Sleepy Time

The wind forces the windows to shudder in their frames. My old apartment creaks and settles. Another swell makes the trees bristle and whine.

It is a cold and blistery first-winter-night in Chicago. I am in my little kitchen nook, sipping Sleepy Time tea in a mug that says "Noel" and has a fat happy snowman on it. I am waiting for my brussel sprouts to steam up nicely so I can dip them in mustard and relish in the flavor explosions that my mouth enjoys so much. The steamer is from a friend who just called and I "rejected" by pressing a button on my cell phone. Not now, later.

Then steamer is perfect and I love it. It is from China Town, I think she got it for under 10 dollars. It is made of bamboo or wicker or something of that caliber, and it steams things to a crisp-soft combination that is hard to get out of a simple pan. I am forever appreciative of her generosity.

I am in front of my computer, as usual, debating whether to watch a rerun on a network website or lose myself for a few hours in a mindless myspace labrynth. Jury is still out so instead I write these words and wait for my tea to cool down.

My wrists are sore from giving pleasure to classmates' backs last night. My soul is calm because of some deep unconscious body work we played with in class today. And I am thankful for the quiet now, after a long hurried day of brain intake. Moments like this are good for me. I need to remember to stop and take them all in and writing helps. I forget that sometimes.

I will drift off to sleep tonight trying to process everything I learned and will probably accomplish that while asleep and wake up remembering nothing. But hopefully it will have sunk deep into my subconscious and will stay there, poised and ready for me to pull out of my holster-brain when I most need it.

There is such beauty in that.

FLASHBACK

Every once in a while you get hit with a little something that takes you back a few steps in the progression of your life, and forces you to reflect on things a bit.

Myspace is really good at doing that for people, so I have been told. But really, besides the occasional random person that finds me, and me getting excited to stalk them for a bit via their page and see how much better or suckier their lives are (or appear to be) than mine, I haven't had too many "whoa" moments.

So this one threw me off quite a bit.

I used to date a guy in high school. He was 23 and I was 17. Ew, right? But strangely, at the time, I swear it seemed OK. Even my hardcore Catholic mother dealt with it plesantly. It was weird.

Anyway it was this great love I had to let go right at its height because I went away to college, and really, who keeps a long distance relationship (that lasts) when they start college? Eventually it was bound to unravel.

Well, I am not so good at the letting go of things I enjoy, so I guess it all sorta drug itself out a bit too long and a bit too dramatically and what not. Lots of crying, late night talking, hurt feelings, holding on, being mean, etc. On both our parts.

For some reason this person affected me very deeply. I thought we were soul mates or something and I worried that I would lose him forever, yadda yadda. It was hard on my 17-18 year old brain and heart. I think I got about as psycho as I have ever gotten for a guy. Truly. When I look back, I laugh at how ridiculous I was. Driving down the street I THINK he might live onso I can find his house and leave notes on his car? Get a life, sister!

Many valuable lessons were (I hope) learned from this experience. But it did take me about 5 years to get over this individual, due to this ability he has to contact me out of the blue and tell me he is thinking of me and blah blah blah. I was usually in a bad place mentally or something when he, like clockwork, would call and blather on about "thoughts of me" and such. This happened about once every couple of years from 17 to about 23 or so.

Finally, I think he got married and ran off to some other part of the country and had babies. I didn't hear from him for quite a while, and my "getting over it" gene finally kicked in.

So now comes myspace.

And I guess it was inevitable.

He messaged me today. So weird. Luckily, I am not in a bad place mentally this time. Quite the opposite. I was just discussing my very awesome future with the boy, and feel so lucky and in love even after 2 years and hopeful for the future and excited to grow even more with him by my side.

And you know what?

I was shocked, and emotions and memories hit me, and then I settled into the feeling, embraced it, and am writing about it now, which always helps.

And I don't have that old feeling I used to get when he contacted me way back when. I have a healthy curiosity and amusement about it. But no secret feelings of "what if?"

I am so happy where I am at in life and who I get to spend it with, that there is no draw towards this person who used to have such a hold on my heart.

I am glad he contacted me now, because it gave me a chance to realize how far I have come from where I used to be.

I am doing just fine.

I usually hate old people.

Years of serving did it to me. Also my own fears of growing old and feeble and such.

But I just saw something that made me realize I may finally be getting over that hate. I got off the bus and saw an old woman slowly making her way to the bus stop. Her small, weak legs were moving so slowly, and her whole body was pitching forward, trying, trying, trying so hard to push her momentum forward at a faster pace. And to no avail. So she raised one small arm and waved it frantically...slowly and frantically, if you can try to picture those two descriptives working together somehow, in a desperate attempt to catch the attention of the bus driver.

He was at a red light, and it was turning green, but there was no way she could speed up to beat the change in traffic flow. I saw the innocent desperation in her eyes, her little attempts to use the body now falling apart all around her still sharp brain and spinal chord, and I was floored with and emotional response to the sight of this situation. I almost stopped to help her, but then I saw that she had made contact--eye contact, to be exact. And the driver was already making the bus lower for her, despite the fact that she was still going the same pace, and still pretty far away from the bus. I was glad, and kept walking.

And I was walking stiffly, quickly, briskly, even. And fighting the tears that still wanted to fall for that woman, and her plight, and the inevitable aging of us all. But then, just out of curiosity, I stopped walking. I stood still for a moment, put myself in that woman's body, and began to walk forward again, forcing my legs to be "pretend" weak and heavy, just to feel what that might be like. And it was terrifying. And embarassing. And frustrating. I felt my body leaning forward, just as her's did, in an effort to hurry up. But it was useless. The legs will be the ultimate rulers for all our lives, unfortunately for the rest of our bodies. I did this for about 2 minutes before resuming my usual hurried gait. This time, walking was such a blessing...a freeing, beautiful experience.

I teared up once more, thinking about old people and how bitter they sometimes seem. But thinking about how long I have been alive, and how epic that many years seems already, the idea that I could very well live another chunk of time just as long as this one is pretty crazy. And I could suddenly see the next 28 years being more of the same shit, and things getting worse in the world, or people starting to treat me different due to my age, and I could see getting really sick of that, easy.

So these people are just tired. Tired of being here, tired of the same shit (which we can all avoid with exciting activities, but sometimes it creeps into our lives anyway), and tired of this body falling apart on them and making them more tired as a result.

Granted, there are some great, chipper old people not like them at all. But more often than not, the bitter ones are the ones we encounter every day because the other more jovial ones can afford to be in a resort somewhere in Florida or something.

