How do you know when enough's enough?

Hillary Clinton has come to the end of her run, and will concede the race this Saturday. I didn't know until her loss was definite that she was really the one I was rooting for. The pundits all say that Obama has a 60/40 shot at being the next president, provided he can keep his head above water for the next 5 months. I like Obama. I'm not unhappy with him as the candidate. I just think Hillary could do the job better. We'll just have to wait and see if he does the smart thing and taps her as his VP. With both of them on the ticket, their chances of beating McCain go up exponentially. 

The way our political system runs, either candidate could have bowed out at any time over the last 5 months. The Republican party certainly lost its share, with McCain emerging early as their front runner. All of them had to, at some point, say to themselves and their supporters, "Enough is enough." Call it a day. Move on.

I was listening to NPR (as I do every day), listening to post primary election coverage on Wednesday morning. One of the women guests, I forget her name, said in response to the question of why Hillary didn't concede right away on Wednesday after the polls closed that the grieving process hadn't ended yet. 

I guess that makes perfect sense. She and her staff and legions of enthusiastic voters had to give up the dream of finally having a woman in the White House, as more than the decorative party planner. That hard a battle needs just as careful planning to end it gracefully as it did to wage each skirmish. No one can begrudge her a few days to mourn the loss of that war. Of course, she can always run again in three years.

This does not change the fact that once again there will be a man running the country. It doesn't surprise me that Americans would swing that way. The attitude seems to be that if a minority must be ensconced in the Oval Office, then its better that we start off with a man, and that he be at least partially white. Take it slow. Change is hard.

All this political drama does nothing more than highlight the inadequacies that plague my own life. It's only natural that it should, because as everyone who reads my blog knows, the world revolves around me.

I have never been that strong. Always content to let the world come to me. Sail past. Fly over. Speed by. But always from a safe distance. I can't even imagine what the world would look like from the inside. I know that this insulated bubble I live in is pretty fragile, and someday, sooner or later, something or someone will pop it like a shiny, iridescent sphere of soap.

I walked south a few blocks the other day, a sort of advance scouting mission to familiarize myself with the location of the nearest YMCA. It was hot and sticky outside, and the building is Under Construction, though still open to the public. I walked all the way around, trying to imagine myself walking through the doors, on a regular basis. I can almost see it happen.

Of course, the three big black guys standing around talking in front of the doors, sort of blocking the entrance like having to walk a gauntlet, was a little intimidating.

Courage, my girl. This is supposed to be an exercise in building reasons for going, not trying to talk yourself out of it. 

What I should do is set a goal, a date, by which I must have at least gone for a visit to see the inside of the building. Who knows? Maybe I won't like the inside? So, if that's what I should do, then that's what I'll do. Today is the 6th. No later that June 14th (next Saturday), I will have gone inside for a tour. 

Deep breath. This isn't the first time I've joined a Y. I was a member of one several years ago, and all with the same good intentions. But I did solitary things. This time, I intend to take advantage of the free member classes, and do things as part of a group. I've always been an exceptional student, after all. Maybe with a structured schedule, I'll be able to get something done. 

Wish me luck...

Jinx     

Why do I so often choose my words more carefully now? Recently I've noticed a growing lack of courage in the confessions I write.

For some reason, my mind and heart refuse to allow me to delve too deeply, too intimately into what makes me tick.

I want to say that there must be some deep, dark secret I haven't yet shared that's eating me alive. That would make for a much better story, anyway.

But the truth is, I have hit a wall. No, not even that. Not a wall. THE wall. The one runners recognize when they hit that invisible mile where muscles refuse to go one more step. The wall that halts any progress. That missing clue that keeps a detective from solving the case.

The wall that must be circumvented, or walked away from.

Something needs to change, again. Something dramatic, drastic, dire, dangerous, a new action, a new course must be embarked upon. Soon.

The soul is a restless thing. It cries out for new experiences, new challenges, new choices. If I don't do something different, I will never get past this point in my life.

This journal has served its purpose, admirably. I had no idea when I began a year and a half ago that it would actually work. Never imagined that I would ever be able to say that the pain was gone. And while I don't think I will ever truly be able to say that completely, the pain I felt for so long, that I was certain would haunt me to my grave, is a pale, pale reflection of what it was. Even a short month or so ago. 

