).  And today is Friday the 13th, and yes, of course, I am superstitious.  Most of the time but especially on Friday the 13ths.  

I forgot to throw salt over my shoulder this morning before I left for work.  Colleague One denied my salt request once I told her why I "needed" it, refusing to indulge my "magical thinking."  Colleague Three not only gave me her salt shaker (which was very cute--miniature and glass) but then also followed suit and also threw salt over her shoulder three times as well.   Colleague Two just stared at us, very much like one is unable to look away from a horrible car accident or a freak show.  One and Two are younger (but often wiser than me when it comes to the ways of the contemporary world), and they eschew such silly superstitions.   Three is older than me and has two children, and like me, she (apparently) believes in hedging her bets and taking lucky charms where she can get them.

(And I skipped lunch and am thinking that some Lucky Charms would be "magically delicious" right about now.)

The news this week is filled with atrocities visited on children by their parents and caregivers, the very people charged with caring for them, loving them, protecting them.   Two 4-year-old-kids starved and beaten to death by their parents and caregivers.  In two different states.  A 10-year old boy, who was raised in the politics of hate and division, shot his father, who was active in Neo-Nazism.   Tales of twisted parenting that led to twisted adults in my own work.  And a father who was sentenced to life without parole for scalding and drowning his two infant children. 

On my good days, like Anne Frank, I believe in the goodness of people.  Despite all the philosophy classes that I had in college, despite the horrors that I see in my job or read about in the paper.   But believing in the basic goodness of people during weeks like this seems like magical thinking, at its most extreme and destructive.  Actually, it seems downright stupid and Pollyannish.  And I think that I would be better off if I just accepted the basic premise that people are driven mainly by their own self-interest and that goodness is merely incidental to furthering this self-interest.

Wishing once again that I could pick up my sweet girl and drive off into the sunset and find a gig as a lighthouse keeper somewhere beautiful and remote where no one knows me and we can start over fresh, with a clean slate, with no mistakes, no expectations from people or from places.   Hoping that tomorrow will be better, brighter, more hopeful but it seems unlikely as family issues, commitments, and bittersweet memories of my dad and loss will dominate tomorrow and Sunday. 

I hate this bleak, bereftness of spirit.  To have termites in my soul, to be miserable, and not to believe in goodness and beauty and light and spirit.  Like the Grinch and Scrooge, pre-redemption and not sure that I even believe in redemption anymore.  And that really does suck.

Today's cheerfulness brought to you by:

"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch

You really are a heel,
You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch,
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel!

You're a monster, Mr. Grinch
Your heart's an empty hole,
Your brain is full of spiders, you've got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch,
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!

You're a vile one, Mr. Grinch
You have termites in your smile,
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch,
Given the choice between the two of you, I'd take the seasick crocodile!

You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You're a nasty wasty skunk,
Your heart is full of unwashed socks,
Your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch,

The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote,
"Stink, stank, stunk"!
You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch
You're the king of sinful sots,

Your heart's a dead tomato splotched with
Moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch,
Your soul is an appalling dump heap
Overflowing with the most disgraceful

Assortment of deplorable rubbish imaginable mangled up in tangled up knots!
You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch
With a nauseous super "naus",
You're a crooked jerky jockey and you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch,

You're a three decker sauerkraut and
Toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce!"

AND

Charles Dickens

"External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty."

AND

W.H. Auden
 ***
"The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good."



 

Day 26: Coming apart at the seams

Somedays, sometimes, too much, too often.   I cannot get it together, much less keep it together.  Just so tired, so weary, so sick of everything--it pervades my bones, my pores, my spirit.  Weariness combined with  swells of rage.  I want to sleep or pound things with my head or my shoe or just howl.  I have howled a couple times, loud and shrill as I drive fast on the expressway.  The mad, shrieking howl of restlessness, desperation, weariness part of the wind.