We can all make attempts to avoid this bitterness we see in so many old people. But maybe we will have days where it just sucks to be old, and give into the bitterness. I just want those days to be few and far between if possible. I think staying passionate about the things you love, having happy, loving people around you as you age, and making efforts to find new ways to enjoy this world (that sometimes threatens to become rather boring or scary as you age) is the key to coping with this unavoidable time we will all go through at some point.

I stopped tearing up eventually, by the way. And instead I thought about how lucky I am to be alive and healthy right here, right now.

And that is enough for me right now.

I am averaging about 1 bug bite a night at this point. I don't know what is going on, but I have become a feasting place for insects as of late. I picture bugs setting lunchdates to meet up on my leg for a quick bite.

I now have 5 that I am aware of. There could be more, the 5 are just the ones that itch.

I am afraid of the rumors in Illinois that there are mites that climb through the screens on your windows (I don't even HAVE screens!) and burrow in your bed or skin or something and cause tiny itchy bites as a result. I hope that is not what is happening to me.

All I know is, every morning without fail, I find a new irritating itchy spot on my already tender flesh. and there are scars happening as well. Not pleasant.

I will keep you posted on whether any of these lunps sprout insect babies or something.

I am officially moved into my studio! I found myself giggling like a school girl as I unpacked, realizing that I can utilize ALL the space in the medicine cabinet, not just "my half." This is thrilling to me. As is the ability to wander around naked as much as I please.

This excitement I am feeling now was certainly not as apparent my first night sleeping at the apartment alone. I was excited to be there, in my space finally, and I was trying to study for my anatomy class.
Then I noticed the bugs.
Tiny winged insects (gnats maybe?) bouncing around on my walls. I was disgusted and got out the Black Flag, only to realize as I sprayed it, these little gnat things were dying and falling into my sheets, never to be seen again. (They are tiny, after all)

So then I had dead bugs in my sheets. Sick. So I am frantically searching my bed for dead gnats, and then MORE gnats are appearing, and I am squishing some of them and then my freshly painted walls have bug guts smeared on them. And the cycle continued and continued. I think I killed about 30 gnats (some in the bathroom too!) by the time I turned out the light and anxiously tried to sleep.

But sleeping while knowing there are bugs all around was tough, to say the least. Every time the fan blew a stray wisp of hair across my face, I slapped myself around in fear of it being another gnat. And everytime I turned to my side, I thought I would be eating one somehow. It was awful.

Since that night (and after a curt phone call to the ole landlord) there have only been one or two that I have seen. That is a tolerable amount, I would say. I guess he must have sprayed.

So I have been able to appreciate the space much more now that I don't have to share it with that many bugs.

A few I can handle, but anything more than that and it feels like I have house guests or something. Unwanted ones at that.

The shower is the other issue that is rough too. The morning after my first night alone, I took my first shower there, and the water just STOPPED running mid-shower. Then it dribbled a bit before coming back on full force and COLD! Eventually it got warm-ish again. But it was never consistent. And since then, it continues to be inconsistent. For now, it being summer and hellishly humid in Chicago, a cold shower is the least of my worries. However, the thought of Winter looms, and I can't imagine being unable to have a hot shower on a cold winter morning to wake me up!

That concern if for another day, though. In the meantime, I am getting used to being alone, getting more organized than I ever was when living with others, and lounging around in my birthday suit.

Just gotta train myself to remember to close the windows now.

LEAVING THE SHITHOLE


So I am not really all that sad about moving out of this apartment I have called home for the last 2 years or so (The afforementioned shithole). In fact, I have been counting down the days until I can be alone in my own space and have my things the way I like and be closer to more cool stores and food and the lake and oh, how I wish it was June 30th and I could just get this over with already!

Tonight, though, I am alone in the shithole, trying to organize the boxes and pack, and it's kind of a little wee teeny tiny itty bitty bit...sad. Just because everything is all over the place and dirty and empty-ish. I don't really want to be here right now. And I don't want to go anywhere either.

I guess I am restless for some reason. Anxious? Could be. I start the next chapter of my career life on Wednesday--my orientation for Massage Therapy training. A little nervous. A little excited. A little overwhelmed.

And my job is often taxing daily so add that to the frey, and the big stupid shitty exam I am studying for (for said taxing job) and my energy levels are all over the place.

These three issues (moving, massage, investment test) are all I can think of, all I can say. And I know my poor friends are probably missing the interesting conversation I used to be good for, and wishing I would finish bitching about investments and stocks, or school loans or how heavy the box I packed last night was. But how do I turn off my mind to all the things lurking around the corner? (both good and bad?) I can't, so I am often distant, distracted, tired, nervous.

I think I just need to get through the next...oh...month or so, and then maybe, just maybe, I will start to feel normal again.

I freakin hope so!

Anyway back to the shithole. I won't miss it. I will miss it being around the corner from the boy. I will miss being 3 blocks closer to the "L." I will miss the porch. That is about it. All the rest I can do without. So as long as everything goes off without too much trouble, I will be in a much better place.

Two more weeks.

And in the meantime, study every chance you get. (BORING! ARGH!)

And also, start learning a new craft. Massage. And study for that too. Every other chance you get.

And feel guilty because you just want a night to do nothing but sleep but you really should go to the gym.

And in the meantime, just breathe.

I rode my bike to work again today. Its my new thing. I love it.

I start the day with the wind in my face, sweat on my back, and I am proud and peaceful when my ride ends downtown in front of my looming, 47 story building. I like the feeling of walking in in a wife beater and jeans, helmet in hand, while all the saps in suits rush past me. I sneak into the bathroom and change into my slightly crumpled slacks and blouse and become one of them, but only for 7.5 hours until I am free again. And on Friday, no less!

When the clock turns 5pm, I call a friend, and we meet in a bar that is hidden between buildings. There is a small staircase that leads to the underground secret, and we split a pitcher of Miller Light while eating the free buffet of pizza and bad ribs. We laugh about pop culture and life, and then I am off again, the evening open and free. I ride along side the L train, trying to race it, always losing. I stop at a red light and a man walks up to tell me in his thick accent that I am "a good rider. You ride fast! You are good." I blush, say thank you, and "have a nice weekend!" as I dart back into traffic, the taxis wizzing past me in their big hurries.

I have all the time in the world. The air is fresh and cool and the sun is shining and I am riding my bike past bars full of happy people drinking and eating outside, past Second City and Piper's Alley and Oz Park where the statue of the Tin Man grins and tips his hat to me.

All the way down my tree lined street that sometimes feels like a movie and I am riding the wrong way but no one even cares and everyone is smiling and going to wherever they plan to meet their friends and I park my bike and climb my stairs and sit on my porch while the sun fades behind the other buildings and I drink another beer while reading the paper. How lucky I am to have this quality of life. I am blessed and life is perfect today.