But now that I've made it to this glorious plateau, I need to see if the climb continues up into the mountains, or down to the sea. Metaphorically speaking, of course. 

I will continue to write here, because now I count on it. I need it. I just need to add something new to my daily repertoire of activities. 

My main problem has always been deciding, and then acting on, what I want to do with my life. I'm highly effective when given a task. I fucking love to be useful, needed. But I have never been good at giving myself real goals. Even here, I never set a date for when I wanted to be "healed." I just mosy along at whatever pace is most comfortable, instead of pushing the envelope too fast. I get rebellious and stubborn when pushed too fast.

And then there is the money problem. Anything I might choose to do that is daring and exciting and different promises to have a fairly high price tag attached. I have finally reached a delicate equilibrium where my finances are concerned, and it won't take much to upset the balance. Unfortunately, unless that balance is tipped by a sizable Lottery win, there's only one way that fulcrum will tip.

On the other hand, can I afford to let my money woes stop me from doing what I know is best for me? And what should that best thing be?

I know, it doesn't have to be just one thing. A smart woman would just go ahead and do all the best things for her, and be proud of herself for it. But if you think I'm that type of woman, you haven't been paying attention. Hello, definition of lazy procrastinator, here, remember?

Side note: My neighbor across the hall, Dan, got himself a new video game last week, and he's been playing it almost nonstop when he's home ever since. How do I know? My normally quiet negihbor has the volume cranked, and I can hear the digitized gun shots rat-tat-tatting from hear. I cannot tell you how annoying that is... Almost worse than the damn bells. And in a couple days, it will probably surpass them and I'll be forced to tell him to shut the fuck up. Which will suck, because I hate being a bother.

Back to the discussion.

Best things.

Join a gym or take Community Ed classes. With my health insurance, I get a discount for attending at least 12 times a month, which equals 3 times a week. This would definitely qualify as a dramatic change. 

Get a second job, to help pay the bills a little faster and easier. Doing what, I ask myself? Barrista? Stock clerk? Hooker?

Eat more fruits and veggies. Already doing this. With the discovery of smoothies, which I can make myself, I have one with lots of fruit, plus a handful of spinach and broccoli almost every day. And sometimes a dollop of yogurt or cottage cheese to balance it out.

Volunteer for something I care about. I strongly believe in volunteerism, and giving back to the community. I just can't decide what it should be, anymore. All I know is, I feel better when I'm doing something useful. (Is there an echo in here?)

Go dancing more often. I love the 90s. I love to dance. But I don't like going by myself, and none of my friends are into club hopping. Still, I might run in to people I know. The last time I was there, a random gay guy called me a goddess. (A girl gets that vibe when she's with someone she loves, I guess.) I did look pretty fabulous.

See? All good things. Signs of a life well-lived.

I know which one I should do. A basis to leap off for all the others.

But I am not good at leaping. I need a good, strong, yet subtle push off that cliff. Or at the very least, someone to catch me at the bottom.

Jinx    

E

I'm trying this new background, and I don't know if I like it all that well. Kind of weird, I think.

The latest book in my Anita Blake series came out today, and I've been waiting for it for so long I actually forgot to go get it from the bookstore. Dingbat. I am soooooo curious about what happens next, you know? I'll have to go get it tomorrow instead. Which might actually be better, anyway, since then Thursday is my day off, so I'll be able to just read. And read and read and read. Because honestly, when I start one of LKH's books, I cannot put it down.

Maybe to eat.

But mostly I just read.

Greedy. That's me. Books and potato chips. I have an addiction. I don't buy potato chips, but books I won't/can't give up. The withdrawal symptoms would be horrific, I assure you.

I went shopping for new clothes yesterday, since everything was on sale for Memorial Day. Got a whole bunch of new pretty shirts, but I'm not sure any of them are suitable for my brother's wedding. Must think of the pictures. I'd rather like to blend into the background, so the focus is on the bride and groom, while my natural tendency is to wear the brightest colors I can get my hands on. Sigh. Comfortable is also key, since it will be the 4th of July on a boat.