Today, I reason with myself, is hormonally intensified, that it is not a true measure of how these days have been, how I have been.   But I don't know.  I am so off track.  Lately, I cannot even seem to get it up for exercising, which is has often been my salvation, my amazing grace.

Am just trying to be on days like these.  To get out of bed, to put one foot in front of the other, paste a smile on my face, engage in the minimum fundamentals and try to avoid screaming.  And enjoy the sweet moments.  Like lunch in the warm sunshine with good friends.  Cool breezes.  Listening to an exciting baseball game online at work, filled with twists and turns that alternately led to delighted fist pumping and cheers and frustrated fist pumping and jeers.   My daughter standing on the front porch, waiting to go to the park, holding her Hello Kitty purse.  Framed by the wrought iron of the porch rails, surrounded by spring flowers that she planted, now in full bloom.  She is sunshine made real and tangible.  Pops of colour against the lush, surreal green of the grass.   Her little face, so much like an opening flower, that it makes my heart ache with pure joy.  Even on a day like today.  And when she sees me pull into the driveway, her face lights up as her eyes and lips smile at me, I cannot help but smile back.

Day 25: Why getting older sucks or 196 days until I turn 40

Surprisingly fresh-faced, albeit shamefaced, after my introduction to Blueberry Smirnoff Vodka paired with Diet Lemon Lime Kroger pop last night.  My usual liquid crack helped initially this morning and 2 cups of black coffee sprinkled throughout the day have kept me awake, mostly.  And no headache, which for me is often the worst part of drinking.  Okay, the worst physical part of drinking.

Yet as I sat in my car in the parking structure and put on "my face" before work, I noticed the beginnings of faint lines around my eyes.  They match the slight crinkles on my forehead.   I don't smoke.  I wear sunscreen religiously.  I moisturize.   I don't drink (that much).   I exercise regularly (except the last month where my exercise routine could best be described as sporadic).   Not to mention that I currently have hormonally-induced pimples dotting my chin.  It seems grossly unjust to simultaneously punish me with the wrinkles of age and the blemishes of youth.  

Not to mention that what comes next for me, for women my age, is no better and probably worse.    Hot flashes; I already alternate between running a small fan and a heater in my office.  On the same day.   I recently read or heard on the radio that the three ways to retain a youthful appearance are:  (1) Do not smoke; (2) sleep at least 7.5 hours a night; and (3) drink 8 glasses of water a day.   Okay, I've got the no-smoking thing down.  Drinking water right now--am currently on the first fourth of a 16.9 ounce bottle.  Unless, I can count the water in coffee. 

I almost never *feel* old; I often wonder if I am in the girl version of Big.  How can I be almost 40 years old when only yesterday, I turned 20 and was upset that I was halfway to 40?   Such is life; it goes so slowly when we are children.  We are in such an awful hurry to get there, to grow up.   And then after 20, time accelerates.  And we are as powerless to stop the sands from pouring forth.    My early 20s were horrible.  The highs and lows so dramatic, even more so than now.   If you think I am a hot mess now, you should have known me 20 years ago.  

For the most part, I have enjoyed my 30s.  Like I am started to come into my own, become more comfortable in my skin.  Or at least begin the process.  Yet, the wheels started to come off in my late 30s, when I realized that it was not really my skin.  I don't know; maybe we are more like snakes than we think, and every so often, we have to molt a layer of skin to reveal our truest skin.   (Did I mention that I had less than 4 hours of sleep?) 

This whole process is about finally discovering what skin I am supposed to be in.  To shed the toxicities of the past, to make peace with the past, and to move forward.  Striving to become the best, brightest most evolved version of myself.  And to find a good eye cream that minimizes fine lines and wrinkles....

"If I could make days last forever

If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you


But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with"


 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHDt2t0oO7g

Day 24: In the abstract

Lots of things are a good idea in the abstract.   Like a rugged, individualistic woman and mother former governor from Alaska being nominated as the vice presidential candidate by one of major political parties.  Or "we the people" rising up and participating in government, finally, at last, modeling its movement against America's first burst for freedom.   Or like Amber in Clueless, who Cher described as a "full-on Monet" and explained: "It's like a painting, see? From far away, it's OK, but up close, it's a big old mess."