And it all starts when I ride my bike to work. It all starts with a morning of feeling alive and free.

ACTIVIST BEATLES SONGS


Lucy in the Sky With Conflict-Free Diamonds

While My Earth Gently Weeps

Drive My Hybrid Car

Fixing a Hole (in the Ozone Layer)

The Fool on the (Capital) Hill

I'm Happy Just to Protest With You

When you called my parents' house telephone, the loon would answer. And by loon, I really mean loon. Like the bird. The bird from Canada, to be specific. You see, while vacationing in Canada a few years back, my parents took a tour and learned all about loons--when they mate, where they go in each season, that sort of thing.

As he often does about random things, my dad became obsessed with the strange duck-looking birds. He was especially entranced by their haunting call, and he began buying various loon-themed souvenirs--a wood carving of two loons cuddling with each other, a few picture books for the coffee table, even a small stuffed loon that, when squeezed in the belly, emitted an authentic, ethereal loon call. "Aaahhhhhhoooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!"

This particular souvenir was his favorite. He carried it around the house with him all the time as he shuffled from one room to another. After a while, somehow he got the idea that he would answer the phone with the loon call. He would pick up the phone, push the soft pluch creature into the receiver, and press the belly so that instead of the boring, everyday "hello," callers would be greeted by the loon's eerie cry.

Most people hung up the first few times they called, much to my father's delight.

Eventually, people who know my parents well would stay on the line long enough to hear my father's voice offering a faint "hello" after the loon cry subsided. Then they would typically ask for my mother, since she had more friends than he did.

This little ritual annoyed my mother quite a bit, as she missed some important calls as a result, or had to explain yet again my quirky father to her friends. But as with anything that even remotely pissed my mother off, Dad continued to answer the phone this way again and again.

When my father fell ill with incurable liver cancer, I flew to my hometown to see him. Being in my childhood home was surreal, and I often wandered the old rooms teary-eyed, looking at all the familiar yet alien decorations my parents still had up on the old faded walls.

One particularly late night, I spottd the loon on my parents' dresser. I fingered its soft belly, thinking of the thousands of times my father had played its ghostly song. My mother came in her room and saw me holding it, and said quietly, "I didn't have the heart to bring it to him in the hospital. He asked for it, but I just..." she trailed off.

"Why?" I asked.

"Press it. Go on."

I pushed in the soft fur, feeling for the trigger button deep inside the belly. Out of the loon came a low, gurgling sound--like a dying animal gasping for air, for life. It petered out mid-wail, exhausted. Its battery was dying.

"I just don't think he needs to hear that now, " my mother continued softly.

"No, no," I agreed, and a desperate, sympathetic giggle erupted from my lips. I couldn't help it. And my mother joined in and we shared our rueful joke, really not all that funny but somehow a release that we clung to, unable to let go.

APARTMENT!


So yours truly has put some serious cash money on an apartment I adore. I am finally going to live alone, after years and years of invading other peoples' places and renting rooms and never feeling comfortable enough to nest.
I will nest, dammit!
And spend time with MYSELF!
And buy my own dishes/silverware finally!
And decorate tastefully!
(Ok we all know the last one is a long shot, but still!)

It is a studio apartment. It has a separate kitchen. And a big closet. (My clothes might ACTUALLY fit in my closet! Glory be! That has not happened in a few years, folks. I have lived in some tiny spaces) It is in a rockin area. I am near many good sushi restaurants. I am near many good friends. I am near a beautiful lake. I am near many forms of transit. I have laundry downstairs. And a bike room. And a lot of light. And a little porch. And a tiny bathroom all my own. It is a reasonable price. Heat is included. (A key thing here in this godforsaken winter)

I can't really hate anything about it yet. And I am so excited I want to move right now. But I still gotta wait until it is officially mine. I just held it until they check my credit. Which is stellar, I believe!
YAY!!!
As you can tell, I am extremely giddy about this news. I did not plan on finding a place so early (I move in July) but what a weight off my shoulders! I am quite pleased with my luck. I swear, in Chicago everything is so easy and pleasant for me most of the time. I never want to leave!

I am very blessed and very aware of this fact.

I will be proud to call this place my home. Friends will visit and I will show off how cute my place is! I can't wait!

I guess that is all for now. Happy Cinco De Mayo to me!

I don't understand how anyone could not take the opportunity to reconcile with an estranged family member when the possibility of death becomes a reality for one of them. I feel like I have seen enough movies and read enough books to understand the importance of making at least some kind of effort for closure when terminal illness happens. We've all seen (or read) the scene when the person dies unexpectedly, and then the family member is left wailing, "Why? Why didn't I tell him/her when I had the chance?"

I recently spoke to my estranged uncle for the first time since I was five. He lives in Hollywood and supposedly teaches acting to some famous people.
He was calling me from a pay phone. He kept having to put more change in while we spoke.
Who uses pay phones anymore? In LA?

He didn't even remember which kid I was. He was convinced I only had once sister, even though I patiently explained that I had two. I explained to him that my father, his brother, had fallen very ill and gave him my parents' phone number so he could call and touch base for the first time in over 20 years.

He flatly declined to reach out. He said he has his own problems to deal with and that their estrangement goes far before I was born, and then the phone cut out.

That was all I really got out of the conversation I had with him. That and the fact that he is very sick too. He made sure emphasize that to me repeatedly. He is not diagnosed with a terminal illness, but still. He is too busy with taking the pills for his own heart issue to want to deal with my father and their 20 year silence.

I can't believe that a man who surrounds himself with theatre, and directs plays all the time, and teaches actors to be vulnerable and emotionally available, could react this way when told his brother has cancer. How can someone see all the multitudes of plays dealing with family secrets and cathartic reunions and apologies, and not want to be open to a real live moment of that in his own life? As an actress myself, I am appalled and embarassed to call him family. To know I could share the same genes as someone so...for lack of a more potent word, FUCKED UP, scares me.

And I pity him, most of all. I pity a man whose only family in the world is my father, and us, my father's children, and he declines a chance to reconnect with us and attempt to make up for lost time.

Frankly, I now want nothing to do with him. I thought it might be amazing to share a passion for acting with someone in the family, since no one else seems to be inspired by the arts, and to pick his brain about technique or his knowledge of the beast of Hollywood. Now that I have seen so much ugliness in a few minutes of a phone call, I don't even care what he might have to say about acting.

There are some truly sad individuals out there, and he is one of them.

May I never be like that. May I always strive to be better.