Side note: For some reason I spelled went like wen't (up there at the top of the previous paragraph), and spent several minutes trying to figure out why the contraction didn't look right. It is a testament to my distracted nature that I actually believed for those several minutes that wen't is a real word, and I was simply forgetting a letter, though I couldn't remember what it should be. Weird, huh?

As I was driving around, lamenting the price of gas all the way, and yet driving around anyway, NPR was playing several special Memorial Day radio programs. What is it about patriotism that inevitably brings tears to the eyes? Stories sad and glad, poignant and funny, tragic and heartbreaking, all seem to have the power to make me cry, just a little. 

There was a special about War & Place on Liner Notes (broadcast live by the BBC from the Queen Mary II). Stories about how wars affect the places and people who are part of them at the time, about the people and families left behind when soldiers go off to war. It is true that, here in America at least, we as the public don't really know we're at war right now, at all. It's so far away, and we're so tired of hearing about it. So much easier to pretend it isn't happening than wonder just how we're going to get ourselves out of it. Or admit that we may never be free of it.

Memorial Day. When it was first begun nearly a hundred years ago, it was alternately called Armistice Day, which means Peace Day. The end of holding arms against each other, but holding out hands in a symbol of peace and friendship and cooperation. The War to End All Wars had taken a grievous toll on psyches and bodies, reshaped entire countries (many not for the better, as we see even now in our most recent conflict), and set in motion a new era of industrialization and personal freedoms. They didn't call them the Roaring 20s for nothing. 

A few weeks ago, it was Veteran's Day. Set aside to honor all the men and women in uniform and out of it, remembered and forgotten, honored and reviled, depending on the prevailing mood of the country. The reaction to the vets from the Vietnam War is unforgivable in my country's past (and present, I might add). I was only a child when that war ended, so I have no true recollection of the events surrounding it, but I have to believe that I would never have condemned a man for serving his country, despite my personal beliefs about the war itself. I cannot do so now, and the parallels between Vietnam and Iraq & Afghanistan are spooky. Plus, there was the Draft (which I am very glad isn't in use for this war). How can you spit on, hate, or abuse a man who had no choice but to go to war, or become a draft dodger and flee to Mexico? I don't understand that mentality. 

I can only hope the American public has learned its lesson about believing everything they're told, and following blindly out of fear. A few more months, and maybe we'd have had better Intelligence to base our decisions on. But I doubt it would have mattered. Bush was reputedly planning an attack on Iraq even before 9/11, regardless. It was just his dumb luck that gave him the perfect excuse to blindside us with a war that we would never have sanctioned without a direct attack. 

So here we are, watching our idiot of a president doing all his presidential things "for the last time," as if we're supposed to feel all nostalgic and sad that his time is coming to an end. Bah! Good riddance, I say. I think president Obama will do a fine job, come next January. Talk about change! He'd better be prepared to be as audacious as his book says he is. I certainly wouldn't want the job. 

Jinx     

What do I want?

What is it I need out of this life to make it worth the living?

What do I really want?

This is a simple question with no easy answer, apparently.

No matter what I do, I cannot seem to figure out what it is I want, much less how to go about getting whatever it turns out to be.

Where does this lathargic response to life come from? Other people seem to have no trouble figuring out what they want, even if they then have to struggle to get it. The struggle makes it all the sweeter when they do finally get what they strive for.

But what to do when you don't really know what it is you want? What would make the struggle worth it in the end?

I know this fatalism is an unhealthy response to the beauty of a day like today. Hot, muggy, the promise of a rip-roaring thunderstorm, lilacs in bloom on every corner, a strong breeze flipping the new leaves and exposing their silver-green undersides to the elements. I went for a long walk, and kept asking myself, what do I want?

I don't know which is more terrifying - the silence or the answers.

I want what I've wanted for the last year and a half. To change who I am and how I respond to the world at large.

Be honest, be honest, be honest. I must remember my mantra. I have to be honest.

There's something my head or my heart wants to say, but I can't seem to make my fingers lay it on the screen. It's like there's this huge wall blocking my view of the truth, or maybe protecting me from it, that I can't seem to tear down or climb over.

It is more than that I want to change, so much more.

How do I change how I respond to the world at large, when I learned so early that the world is not a kind or forgiving place?