In the abstract, I thought it would be a treat to have the afternoon and evening to myself.  On Mother's Day.  My own personal sunshine going with her dad, on my weekend and Mother's Day, to his family's Mother's Day BBQ.  At my sunshine's favourite cousins' house where she was going to get to stay the night.  My plans included taking a nap, folding the mountain of clean laundry on the chair in my bedroom, catching a movie, stopping at Kroger, baking a cake, and taking a long, hot bath.   


Well, I caught a movie.  Prom.  Because even though this is my 40th year, I am in reality 12.   I planned to see Something Borrowed because I liked the book but made the mistake of reading the review, which I should know better to follow when it comes to romantic comedies.  But even controlling for the film critic snob factor when it comes to romantic comedies, the reviewer said it sucked.  Big time.  But more snobbishly.   Okay and I have a secret affinity for the coming-of-age-teen-flicks, even contemporary ones, which are almost never as good as the ones that I came of age on.   (Except for Mean Girls and Easy A but I am a cautious optimist, meaning that I like to hedge my bets in case it's the next Sixteen Candles or Ferris Bueller's Day Off).   


Prom was good, not 80s caliber required viewing, but good (except for the Winnie the Pooh coming attractions preview that made me teary--come on Winnie the Pooh and Somewhere only we know).  Prom had a great soundtrack, reminiscent of the 80s' guru's films.   A bunch of groups that I never heard of but liked on initial hearing. Which is how I became a fan of the Smiths. It was the standard plot--good girl falls for the bad-boy rebel who really is just misunderstood and looking for the one woman who "gets" (*gets*) him.   (Oh boy, did that plot construct fuck with me in my late teens and early twenties, and again in my early thirties).

Oh, I believe that Prom also played subtle homage to the 80s guru and other defining films of my generation.  First, good girl and bad boy are sitting outside the Principal's office on a bench, and it was totally reminiscent of Jeannie and Charlie Sheen in Ferris Bueller.  Second, the quirky, adorable outsider trying to fit in and make his move at the end of high school, named Lloyd, had to be a thinly veiled reference to Lloyd Dobbler in Say Anything.  John Cusack with blue eyes, a cross between John Cusack and Cameron Frye (Ferris Bueller).  Third, two homages to Pretty in Pink, the scorned but heads-up former girlfriend of the golden boy (who was African American) dumps his ass (why are these teen girls and my younger colleagues so much more savvy than my wise ass) and goes to Prom anyway; her head held up high.  Just like Andie in Pretty in Pink.  And the good girl has to go because she headed the prom committee and is the class president and all, and of course, the bad boy, shows up.  Is there just when she has given up hope.  And she turns around and he's there.   Also like Jake for Samantha in Sixteen Candles (maybe I need to become a redhead).  Sorry, should have mentioned that crucial plot points would be revealed (Not really.  It was a formula movie and if you could not have told me the ending at the beginning well then you prolly voted for that former Governor of Alaska in 2008).    


And yes, I do have a tendency to read into things but I think that I must be right on about these signs of respect in Prom.


But I digress and regress; where, oh where, is my progress.  (Yes, am a bit drunk).   At the end of Prom when the bad boy shows up, I cried.  Fortunately, I was the only person in the theater at this juncture as the dad with four kids had left already.   And fortunately, only tears on my cheeks and not the wracking, embarrassing Walrus cry of Annabeth Gish in Mystic Pizza when she realizes that the older, married dude was a douche and that even though she was a very smart girl who get accepted to Yale, she had been duped (And oh boy, have I sang that song).   I saved the Walrus breakdown for my driveway (a bit of progress).   Spurred along by a Rascal Flats song that just happened to be on the radio, not that I listen to the contemporary country station usually but was flipping through the channels as I turned down "my" (*my*) street.  And listened to him sing about never letting her go, drying her eyes, fighting her fight.  No doubt showing up at her Prom or outside her sister's wedding or at a New Years' Eve party or at the airport to say that I cannot bear to be without you, no matter what the cost, that I will fight for you, that I will show up, that I will choose you.   