EXCUSE ME WHILE I TRY TO GET BACK INTO THIS...


I am having a hard time writing lately. I think there have been lots of things going on that have busied my brain and I have not had time to get bored in the head and feel that urge to purge, so to speak. It has been a draining and emotionally taxing time for me in this month of April.

Oh, by the way, I decided I hate the month of April. Too much of a tease for me. One day it is beautiful, the next, it is snowing. F-you, April! Just give me a straight answer, will ya?

Anyway, my month went from very stressed out study mode (in order to pass an exam required for work), to taking the hardest test I have taken in a LONG time, and moved on to getting the wonderful Easter gift of a diagnosis of a terminal disease for my father. From there, it was the stress of finding out more and more about his prognosis, it was the rush to book the cheapest, quickest flight I could to my hometown that I have not seen in over 4 years, and it was the realization of my own mortality somehow through the process.

Then it was the actual plane trip to my hometown, wondering what would be in store. The arriving and seeing familiar faces from my long ago past. The sleeping in the childhood bedroom with my sisters, whispering into the night about death and love and family. The weirdness of the town...or was it the weirdness of me? The hospital room 10 hours a day, the strangers coming to visit, the final words of my father as I left the hospital room for the last time..."I love you," words he has never uttered in my presence for as long as I have lived.

Then it was the stress of freaking out about a private health scare of my own, the relief of realizing my health scare was going to be fine, and the guilty feelings resulting from my preoccupation with my own problems while my father lay in a hospital bed. Following this was a calming of my mind at last, as my father gets a little more spirit each day, as I get more comfortable with the idea of his inevitable passing.

And I am left gazing at my own life, trying to improve my own health...stopping habits I love so much that slowly kill my already suseptable insides, and trying not to beat myself up about it when I give in to the temptation to be bad to my body.
And there is the secret fear of my own self, the worry that somewhere inside I am already beginning to die. That giving up these habits is meaningless because I am already ruined and dying inside. And my life is so insignificant, and ALL life is so insignificant, so much so that I feel so small...smaller than a grain of sand in this very strange world we all have the privellage of being a part of.

And now my mind rests for a moment. And this moment is peaceful. And in it, everything makes sense and I am calm.

Ok maybe I do have some things to purge.

Shark Attack!!!!!

Friday nights seem to come and go more quietly these days. I feel old because I tend to want to just hunker down after a long week of work, and not commit myself to anything before 9pm so I can get a little R&R in before the weekend flies by in a blur of drunk eyes...

With this in mind, last Friday I agreed to see a friend's improv show at an alternative venue--an art gallery-because it started at 9pm and it sounded low key. I was in for a shock-no, make that a shock-ula.

A man who calls himself "Shark-ula" or "Shock-ula" (the jury is still out on the correct pronunciation) was invited to perform in the comedy lineup for the show by some impish, funloving improvisors. These kids knew him as a street person who frequented local stores and cafes, attempting to sell his "rap" CDs. I put quotes around the word rap for a reason. This man came in drunk and hopped up on drugs and could not shut the hell up through every performance before his own. Once he actually took the stage, he could barely speak/rap because he was so hammered. He proceeded to trip over his tiny amp and wrap lots of caution tape around his sweaty forehead, all the while making lame rhymes, my favorite of which was "I got more bricks than a BRICK LAYER!" Indeed.

Just when we all were as uncomfortable as we thought we could get, what with being an ALL white audience in a gleaming white walled, brightly lit posh art gallery in Boystown listening to a drunken African American homeless man spit vulgar lyrics about womens' body parts and bricklayers, the worst began to unfold before our very wide eyes.

My friend's improv show began with the lovely premise of two people making coffee drinks for audience members, and the hilarity that ensues. Mr. Shark-ula again could not keep his dribbling, drunken mouth shut, so he was asked to leave. He refused and the show went on, after he yelled a couple of phrases along the lines of "It's because I am black."
Things calmed down, but then someone in the show mentioned The Million Man March...not the best thing for a mentally ill drunk homeless African American thinking he is being judged to hear. Shark-ula decided to scream out again, this time throwing his beer bottle at the floor before him. The bottle shattered all over everyone, and he jumped up swinging at anything around.

After thrashing for a few minutes, tripping over couches and tables and throwing things around, sort of Tazmanian Devil style, about 5 men were able to throw their bodies on top of him to hold him down and docile for a while while we called the police. Surprisingly, nothing was broken, not even the massive hanging art piece that Shark-ula decided to slam into in his raging fit. I think only the couch was broken in the whole ordeal. Pretty impressive, I must say.

So our night ended with a ill man thrown in jail for what he thinks is "being black" and meanwhile my friend's show never really began because of this man's disrespect. Oh, and some furniture was thrown and punches taken by innocent bystanders.

And I paid 7 dollars for all this action.

I feel less bad about enjoying quiet Fridays now.

SUN!!!!!!!

I am sunburned right now. Seriously. My arms have the first farmer tan of the year and its itchy but awesome. I can't believe how nice it was today. The boy and I made the most of it, venturing out on bikes down the lakeshore and into the heart of the city. That ride is so magical, and so mood enhancing. We are very lucky to have it so close by. The wind in your face, the lake to your left, the city skyscrapers to your right, and so many different types of people walking along side you, it truly makes you feel alive and connected to everything around you.

Our expedition was a result of my nephew sending me a filmsy little paper doll called "Flat Stanley." Apparently the new thing going down in the first grade is a project where the child sends Flat Stanley to someone he or she knows in another state or country (what the kids who don't have relatives outside of their state do, I shutter to think) and asks the loved one to take pictures of little Stanley around the area, thus giving a snapshot into the life or history of said area. It is quite precious, really. My nephew decorated Stanley to his pleasing, and since he is a child born and raised in Orange County, CA, that meant plastering Stanley with every name brand for skateboards and surf gear possible. I think I am the only aunt involved in this project whose Stanley boasts "Volcom" across his chest and wears a beanie while riding a snowboard. And boy am I proud!
Seriously though, Stanley got us out today, being tourists and getting a major dose of today's beauty. So despite the fact that he and I may not share the same taste in clothing, I think he is swell, and I would like to publicly thank him for a lovely outing. Shout out to my man Stan.

I remembered again why I love this city, like a long lost friend that went away to camp for the winter, and has returned again to pick up right where we left off. I feel giddy with love for her again, and look forward to watching many more sunsets with her skyline as a backdrop.

I also look forward to this farmer tan evening out. But that can wait for now.

I don't nest very well.