How do I allow myself to actually want something, as if I deserve it?

Ouch. That little zinger hurt. This may be hard to believe, but I actually typed that before I thought about it much. Contrary to popular belief, I don't plan everything before I say it here. There are things I erase before I publish, but not much. Kind of defeats the purpose. So yeah, I guess I have to work on this self-esteem thing a little more. 

What do I want?

Some people say they know it when they see it. Others know from birth. Others fall into it just by happy accident. And some never do find what they're looking for.

What do I want?

I want the relief of knowing what I want. I want this horrible indecision and vague dissatisfaction to go away.

I want to be different.

And yet, with all that, there is still no direction. No clear path to be followed. Like wandering in a forest, blind and in the dark.

I'm tried of being afraid of life.

The only person I can change is me, and I'm working on that. Little by little, I am turning things around. I wish I were the type to do things in a big way, take huge leaps, giant risks, make mega changes. But I'm not. Try to make me do anything too fast or too huge, and I run. This is why I need a keeper. Someone to gently push and prob me into being better than I am on my own.

There. That's what I want. A guide. A keeper. No, a guide. Definitely a guide. A keeper implies locks and boundaries that cannot be crossed without serious penalty, while a guide shows the way around and through locked doors and passed boundaries. A guide, the good ones, have been there before you and been through all the battles. They know the way, the perils, the pitfalls, the joys, and they revel in the challenge of bringing their charges through to the end of the journey. Side by side, every step of the way. 

Too bad guides don't come cheap. Know where I might find one?

Jinx    

I'm getting the mother of all headaches, though it isn't here quite yet. Just threatening, an ache that spreads from the shoulders to the neck to up over the ears, and will soon be sitting right behind my eyes. Ouch...

It is Memorial Day weekend, and it was very, very sloooowwww at work today. This may be contributing to my headache, because it is never a good thing when I get bored. Especially at work. Gives me too much time to think about what the hell I'm doing.

The sheer tension of boredom is stressful. And its not like there's anywhere to hide the fact that there isn't anything to do. Pretty wide open, in the showroom. I much prefer being busy, with lots going on and something challenging to work on.

Tomorrow, being the Saturday of a Holiday Weekend, promises to be blindingly boring as well. After all, we can't even count on there being a sale to lure prospective buyers, because we don't ever have sales. You can't normally take less than wholesale cost for merchandise, and the markup is where retailers get their sales prices, so we never have sales. So basically, why go shopping on a holiday weekend in there isn't a sale?

I plan on going shopping this Monday. I need an outfit for my brother's wedding in July. I'm really glad I'm not going to be in this wedding, like I was last summer. The whole thing promises to be way cheaper. The damn bridesmaids dress was over $200. I can probably get my outfit, book my hotel room and swing the gift for about that this time.

Man, I'm tired. I need to go to bed. My head is just about ready to pop off my neck.

Night.

Jinx  

I forgot to tell you about the Method Man Yes Ladder!

The best way to make sure your girl will say yes when you pop the big question of the night is to get her trained to say "yes" to little things early. People like to say yes to things. For some reason, it makes us feel good to say yes. And it is a known psyhcological fact that each successive positive response builds on that good feeling until you feel like the other person is your best friend.

So, if you can get your quarry to say "yes," she has a cat, "yes," she likes the Stones, "yes," she is creative, witty, talented... you have a much better chance of hearing "yes, yes, YES!" much later in the evening.

How ridiculous that it actually works.

The Yes Ladder can be used during any and all of the Seven Steps, but due to its potency is best used often, but carefully. You don't want the girl to start agreeing with just anything, after all.   

Jinx

Every once in awhile I read a book that truly surprises me. That is so different, with such a unique perspective on the world that I just can't bear to leave it behind. Most books don't usually have that kind of impact. They're just stories, some good, some bad, but their impact is minimal.