(Be right back.  I need another drink).  



Digressing, regressing again.  


Oh yes.   Things that seem like a good idea in the abstract (wow, totally sounds like a category on the $100,000 Pyramid which my parent used to watch, one of them would go into the other room so they could not see the answers being revealed.  My aunt Peggy also played sometimes).   Sarah Palin, the Tea Party Redux, Mother's Day without your 4-year old Sunshine, and being in a relationship with me.   All the way "home" (*home*)*, I thought about why not me.   And blah blah blah, I know that I have to love me first and perhaps I don't (except sometimes on the floor with soft core porn on the TV).   But why not show up for me, fight for me, choose me?   In the abstract, I seem like a good idea.  Like a Monet but up close I am just a big, old mess?   I don't expect flowers or poetry or jewelry or material things (except books and liquid crack).  But I do (or in the future since I am off men for a bit) demand passion and someone who will fight for me, show up for me, choose me.  I give all that in return and more (not that I am perfect.  So not perfect) but I do fight and defend and am always passionate.


I am stuck. Spinning my wheels. Obviously past the coming of age films of my youth but stuck but not yet at the Nancy Myers movie stage.  It's rather purgatory.   But as my younger colleague aptly expressed, you just have to go through it, feel it, and hope to hell that you come out stronger.   Now, I have to go bake a fucking cake.  Drunk.  I have baked tipsy a lot but never quite drunk.  But at least, I am feeling it. Wish me luck....


*Jesse explained what it means when a word is enclosed by * * and I have been trying to use it correctly but believe that I have just failed.  Or maybe it is just does not work when it was very much my *home* but is no my *home* and is very much my "home" except for the fact that my daughter lives here and she is always,  unquestionably, beyond a shadow of a doubt my *home*.


  

Day 23: Things that ought to be avoided when hormonal or why running with sharp objects is a bad idea

Last night's thoughtful, philosophical post that actually discussed Rene Descartes meditations on how to distinguish between dreaming and wakefulness was lost forever in cyberspace.   One wonders how many brilliant observations, how many poetical turns of phrase, how many perfectly articulated and expressed declarations of love have disappeared within its depths.  And if that's where all the missing socks also have gone to...

I tried to recreate last night's post on the yearning for authenticity in our bells-and-whistles-plastic, modern society.  But to no avail.   I am too crampy and easily irritated.  But, if you do not have lady parts, you better not suggest that my irrationality or even stronger desire for chocolate is in any way related to my menstrual cycle.  Not if you value your man parts.  

My first toxic relationship (and did he set the bar) actually tried to convince me that getting kicked in one's man parts was roughly equivalent to a woman's monthly visitor (and what's up with all the tongue and cheek names--a visit from Aunt Flo--or riding the crimson tide--eww gross).   It is such a stupid premise that I shall not even try to rebut it.  Again. 

But I digress.   On my best, brightest days, I tend toward the emotional side of the spectrum.   For instance, I will cry each and every time that I see certain movies, like Love Story or An Affair to Remember or Tears of Endearment or Same Time, Next Year.   It matters not how many dozens of times that I've seen these movies, I weep and always at the same point, like some Pavlovian creature.  When Jenny dies and Oliver and her dad try to maintain brave faces because Jenny made them promise to be strong for each other; when Oliver's dad shows up at the hospital and tells Oliver that he is sorry, and Oliver puts his hand up, devastated and broken, and repeats Jenny's mantra:  "Love means never having to say your sorry."   Or when Nicky sees the portrait that he painted of Terry "Deborah Kerr" McKay and realizes that she did not meet him at the "nearest place to heaven" on the appointed date because she was in a car accident and could not walk.  Or when Debra Winger dies, leaving 3 young children, and her son says something bad about her and Shirley McClain slaps him across the face and knocks him down.   Or when the stupid theme song-the last time I felt like this by Johnny Mathis--and when George tries to convince Doris to finally leave her husband after they met accidentally, fatefully at this inn along the breathtakingly, beautiful Northern California coast.   And this tendency apparently goes back to my kidhood.  My mom likes to tell the story of how I would cry at band aid commercials when other kids got "boo-boos."  (Pause--for awws or to throw up in your mouth a bit).  