I am realizing this more and more lately. I come into a living situation, I make a little nook for myself in someone else's cozy (or not cozy, as it were) home, and then I never make it my own, I just settle awkwardly for a time and then move shortly thereafter. Most of my things stay in boxes, I don't paint, I don't even stay at the house too much, usually. I end up staying at a significant other's house most nights (when I have one) because I inevitably end up feeling more comfortable at their place.

Since I moved out on my own in 1997 at age 17, I have moved roughly 12 times. I average about a year and some change at each place. Just enough time to get sick of not feeling comfortable, not enough time to really settle in entirely and as Paula Abdul on American Idol would say, "Really make it my own."

I often end up moving into someone's already established apartment, just to avoid all the hassle of a new one. But lately I have been aching to see a place of residence from start to finish. I want that empty feeling of a new environment in which I can plant my own seeds of comfort. I want to decorate (something I never ever do!). I want to make things match, put up shelves and buy a shitty cheap couch or something. I want to see what it is like to actually have my own space, to feel comfortable in that space.

I think I always felt safer avoiding getting too cozy in each apartment. I always knew it would be very temporary and what is the point of getting so elaborate with the space when I am just going to be leaving soon anyway? Maybe this is an accidental result of my very first apartment burning down. Perhaps now feel that life is too fleeting and your space can't always be your solace because it could go up in flames or be destroyed in a matter of seconds. It is sad, but I think there is something to that idea. All I have stock in is me, the clothes on my back and a couple of nice things, like a stereo and a TV and a bed and some books. And that has been enough.

Until now.

Now I feel a definite longing to be truly comfortable in my own space. And I don't mean just on a porch (which oftentimes becomes my "private space" in whatever apartment I share with someone else.) I want a bed that is big and soft and classy looking, a bathroom with colors I LIKE, that I picked out. A toilet only I clean. A kitchen with appliances and dishes that belong to ME. A place I can write and not be bothered...a desk even!

It will be difficult to spend the extra money, to live far away from my boyfriend, to get used to a very quiet space in my head, with no roommates to distract me.

But maybe it will ultimately be a good thing. Maybe it'll force me to finally clean up after myself and to REALLY invest in a home to call my own.

I hope it won't make me messier than I already am...yikes!

I am watching a really stupid movie right now. The Truth About Cats and Dogs, which tries to pair Jeanne Garafalo and Uma Thurman as BFFs. And thows in a hot Englishman. Stir and serve, and you've got yourself a tasty crumby movie!
As things spiral out of control for our poor romantic leads, I am struck by how idiotic everything is. The latest thing is that this guy makes a list of pretty intimate, romantic things he loves about the pretty girl, (but really means about the "ugly" girl), and tries to read them to the "ugly" character, to get her opinion. Who does that? I would never write beautiful heartfelt words about my boyfriend and then read them to some guy friend of his to see what the other guy thought of it! Those words are meant for my boyfriend alone!
And now the ugly girl and hot guy just had a deep convo about how beauty doesn't matter when you get to know a person...awww...right after he pontificated for the whole damn movie about how beautiful Uma is. I enjoy this movie for it's ridiculous contradictions and sappy "all works out" sort of feeling.

Ok wait...now the two BFFs just called each other "dumb bitch" and laughed gaily. I no longer have anything redeeming to say about all this.
Lets just call it a night, shall we?

Dear Grandma,

Did some part of your brain know what was really going on before you died? Like was there this tiny part that stayed rational and knew who everyone was, but it's just that the rest of your brain rotted and grew bloated until it covered up the tiny rational part?

I tried to picture this tiny part--this glimmer of recognition inside you--whenever I'd come to the home to visit. I'd look deep into your ice blue vacant gaze, and strain to see you in there--small, frustrated, banging on the glass that separated you from yourself.

The alzheimer's ward was scary and I worried about the real you inside being upset about
getting stuck in there. A former priest wandered to the locked hall door every day and shock it violently, shouting, "Let me out!" desperately to anyone who walked by. They had to hold him back whenever mom and I visited you, so we could get through the door without him running out. Even though you would just sit there and not seem to notice the priest and all the chaos surrounding him, I pictured the real you, the tiny one, somewhere deep in your brain, trying to convey your annoyance despite the thick layers of this bloated, rotting you that overshadowed everything.

They washed your body for you, dressed you and wiped your ass when you went to the bathroom. That must have been really demeaning to the real you, as you watched with horror, unable to do anything to stop it, to tell them you could do it yourself.

This you that overshadowed--it didn't seem to mind anything at all. It was a very pleasant you. It smiled and was quite polite and said "thank you." That's how it got in there so thick. No one noticed it taking over because it mimicked all the kind parts of you so well.
By the time we knew it was there, you had shrunk to the tiny little part I hope still exists. And all the rest of you was commanded by "it," this thing that took over and mimicked you. But looking at this thing, talking to it, we all knew it wasn't you anymore. You didn't even know my name. You called me "dear" to cover your tracks.
I just want to know that somewhere inside, you were still looking at me, knowing me, watching me grow up into the woman I am now. I want to know that though you were trapped under all that rotten, bloated nothing that overtook you, you still had a window to look out of, where you could see the ridiculousness going on, even if you couldn't respond to in in ways we could see.
I like the idea of that better--of you being inside, wishing you could tell me you loved me, call me by my name, fight out against being spoon fed and bathed by nurses. But instead, being only able to watch from that window.

As awful a fate as that sounds, I think you being in there sounds better than the alternative...
you being gone.

Love,
L

I went to a workshop by accident today, and got a free book about fixing my life as a result! What fun!
I set out to attend open house at the massage school that is currently at the top of my list of possible schools. It is small, affordable, intimate, mature, and a warm environment at that! What more could I want?

Well, I wanted one last look at the place before I applied. I am anal about these things. At this stage in my life (yes I feel old, shut up) I want to be sure of what I am doing when it requires this much money and commmitment. So I went this morning and they happened to be hosting a guest speaker, a world-renouned chiropractor/holistic health guy who wrote a book and was quite a force, I must say. He exuded such love and gratitude. Which were the exact topics he was there to discuss, go figure.

So I stayed an extra hour past the open house to catch a few words from this guru of sorts. I had to leave half way through, but I saw a little of where he was headed in his speech, at least, and besides, I got the book for free so I can read more about it if I so choose. I am happy with the way that all worked out. A perfectly worthwhile morning. Especially after the night I had last night. Let's just say I had a tough time pulling myself out of fear and loathing land. Not the Hunter S. Thompson kind, but the kind where I hate myself and fear my life and think I am sick and dying and all that fun psycho emotional crap that sometimes overcomes me.