I just finished reading a book by Naomi Neale called Method Man. I picked it up in my last over-zealous, greedy raid on one of the libraries I frequent. (yes, I said one of) I picked it up because the cover is interesting. Just a man in a bar, dressed in a blindingly white shirt and black satin jacket, offering a pink Cosmopolitan and his phone number to the woman on the other side of the book jacket. All you can see of his face are his sinfully kissable lips, and the hand reaching toward you is relaxed, tempting, manicured. All this from a drawing of a man, not even a photograph. I pick up books for all sorts of reasons. Title, cover, color, subject, but I don't always choose to keep them and bring them home with me. But this one, something about it said it would be special.

Holy crap, I enjoyed this book. It made me laugh, a LOT. Supposedly just another romance novel, a vice to which I have been addicted unashmedly since I was in Junior High. I did not really agree with the ending, because in my opinion the wrong guy gets the girl. But at the same time, there simply wasn't any other way for the book to end, because the wrong guy was definitely not the right guy for the female protagonist. But he sure struck a few chords with me.

Let me tell you about A.J. Daye. He is a play boy. Tall, blond hair, blue eyes, muscled, the kind a guy gets from hours at the gym, and with a killer sense of party boy fashion and style. In a word - FUN! The main character, Rebecca, is just celebrating her recent divorce from a five year marriage with a bunch of her girlfriends when this handsome, well-built brother (AJ) of one of said girlfriends hits on her at the bar. AJ and Rebecca have known each other for years, and she knows he isn't serious, merely trying to cheer her up by being his normal, charming, smarmy self.

While her girlfriends are insisting that Rebecca should be and therefore is miserable and fears she is doomed to die a lonely old woman, and succeeding in making it so by their constant commiserating and smug comments, AJ is the only one who tells her she doesn't have to be sad about her divorce if she doesn't want to be. He offers to show her the town, let her tag along with him as he makes the rounds of all of New York City's hottest nightclubs as his wingman. He offers to teach her what he calls The Method, or more accurately, how to spot a man using The Method on her.

What is The Method, you ask? I am firmly convinced that this is the sole reason Naomi wrote this book. The romance was secondary to telling women about, no, warning women about The Method. This, ladies, is a modern cautionary tale that will keep you laughing, and cringing possibly, when you read just how very effective The Method actually is. You will even find yourself helplessly sucked in, even when you know what's really happening. I was. Even now, I am half in love with AJ Daye. He is a character in a million, not to be duplicated.

The Method: A Seven Step Process To...

Step One: Identify the Target
The 10 second Rule applies here. Once you see your quarry, you have 10 seconds to make your move or you risk psyching yourself out of the game and losing the moment.

Step Two: Make Your Opening Gambit
It is helpful to have a conversation starter here. An object of unusual clothing (AJ once uses a tiny little bowler hat, the kind you might see on a monkey grinder, and also a feather boa borrowed from a passing drag queen. Of course, he's had a lot of practice at this, boys, so choose your own very carefully). Ask a question that requires a thoughtful or startled response. Perhaps throw in a 'sult (an insult) couched in such terms that make it plain you're not really interested and are therefore not a threat. This will cause your quarry to let down her guard. For instance, call the girl clumsy for nearly toppling off her chair after she's had a few drinks. Or tell her she's only an eight (on the hotness scale), and you would only go for a nine or ten, or maybe a high eight. But only if something better didn't come around. If you can pull that off with aplomb and say that with a straight face, you're in like Flynn, as they say. It may also help to establish a set time limit. Mention friends who are expecting you back shortly, even if there aren't any.

Step Three: Show You're A Value Added Attraction
Mention, humbly, subtely, any volunteer work (you may or may not actually do). Toss out the fact that you're a doctor/lawyer/peace activist/skin diver. Whatever you think will make you the most attractive in that moment. Truth here is irrelevant, because we're not looking for a long-term commitment, just playing the game. Rebecca is nearly picked up by an artist with a Tarot deck who tells her fortune. This one got me, too, I must confess. AJ calls this kind of thing Chick Crack, because we literally cannot resist it when guys show their "spiritual" side. The scene where he exposes his rival pick-up artist and rescues Rebecca from his clutches is hilarious. 