On these days, the gray, bloaty, pimply days that try a woman-in-her-reproductive-years soul, especially when single, a couple notes of certain songs can trigger the waterworks or an emotional outburst that is ridiculously disproportionate.    This is my 40th year and except pregnancy, I have been menstruating like clock work since I was 13.  One would think that I might avoid my triggers on these days, especially the day before and the first day.  Make it a hard and fast practice to avoid movies and music that I know is waterwork inducing.   But no, no, no.  What do I do?  I listen to 2 hours of Barry Manilow songs, James Blunt's Your Beautiful, Joni Mitchell's the Last Time I saw Richard, Kate Bush's This Woman's Work, Green Day's 21 Guns.  Songs that make me feel melancholy, wistful, hopeless, used, stupid on ordinary days, on my best, most perfect days. 

And listening to these songs on a gray, rainy Friday that also marks the first day of my menstrual cycle and killer cramps on a weekend that serves to remind me that I am willfully and deliberately and intentionally breaking up my family, that forcefully highlights my deficiencies and insecurities as a mother and a woman, that brings my issues with my mother into sharp focus, it makes almost as much sense as that former governor from Alaska, rocket scientist, and constitutional law scholar being one of the GOP's front runners for 2012.   Or watching Fox "News" for news.

But not even staying in bed with a heating pad, endless quantities of chocolate, the funniest, happiest movies and music ever, and being married to a sensitive, caring man like Alan Alda or Phil Donohue who would bring me more chocolate and tell me that I am beautiful and wonderful and smart and that he loves me no matter what, that he accepts and loves me for who I am, on my best days and on these days, not in spite of my menstrual-induced craziness or general quirkiness but because of it--would "take away these blues."  Oh and Nothing Compares to U by Sinead O'Connor should be avoided like the plague.  

And that's all I have to say about that...at least, for now.   

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUcPTMx2JiA

Day 22: Too busy and too blah

Too busy and too blah to blog but needed a break, so here I am.  

Picture an office with large pile of files ready to topple over on its hapless inhabitant, with disheveled hair, glasses, and the remnants of red lipstick.   Working late.  Again.   Like a New Yorker cartoon (if I were a cool, urban Manhattan-ite instead of a pasty midwesterner).  Missing aerobics.  Again.  Which intensifies the blahs.    

As for the too blah, those April showers have not led to May flowers.  Metaphorically.  Literally, the April showers have, in fact, led to May flowers in various states of bloom and verdant grass that is the envy of suburbanites far and wide.     But for me, while not horrible, things remain largely gray and colourless, save a few spots of vibrant colour.  Some intense, pleasurable spots of  colour (you know who you are!!!).  And some intense spots of anger and frustration (you know who you are too though probably not because it is highly unlikely that you read my blog or even know how to read or unable to read because your heads are so far up your respective assholes). 

Sometimes, it's good to have defense attorneys to yell at on the phone.  Just saying.  I was this close (pinches fingers almost together) to yelling at a judge but I have visited our jails and believe me, AAA would give them negative diamonds and recommend sleeping in the street adjacent to the jail.   So, silently seething, I counted the ways to be held in contempt without caring about (1) keeping my job and law license and (2) damning the health consequences of short-term incarceration.  Pretty much I'd have to win the lottery or have one week to live.  Alas if I won the lottery or had one week to live, honestly, I'd be somewhere far, far, far away from here.  Besides, I could aim to be held in contempt in absentia, via live video feed or through the internet or even the pony express....