But what the guy was saying was that your body shows you symtoms and illnesses when you are not balanced, or when you are not embracing your emotions and giving love and gratitude to everyone around you. It gets more complicated, with talk of a Chinese Doctor who wanted to find out if water has consciousness, and the different patterns the water makes when frozen while playing various music. Also how the water reacts to certain words, like "peace" or "you fool." (Guess which pattern in the water is more appealing and intricate? ) And his point seemed to be that since human bodies are made up of 80% water, we are affected by loving sounds (like "thank you") verses negative talk (a la "I want to kill you,") much like the water was. Our bodies break down, get sicker, more achy, whereas spreading love and gratitude will strengthen us all, internally and externally.

Seems logical enough, in a way. Wild, but not without a basis in reality. I wanted to go with him there entirely, but the skeptic in me only allowed me to play with the ideas, batting them around with amusement like cat playing with a ball of string. I could only marvel at the concept, but not entirely buy it for a dollar. Too bad I had to leave early. Maybe he would have convinced me otherwise.

But once he started telling us we needed to befriend cancer, I sort of felt the need to jump off the bandwagon either way. Even if I hadn't had previous plans to leave, I probably would have had to leave once he mentioned that idea. It was a little too much to handle in the course of one 2 hour lecture.

So I walked away with a new knowledge I never had before. I may not believe in all of its nuances, but it is new and fun to think about. And really, in the state I was in before the day's adventure, any little new insight helps ease my mind and raise my spirit.

Oh, did I mention he had a doll that sang, but only when we were all connected by holding hands in a big circle? As crazy as that sounds, if you knew the details of the senario, it wouldn't be as screwed up as it appears out of context. Hmmm... yeah...maybe it is good that my mind is half open, half skeptic.

I have an itch. An itch to go away again.

I get these twinges, almost like a nervous tic in my heart. But it is a feeling, very sharp, very intense. A feeling that I need to get out of here and travel. I hear about everyone around me and how they are going places, and I get this searing white flash of jealousy and longing whenever I hear about their awesome travels to places I have only dreamed of.

And now I have started the job I got in order to make me stable and make my life predictable. And now I can't go away for a while. Why is it when I had the most flexible and lucrative job, I had little desire to travel, and that would have been the best time to do so? Why am I so antsy now that I have a routine to uphold? Maybe BECAUSE I have a routine I am feeling this way.

But I know other people who have a routine job and still manage to be adventurous here and there. Maybe I can too! But for some reason it seems a bit out of my reach at the moment...

You know what I think is a sadder realization than wanting to travel so badly? Realizing that I have no one to go with. Sure, I have my occasional friends and my boyfriend. But none of them would be able to plan a trip with me due to their busy lives and jobs. I think my boyfriend used up most of his vacation time to tour with his comedy group, so we can squeeze a quick weekend jaunt in before the end of the year and that is about it. When I think of traveling, I think of going with him, but that is out of the question. AS for friends...jeez I can only think of one single person who MIGHT go on a trip with me. And she has no money and no job so that is not possible either. My other friends all live lives across the country (or out of the country) and can't afford it either. Neither can I, really, but if someone was excited to travel with me somewhere, I would find a way. I know it.
And here in Chicago...here I pretty much have deep aquaintances. I am not knocking my wonderful aquaintances. Without them, I would be lonlier than lonely. But sometimes having so many aquaintances can make me feel pretty darn lonely regardless.
Somehow, being in a room full of people that you don't know all that well but who all seem to know each other real well, can be one of the the lonliest moments. And knowing that these people are all kind and interesting, but you have nothing that much in common or just don't connect quite right with them, at least not enough to feel really close...it can leave you feeling a bit disjointed. And you think to yourself, "these people have meaningful relationships with others here, what can't I? And jeez, do any of these people even know anything meaningful about me besides what I do for a job?"
Then you try to say something to connect, you reach out. And no one hears because the music is too loud or they were too busy thinking of the next story about themselves that they wanted to tell. And so each time you hang out with these people, any of these people, you get quieter and quieter until you are suddenly attacked with adult onset shyness and what the hell is that?! You are social. You are magnetic. When you want to be. Why haven't you wanted to be?
What the hell has taken over you lately?
Is this why you have so few good friends? Or is this the result that occcurs from having so few real ones? Analyzing and attacking yourself in stupid ways in your head about your ability to make friends?

Is this what they mean when they say the word "pathetic?" I certainly feel that way right now.

Now, I was going to not publish this post because it turned into a random stream of consciousness and ended with me attacking myself (which happens from time to time when I write my true feelings). But part of me wanted to leave it up in case there is someone out there who understands this thought pattern I have (as negative as it can be) and maybe someone who is feeling a little of this and is too afraid to voice it or admit it because lets face it, it sounds really stupid, some of this crap.
So now I think I will leave it up so that secretly, someone may be relieved I wrote about this, and maybe they don't feel so embarrassed about relating to me on this topic. Or maybe no one understands what I just wrote and I am the only freak whose brain goes from "I want to travel" to "Oh my god my life sucks." If that is the case, then here I am, the fool on the hill. Well, maybe people who know me will understand how I get so dark so quick sometimes. You just witnessed my thought process. There you go.

At the risk of seeming a little nutty, this posting will stay up for as long as I can stand reading it. May only be a day or so. We shall see.
That is all. I am done with my head.

Jim Carrey said something that got me thinking...

I know. Jim Carrey. Who would have thought?

But needless to say, what he said in an interview for his new and awesomely terrible-looking movie was something to the effect of:

I would never want to go back to my twenties. It was like the decade of fear for me. It seemed I did everything out of fear.

Wow. Even Jim Carrey went through this? Cool. I mean, not cool that it has to happen at all, but nice to know that half the brilliant, almost scary funny stuff he was desperately pulling out of his ass all through the "In Living Color" years was probably motivated by fear. Even the most seemingly talented, put together successful people are running blindly for their lives to escape that horrible "what if" feeling the twenties presents you with.

I guess it stuck with me because it gave me some hope that if I just push through this, maybe I won't be as scared someday. Maybe I will just come into my own and reach bliss and confidence later in life.

Who said that your prime has to be your twenties? I guess the media makes us think so, maybe the way we revere young people who are successful so early. The push to be amazing at 21 is a strong one these days. ( you are also cuter than you will ever be at that age, so that doesn't help much.)

Maybe some of us are on the path that our twenties are made of fear, and we will blossom later.
Maybe we just needed a little time.

When I make big decisions, I often take my time with them. I took a year to move to Chicago. I talked about selling my car for months before I did it. Maybe this simple observation about my behavior on a daily basis is reflective of my big picture as well. I will get there, just a bit on the slower side, but I will get there regardless.