Step Four: Establish Similarities
Make it clear that though your differences may be many, at heart you are the same. AJ, using Rebecca as his wingman, asks his quarry and Rebecca a couple simple questions. Favorite color, favorite shape, and to pick a number between one and ten. Rebecca picks green and circles. Quarry picks orange and triangles. Circles are boring and safe, green is naive and common. Orange is passionate and daring, triangles are sharp and edgy. Which girl do you want to be? But it doesn't matter what the answers are. A good Method Man can spin them to his advantage. AJ confesses that he, too, is a triangle man and snags his quarry. 

Step Five: Isolate the Target From The Outside World
Get them alone. Like a lion cutting their prey from the safety of the herd, a woman alone is more likely to be persuaded that she wants to be alone with you than one surrounded by her nay-saying friends.

Step Six: Establish an Intimate Connection
Not that! Not yet, anyway. No, we're talking slow dances, light touches, hand-holding, intimate conversations, perhaps even a few deep kisses, depending on your location and your quarry. Compliments to soothe battered egos from earlier 'sults. Make it obvious that you prefer her company to anyone else's.

Step Seven: Remove the Target to a Seduction Location
By now, she's as ready as you are to answer the question, "My place or yours?" Of course, sometimes a convenient bathroom stall will do the trick. Rebecca once catches AJ in the women's bathroom with one of his conquests. She analyzes her emotions, and rules out jealousy in favor of amusement. She isn't attracted to AJ, so seeing him in a clinch with some random bimbo only makes her laugh. I was jealous, though.          

For half the book, it isn't really clear who Rebecca will end up with at the end of the story because we're all having so much fun watching AJ teach her The Method. Evidence the fact that I finished reading at quarter to minight, and it is now almost 2 am, and I'm still giggling over this book.

Her actual romance is a sort of an afterthought to the rest of the book, as I've mentioned. In the end, you're happy she gets her man, but you don't want to let go of AJ. He's a riot. Any woman would be nuts to turn down a one-night-stand with him, because he's clearly in the game for more than his own base, carnal pleasures. Whoever he chooses, she's guaranteed to get as much from him as he does from her, even if he won't ever call the next day.

Man, I do love a good story.

Jinx

Today I am going to my neice's Confirmation (she's Lutheran).

Actually, this neice is also my Goddaughter.

This is ironic, for so many reasons.

Maddy is a Believer. She has told me so on many occassions, and I struggle with that.

I want to change her mind, make her see things the way I do, educate her about all the reasons organized religion and Christianity just doesn't work.

I want to, and every once in awhile I slip and let some of my prejudices escape over into her world. I try not to let that happen too often, though.

Because as strong as my aversion is to the religion I was raised in, my belief in everyone's right to choose their own spiritual path is just as strong. She has the right to believe what she wants, to worship where her heart leads. Spirituality and religion are very personal subjects with truths that can only be found within the individual. 

Still, I am her Godmother. More like a "fairy" Godmother now, I suppose. I was there, a believer myself, when she was baptized into the Christian faith. I made a vow before the god I believed in to guide her in her faith, her journey o her spiritual path. Back then, I was complacent in my beliefs. I had only begun to think about my own relationship with the divine. The idea that I had a choice of any kind hadn't even occurred to me, yet. So a vow made then, before god and family, was a powerful thing.

But in the end, my own confusion and resentment about my faith has led me down a path wholly unfamiliar to the rest of my family, and is certainly not even remotely close to the faith my Maddy believes in. How can I teach her about faith and belief and spirituality when my own is so tangled? I don't know why, but every discussion of the faith I was raised in always seems to set my teeth on edge and puts derision and scorn in my voice that I cannot hide.

I believe that she has a right to her beliefs, it is her choice alone. But I want that choice well-tempered in reality and truth. Too many believe blindly in their respective religions, because that's what people close to them have told them is true. It matters not what the belief might be, Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, Hindu, Zen, Buddhism, what have you, to be born into a faith is to be brainwashed. These religions all say they welcome questions and the chance to prove their veracity, but they don't really mean it. Much safer to have the unquestioning obedience of the masses, and what better way to assure that the faithful remain so forever is to start young. Grab the minds and hearts of the children, and most will die of old age never once having wondered if what they "believe" is the truth.

Right now, my religion is one big question mark. I know what I don't believe. I know what I want to believe. But my own pragmatism and, dare I confess it, pessimism, keeps me from wholeheartedly accepting that religion of any kind is real.