Day 21: The cruellest month

As T.S. Eliot observed in his epic poem The Waste Land: "April is the cruellest month."*  One cannot help wonder if someone broke up with him in a weenie way in April.   Eliot penned the Waste Land in 1922, which was well before the advent of email or computers, so it was not via email.  Wonder what the weenie ways of breaking up were in the early 20th century.

In more contemporary times, tax protesters have passed out copies of the Waste Land to last-minute tax filers standing in line at the post office.   Cleverly, poetically driving home the axiom that the only things certain in life are death and taxes.  And weenie asshole men or perhaps that is only an additional certainty in my own life.  

Today begins the month of May.  Which theoretically marks the end of April's cruelty, the transition from the death occasioned by Winter and the violent renewal of life occasioned by Spring.  (Or as more simply put: April showers bring May flowers).   It has been a long, busy weekend that I am ending at the office, trying to make May less cruel professionally too.  

It's a gray, rainy Sunday.  If I had my druthers, I'd be curled up under my soft, clean sheets, listening to the rainy, wind, alternately reading and napping, drowsy and lazy and relaxed.  Instead, I am listening to my team play baseball online (best $20 spent ever except for the plunger that has its own case), hoping that my boys of summer can step up their game, end a 5-game losing streak this season, and a 10-game losing season at the stadium in which they are playing today.  After losing Friday and Saturday's games in walk-off fashion.  My boys had taken the lead in the top of the 8th but the home team has pulled ahead.  Lots of pop ups and some excitement by intentional and retaliatory beaning of hitters by pitchers, including one in the bottom of the inning.  

May Day equals mayday for my baseball team.  

Arrgh....Sigh....

*APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Day 20: Poetry in unexpected places (from Friday)

What a difference a day makes!  This is why we cannot give up, even when everything seems hopeless because there is the promise of sunshine, poetry in unexpected places from unexpected sources, twists and turns on the road that in the darkness of our despair seemed forever lost.  

Of course, the above paragraph was written several hours ago soon after the caffeine kicked in.   I still mean every word of it, just not as forcefully.  Staying up late on a school night to check out a rocking new karaoke bar on the hip side of town has definitely caught up with this increasingly sleepy, slap-happy girl who should know better.  

Things began looking up yesterday afternoon with a phone call and an offer to potentially work on a case that fires on all cylinders for me.  I eschewed my union meeting in favour of the gym where the mind and body connected, clearing away the cobwebs and getting the blood pumping.   Then, some errands run, followed by a long, hot shower and getting ready to check out the new karaoke joint.   Meeting my gym friend who is so effervescent that if I did not love her so much, I'd hate her.  Her bubbliness is contagious.

Getting ready to go out is part of the fun of going out for me.  Deciding what sort of look I want to rock and then assembling the perfect outfit to rock that look.  Hair, make-up, top, bottom, undergarments, shoes, accessories.  It's like being my own grown-up barbie, without all the plastic and impossible proportions.   The bar was in the hipster section of town so I went for a vintage, hipster look.  Black tank, black tulip skirt, fitted jean jacket, patent-leather Mary Janes with rosettes on the straps.  Glasses, hair down and long and artfully wavy.  The glasses were sort of a departure for a bar night.  Love my glasses and they definitely have a  hipster vibe.  Style icon: Lisa Loeb in the early 90s.

The hipster bar was totally hipster-ish.  Narrow, hard wood, gay friendly and filled with a just-right mix of season adults and college kids.   High-tech karaoke where the intrepid singer selects her song from the a computer near the karaoke staging area, and then inputs her name.   A screen above the staging area lists the singers who are "on-deck."   The vibe was friendly but the caliber of singing was intimidating, even to a karaoke regular like myself.  

Don't give up, don't give in.

Style icon:  Lisa Loeb circa early 1990s

Songs of the night/day:  Stay by Lisa Loeb; Coming around again by Carly Simon; and Keep your head up by Andy Grammer

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vxR0oIkNwY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0A7jAVDPJU  (Bonus--Carly's gorgeous curly hair--big and very 80s)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmrOB_q3tjo