Thanks, Jim Carrey. You made me feel a little less crazy. I never thought you of all people would help me through my twenties. But look at that. You have. I think. I don't know, I will let you know in a few months once I am sure.

I pace the living room anxiously. I am antsy and nothing sounds right to do. I should have worked out. Didn't happen. I should play guitar. Ugh. I could watch TV. Groan.

I am waiting for my laundry to be done.
It is late and I want to go to bed.
I hate this.
This obligation errand, done in the comfort of your own home, yet somehow even more annoying that way.

I don't want to get involved in anything too deep, because soon the ding will happen and I can finally sleep. But I don't like doing nothing and feeling useless, either.

I can only think about how I spent too much money today. How I should have gotten more sleep yesterday. How I don't want to go to work. How I just want to hug my boyfriend all night.

All these things run around my mind like so many pinballs, bouncing around aimlessly, getting exited for a second, then lolling slowly back to the propellors, to be pinged again in another direction.

I hate this.
We spend a great deal of our lives waiting--in line, for the mail to come, for friends to meet us at the bar, for the elliptical machine to be free at the gym...
for our laundry to be done.
How sad, if you really think about it. We are always waiting.
It can be as small as waiting for the internet to connect (damn you, dial up!) or as huge as waiting for one's "big break" in whatever career choice one has chosen.
We wait, and in the meantime?
In the meantime what?
We pace. We ping thoughts around. We blog on about nothing in particular. We check our cell phones for phantom ringing.

I just want to sleep.
I guess I will go check on the clothes now.

I am going to see what font Lucida Grande has to offer.

This font sounds like a lovely old Mexican Grandmother who will cuddle with you and make you Mexican Hot Chocolate when it is 2 degrees outside...

Where are you, Lucida? I need you!

Here is a list of things I hear all the time at my job but really don't know what the hell they truly are:

AAPB
TIB
Mutual Fund
Dividend
Allocation
Death Benefit
LTC
Netexpro
ISA
POS


Ok well there is more but I can't remember them. That is how far out of my vocab they are.

This is fun. I am learning. It is like school all over again.
Right?

My Job...


After a long night of half sleeping and waking up in various states of paranoia thinking I overslept for my first day at my new job, I ventured into said first day relatively awake and ready for anything.

Actually, the day was pretty mellow. I feel like 7.5 hours went by somehow, and I don't really recall doing anything too fancy. I set up the computer. I recorded some professional sounding voicemail messages. I learned some passwords. I read some info online. I took some tutorials on procedures I promptly forgot afterward. I talked about life with some cool people. I learned that not only do I have two random aquaintances in the office, but I also met my upstairs neighbor for the first time while we were in the elevator at the office talking about commutes. That's right, she sleeps above me and I never met her until I started working at the company she works for. So odd.

So for all I know, I did nothing. But somehow some of this nothing will hopefully be retained in my little grey cells so I can apply it later when it becomes "something".

I had a lovely time after work, in the time labeled "Happy Hour," which was indeed happy. Dollar beers and Kobe Beef sliders equal happiness in my book. I put back a few with a coworker friend of mine and her fun boyfriend and his sidekicks. The boys and I even walked home in the lightly falling snow, since we live near each other, and I felt like I had three bodyguards compliments of my dear coworker friend. It was lovely. I was supported and protected all through my first day in a strange new place, in a strange new time in my life. What a blessing.

Now I am recovering from my lack of sleep, and the novelty of waking up early has already worn off, and so I am dreading tomorrow.

But not too much. It will still be exciting and fun to work with such nice people, and some even my age! (Thank God)

I am feeling like I made a good move this time. It is still early, but I usually know after a short time if I am going to enjoy an experience or not. It is sort of like an audition, or a first date. They say you know within the first minute whether it is good.

I will venture into the realm of "Eat those words," and say I know this will be good for me, no matter what comes from it.

If I eat words later, I think I will still come out on top from this one...

To My Guitar,


Just because you are cheap doesn't mean I should neglect you. I am sorry I haven't played you all week. We had a good thing going with the whole 3 times a week thing. Then this week I let it slide. I know it's no excuse, but I was really distracted this week, what with getting that job, selling my car, seeing my boyfriend and touching base with old friends...

I know, I know, now it will be awkward when we see each other in class for the first time tonight. I won't know how to be with you, I might poke you funny or mistreat you. We won't be in sync like we usually are. It may take a little time before we are both ready to connect. And for that I am sorry. I had complete control over the whole situation, you were stuck in a hard place the whole time--the corner of the living room, to be exact.

I hope we can get back together during class. I want to be with you, I do. I hope you will still take me (to Rockville when we rock tonight!).

Ok I'll see you in a little while...

Sincerely,
your proud owner,
L (ROCK) R

I find as I get older, I have a harder time knowing what to say to friends when they are opening up to me about their relationship or emotional break down woes. I used to feel like I wasn't sure what to say, but then I would say something, and that somehow turned magically into something insightful. Nowadays, I still don't know what to say, but whatever I try to say doesn't magically transform into greatness, but instead falls with a thud on ears who probably don't want to hear it.

I think (and I hope I am right on this one, for the sake of all my friendships) that mostly as we get older, we just need someone who will listen and be kind while we hurt. It isn't always words we want. It's time. Give me a little of your time so I can talk out loud these feelings going on inside, and I will cherish you as a good person in my life. Give me your ear over the phone so I can feel connected to something while I go through all this, and I will feel just a little better than I did before I got a hold of you.

I can't always give the time, and that is hard. And so I think I get upset at myself for not knowing what to say within the short amount of time I have to be there for the person. Like I should be able to come up with some words of wisdom to make up for my lack of time to sit and help someone reflect and process a situation. I am much better when I can give the time. But when the pressure is on to be somewhere or do something and a friend is in need, I suck. Or at least feel like I do. So then comes me attempting to say something helpful. And then comes me blurting something meant to help that really sounds sorta lame. And then comes me feeling badly that I couldn't say more.

And then I feel like a bad friend.

I know that's not true. I am not a bad friend.

I am just a friend with limited time these days.

I will try to work on that.

This morning I had some extra time to lay down on the couch before work. It was one of those mornings when I was actually able to get up and get entirely ready, then opt to lay back down and close my eyes for a moment. I think I may have experienced a small reverie without really trying, which was weird.

I thought of my parents, how predictable their lives were, how they have been paying some of the same bills for over 20 years, how practical and careful they were with money. Then I thought of our family trips that were routine--Kayucos to be precise, and how we went every Fourth of July for at least 4 years...