I find beauty in the nature religions of paganism, like the Wicca and Druid paths. The balance of the masculine and the feminine, the bend toward nature and care of the Earth, the rituals tied to the seasons. These are basics, almost. The rituals of most modern religions are tied intimately to their pagan origins, though most people never realize just how close the relationship really is. Christians in particular cling to the fear they've been taught of anything "not Christian." The word witch is almost synonymous with the word devil, though true Wiccans don't even believe in the Devil, or in Hell. Their faith does not allow for the ultimate destruction and eternal suffering of the human soul. And yet, my own realistic nature continually tells me that god/goddess doesn't really exist and are merely a human construct to explain our own lives.    

Why I can be so eloquent when writing about what I believe, and yet fail utterly to explain when I talk to people eludes me. 

Well, it's almost time to go, and I need to finish getting ready. Must be gorgeous if I have to go sit in church for an afternoon. 

Jinx  

Not sure I really have all that much to say tonight. It's well after midnight, heading inexorably toward 1 am, but tomorrow is my day off, so what the hell. Right?

Lately, perhaps you've noticed, I've been curiously unable to examine anything deeply. To really dig into what bothers me. Is it that I don't want to scratch too hard at a healing wound? It itches unbearably, but I know better than to pick and start the bleeding all over again. Or maybe, and this is more likely, the wound is merely covered with a band-aid, and I know that ripping the sticky tape off is going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Even though it needs to be done, fresh air & sunlight is always better when healing an open wound.

That's a pretty good analogy. Wish I'd thought of it...

What has me bleeding tonight?

Loneliness.

I never minded being alone before.

I've spent most of my life living with other people.

First my family, which is where most people start. Nothing wrong with that.

Then, in the dorms at college. There's nothing quite like sharing a 12 x 12 foot space with a complete stranger for 9 months, is there? My roommate stopped talking to me entirely for the whole second half of the year. Hard to say why, exactly, since she stopped talking to me. Probably I annoyed her by being around all the time. I was never much of a joiner, always more of a home body. And I was never very good at the "girly-sharing" stuff. Whatever the reason, we were both glad to see the back of the other at the end of the year.

And then there were the six years I spent with T & the dogs. Honestly, the only reason I stayed living with her as long as I did was those dogs. They were my babies. I turned them into mostly civilized pets, instead of the neurotic, mostly ignored, part-time pets she'd turned them into before I moved in. Six years. I let her walk all over me. It would take hours to list all the stupid crap I let her pull while I lived with her.

Calling me after midnight to come give her a ride home because she'd drunk too much and I'd made the mistake of telling her I'd rather go get her than have her drive home drunk. Never mind that I'd been being polite, the kind of thing you say when you think its just going to be once. But not all the time. It annoys the hell out of me when perfectly sane people can't learn to drink responsibly. If you know you have your car and you need to drive home, STOP DRINKING. I am not your Sober Cab! And it is more than a little obnoxious when the phone rings at 1 am, and its your drunk ass rooommate and her drunk-ass neighbor friend too smashed to drive home. And they're both older than you.

And being lectured about being messy when her room and the office were a continual miasma of clothes, and she rarely stirred herself to sweep or dust or mop or clean the bathroom.

And the constant construction zones. And tools disappearing from MY tool box because she could never find hers. There was a circular saw in the middle of the office floor for three years. Three YEARS! And the only reason the damn thing moved is because WE DID. To fucking Eagan. Have I mentioned how much I hate the suburbs? Why did I move to Eagan with her? One, my dogs needed me. Or, I needed my dogs. Two, I was still in school getting my design degree, and didn't have time to look for an apartment. Three, no money to pay security deposit plus rent for both current and new apartment. Had to save up for that.

I hated Eagan. I reaaallllyyyy hated the house she bought. I had the worst initial reaction I've ever had to a building just driving up to the door of that house when she wanted me to look it over with her. It still makes me shudder to think about it. I spent most of that year living in the basement.

Now, of course, I live in my own apartment. I love my place. Yes, its a little cluttered with knick-knacks and books and pictures and candles, but its mine. Every single thing has a memory, a reason to be there. My reason. I love being able to shut the doors on the rest of the world. Love being able to leave the dishes pile up for a week. Love knowing that even when I can't find something, it is where I left it, and I will find it eventually.