I thought of being a child, then a preteen, and bringing my best friend each year. How we looked for hermit crabs and starfish in the endless stretch of tide pools near our condo. How we tried to get tan and burned our skin angry lobster red. I remember how content my mother was to pack our lunches and park herself on the beach all day while we avoided her like the plague and looked for cute boys our age.
I even remember late at night, hearing the waves crash as I tried to fall asleep in a scratchy old plaid sleeping bag near the sliding glass door of the rented living room.

It was in Kayucos that I realized what "queef" meant. It was in Kayucos that I created the scar that would stay in the area between my eyes to this day. It was in Kayucos that I tested the limits of my curfews and tiptoed around my parents to get away with what seemed like murder. It was where I found peace listening to the waves and staring at a family of hermit crabs for hours. It was where I found amazing treasures at a flea market. It was where I first played UNO with the big kids and felt accepted...sort of.

My vivid memories came to me easily and brought me a sense of myself. After the (second) alarm went off, I felt refreshed and went on with my day, never thinking twice about all I had re-lived that morning.

But now, as I wind down another day further into my unknown future, I can see that these moments of remembering happen less and less vividly, and I should cherish the times I am able to be transported back to my memories. I can't remember what happened two days ago. It is amazing I can recall all those details about Kayucos.

I only hope that this time in my life, this difficult time that is yet filled with awesome moments of growth and beauty, will be remembered just as vividly years down the line.

Getting a job is a blissful fright, isn't it?
When you don't have one, you are stuck at home, searching, and praying, and there isn't a whole lot you can do but just put yourself out there and keep hoping. Then when you go to job interviews, you are so desperate you say whatever it takes to get hired, because you are starving and scared and feel like you could do ANYTHING at this point- (yeah, I will be the best fish tank cleaner this side of the Mississippi). Then you end up finally getting one of said jobs, and it is all over. And maybe you got a position that is not what you really wanted but you decided you did in the whole process of hunting. And maybe it is the position that offers the most stability and in your jobless state, that was what was most appealing to you at the time.

But then the fear creeps in...

Am I qualified for this? Am I going to be able to handle this and still have a life outside work? Am I ready for this commitment? How am I going to fit in my hopes and dreams at night and not tell anyone at work? Or do I tell them? Will I ever get to have a day off? Can I prove to my new boss he made the right decision? Can I really pass the test they are making me take? Yikes.

Lots of those types of thoughts circle around the ole nogin. And all I can do is laugh at my worries and try to acknowledge them, then let them go. I will be fine. I can do this. I have a new job! I should be stoked. And I am. I am. I am going to be an assistant to an Insurance Representative. Every little girl's dream, right?

I will blow them away. And still find time to write. And take massage classes. And spend time with Adam. And see my friends. And play guitar.

I start next Monday and I am terrified yet hopeful. I am plunging into the corporate world head first. (Don't let me forget to plug my nose!)

Beside me is a window. Through this window, I am able to watch the swirls of snow-rain as they spin and tumble to the streets. This is snow so fine it looks almost like tiny misty raindrops. The only difference, really, is that this stuff is leaving its mark on the world as it falls--piling up in large expanses of pure white, covering cars, window sills, trees...a silent visitor to all.
As long as you get to watch it from the warmth of your home, and are not out in it, it is quite beautiful. Ok well sometimes when you are in it and bundled up properly, it can be beautiful then as well.

What fascinates me is the consistency with which it falls. Steady like rain.

There is a dog--a great big black poodle who has come to play in it. She barks at each snowflake like it is her enemy. She stops to marvel at the beauty, too. Then she lumbers up onto her master's chest, tossing up her big paws like two big slabs of meat ready for grilling. Her master releases her from her leash and the park is the dog's to conquer. She darts around with glee and creates the first foot prints in this new fallen snow spread. Her happiness is contagious and I find myself smiling.

Today is a day for doing things. This snow makes me question all I planned, as snow often does. How can I get out of that? Or this? Do I really NEED to go to the store today? But there is something very satisfying about having this initial desire to stay home and do nothing, but pushing through the idea and going out and tackling the day anyway. That is one thing about Chicagoans. They don't let anything stop them from the day, even with the ridiculous weather they got tossed their way. It's inspiring, really.

OK, here I go!

I am officially a good human being.
Not that there was doubt before, but I truly believe now it is obvious I am a good human being on this beautiful green earth.
I HAVE SOLD MY CAR.
You heard me.
I HAVE SOLD MY CAR.
I can't quite wrap my head around those words.
I HAVE SOLD MY CAR.
And it feels really good.

Last night, a man came and signed some things and I signed some things and he handed me money orders worth lots of money, and I watched him drive off into the night with my beloved. (car I mean)
It was very bittersweet but more sweet than bitter.
I am not contributing to Global Warming by way of automobile any longer!
I may still do a few things that cause our world to heat up a bit, but the big one-driving a car, is finito for me!
I feel a sense of relief. Some for myself, some for the earth.
Honestly, I drove the thing like once a week. And all it did was collect dust and freeze on the streets in the winter. Then it would whine (rightly so) when I finally tried to drive it a little.
So the thing is much better off in a happy suburb somewhere in Illinois, being driven by a newly 16 year old driver (his dad bought it for him, awww) than it has ever been while parked sadly on the street, only moving a few blocks to the gym or grocery store, if that.

And I am a few thousand dollars richer for about a day. Till it all goes into bills...

But I am helping the environment, and I have a great new sense of accomplishment. I set out to do this, and it only took a week or so of real work to make it happen. I love craigslist. and digital cameras. and Chicago. Sweet, public transit Chicago.
I haven't NOT had a car since the brief carless year in SF, circa 1998. What a treat this will be! No worrying about parking or street cleaning or city stickers or smog checks or tune ups or winterizing or insurance or flat tires or batteries dying in the cold or doors freezing shut or break-ins or CD players being stolen or rocks being thrown through windows for no reason...
Life is good. Life is simple. For now anyway...

I know it is just selling a car, but it is the first time I am doing it and man it feels good.

It is very early in the morning and I have a few extra minutes for once. I want to grab hold of something in my life. Something concrete, something true and real that allows me to trust it fully, no questions asked.

But right now I don't know if there is anything that fits that definition.

My family is far away. My life is about to go into a bit of flux again. My relationship is healing. My friends are all over the map, each of us trying to figure out who the fuck we really are. I am relatively calm about all this most days. Then there are those like this that shake me to the core and leave me feeling like a lost soul just bumping around in a slow pinball game. I still need meaning. I still need connection. I need strength. Always I need strength.

Ok. Work calls. Life calls.
What am I trying to say?
Nothing at all, when it all comes down to it.
Nothing at all.