But all this brings me back to my original point.

Loneliness.

I was never lonely before. I enjoyed being alone. Having the house to myself was always a luxury to be cherished, reveled in, even. You know the feeling of finally being free of all other people. The quiet. The ability to play the music you want to listen to, watch the TV shows you want to watch, talk to yourself without fear of being laughed at. The feeling fades somewhat after living alone for awhile. You get used to it being that way all the time.

I am not saying I'd like another roommate. Nope. No way. I'm pretty sure I would hate having a roommate fairly quickly.

But still, there is this restless need for something I didn't need before.

I told J, during some silly conversation we were having while doing the dishes one night, that I'd been taking care of myself for the last 32 years. I meant it to illustrate that I don't need anyone to make decisions for me or run my life. I'm proud of the fact that I stand on my own two feet, most of the time. But with one quiet comment, and I'm not even sure exactly what he said, he made me feel like I'd failed at or been left out of something important. Someting like, "That's too bad."

What he meant, of course, was that he thinks I'm special, and I deserve to have had someone to watch over me and do the little things that people who care for you do every day.

But I can't afford to feel the lack of that in my life. What good does it do me to miss or need something that I can't have? I have one person in this world I can depend on to do the things I need done for myself. And that's me. Admittedly, I don't always make the best, most caring choices, but usually I mean well. And maybe I'm missing huge signals from the universe that point toward that one special person who is meant for me, who will do all those thoughtful little things that make a strong relationship, but I must be flying blind. Or maybe he is. 

I won't lie and say I wouldn't love to have someone take care of me, for even just a day. Or a lifetime. I would. Oh, I would. 

But it would make me crazy to pity myself because I don't have that in my life. I value my indepence, my strong mind, my creativity. Someday, if the goddess decrees it or the universe has it planned, I will know love. 

In the meantime, I have friends who feel sorry for me because I am alone. Because I have had to learn how to take care of myself for 32 years. Who ache for me because I don't have someone to make me coffee in the morning, to fix my car, to read to me at night before bed, to discuss the news with over dinner, to teach me the power of touch. But who must leave me behind, anyway, because fate and logistics have denied the possibility. Leave me feeling the solitude as I haven't before.

I know how to be alone. I'm good at it. I work at it. I excel at it, like any good master at her craft. I don't know how to make myself be OK with it, again, though.

Damn it.

Jinx  

So, I didn't go to Rochester for Mother's Day. Nope. I stayed home, slept late, did my laundry, read most of a book, went for a long walk, watched Moonlight (when will Mick finally give in and sleep with Beth, for crying out loud?), reserved my tickets for the Star Wars exhibit at the Science Museum, and am now considering calling my mother.

What causes this devil inside me? Probably just some childish urge to be defiant, cause unneccesary pain just to see if I can get a rise out of parents. Most likely.

Hang on a minute while I get my phone. We'll just see how the conversation goes, shall we? Shouldn't take very long. Never does, then we'll be good for another month.

So my mom answers the phone, which I expected. It is Mother's Day after all. 10 minutes of talking about weddings and brothers (like how my youngest brother Kip and his wife Becky bicker constantly) and how the dogs weren't getting along and shed all over the furniture. She even asked about J, and what we did while he was here. Then my dad came in, and said sure he'd like to say hi, even though he didn't think he had anything to say to me (this is almost verbatim). And he asked about J, too, though he actually said "whats-his-name." What the hell. Any chance I get to brag about J is a good thing, I figure.

And now I'm done for another month.

Now it's almost 8:30 pm. I've got my windows wide open letting in all the delicious fresh, cool air. I'll start shivering here in a few minutes, but until then the luxury of open windows stays.

I mentioned going for a long walk this afternoon. Guess where I went. Couldn't help myself. What can I say? The boy made me hot.

But I also discovered that there are a lot of attractive men in my neighborhood. Something about the weather today had them out in droves, all sweaty from running and biking. Yummy. Sometimes people watching is a treat, you know? This one guy had this chest that just begged to be touched... And the sweetest ass...

Well, anyway, that's what I did with my day.

Jinx