Belonging

I've had a small revelation tonight. Really, on the inside, I'm just back in Jr. High. And really, for all the crap we give Jr. Highers, that's not such a bad thing.
I went to a movie tonight with my mom and her slighlty depressed, very stressed friend. And, oh!, coming back, I feel so down. And I've been trying to figure out why. I got a bit sad, during the movie (Pride and Prejudice, for the third time), and at first I thought it was only about realizing there are some things in life I will never do (i.e., live in England). But then, I thought, Why do I want to live in England so badly??? Why does that seem so ideal and safe, in a little village in the Peak District? To dance and laugh and hardly be well educated or important? (Being well-educated and important being of course the two most important things in life.) And I think maybe I'm beginning to see why it is. I suppose I've never really felt a sense of belonging in my own home. From a very early age, I began to set up sharp distinctions between myself and my parents and the way we do things and view the world. I never felt at home in school, either, because I was always the smart one, the geek, and the one who was far too naive for her own good, the one who didn't have Barbies and couldn't watch Full House. But, in books, there was a world in which I did belong, becuase Everyone belonged, no matter how silly or stupid or bad. In books, I found community.
My favorite books, which I have grown up on from the age of 12 or 13, are the novels by Jane Austen. I know those books backwards and forwards, they are my world of safety, my world of intellectual stimulation, my world that never rejects me or leaves me behind. And everyone in those books Belongs, even if the don't, really, simply by virtue of being in the books. All of her novels are set in England, and thus when I visited England in college, as we descended onto the tarmac among fields of yellow flowers, I felt like I was coming Home in a way I have never felt anywhere else. It was so odd to me, that I should feel that way, but wonderful all the same.
However, I think that's why the fact that I will never live in that uneducated British village is disheartening to me. First, because, of course, if I really went there, it woudln't matter that I can recite Pride and Prejudice backwars and forwards, I would Never be a member of the community, I would be The American. Secondly, tho, I think that uneducated British village represents to me my hopes to Ever feel a sense of belonging, and when I realize I will never live there, I feel as tho my hopes of belonging are dashed for all time. Forever and ever I will be an outsider. Just as I have always been.
Yesterday I visited an old professor of mine for the evening, and it was Wonderful. It was so different (and a bit scary!), relating to her as a friend instead of just a professor, esp. since she seems to want me to call her by her first name!, but for those brief hours we were together, I felt so understood, so supported, so much like I belonged. Which is funny, becuase in some ways she and I are very different. But her unconditional support was wonderful.
Now I'm back at home, surrounded by decidedly conditional support, and by many people with whom I do not have a sense of 'belonging.' Friends are far away, with their own lives to lead, their own happiness which can only partially be mine, or their own struggles which I cannot experience with them. And my family, oh!, I am sad about them. I love them, and feel this tinge of homesickness about leaving them next week, and yet much of the time I Can't Stand Them. But it makes me sad to know pretty much for a fact that I will never again come back to this house as 'home.' Home will always be somewhere else now. Only now, of course, I haven't got one.
Right now, I walk a narrow path, on a high ridge. I have a purpose, a goal, and work to do, and I like both the purpose and the work, but it's very lonely on the ridge. I feel as tho if I slip up, if I lean out too far to the left of to the right, I will fall away, and there will be nothing there to catch me.
Jr. Highers aren't stupid when they want to 'fit in.' As primitive as it is, this is their way of showing their need for community. And we all need it, yes, every last one of us. Please, God, show me mine.

Christmas

Well, so, it happened. It was Christmas. And now it's the day after Christmas. (And this is a really rambly post.) And, for some reason, Christmas felt less Christmassy than usual this year. I don't know why. But Christmas Eve did not feel like Christmas Eve. It felt like some random Saturday on which we suddenly became Catholic and went to anticipatory mass.
When I was little, Christmas Eve was a Big Deal. We would travel across town to Shadyville East Side, near the ocean. I can still remember how to get there, I think. We went to Papa's house, my some-time alcoholic Great-grandfather who could reduce people to tears with his acid tongue until the day he died. I always got a slightly sinking feeling when we walked up the broken-down drive way to the house. But in we went. Gran-gran sat in her rocker, when I was very young, before she died, and Papa sat in his threadbear Easy-chair. One was always required to file in front of them and kiss them appropriately, and, how I hated that part! Papa always smelled of dip, and to kiss him you had to brush past his chewed tobacco-filled spitoon, past his stained lips, to his cheek. His hair was thin, but still brownish. And, oooooh, he was mean. Better watch yourself, better not get on the wrong side of his politics or racism!, or he would yell and scream and cuss until you cried. He would chew you to bits, just like his tobacco, and was known to beat his wife, to boot. Anyway, after the horror of the Kiss, we had Christmas brunch, fixed by the Mexican maid, and then went into the funny-smelling living room and waited to open gifts. And waited. And waited. And waited. The dissapointing thing, of course, was that the presents I got on Christmas Eve were never any good because they were all from my great-aunts who didn't know me, and didn't care either. And you had to wait till Papa opened all of his gifts, too. Before each gift, he would announce in his toothless drawl, "I don't need them damn slippers." People had trouble buying Papa gifts.
Anyway, in spite of certain deficiencies, to me Christmas Eve is really only Christmas Eve if you're required to kiss your toothless great-grandfather and oooh and ahhh politely over gifts you don't like. This Christmas Eve, I slept in and baked brownies. Not quite the same.
Christmas Day was interesting, tho. We went to my Aunt and Uncle's again, just like Thanksgiving, and in addition to Vulgar Brother, we were graced with the precence of Aunt Merme as well. Ahhh, Aunt Merme. The name makes me think of mermaids of the Arial varriety, only old as the hills. Not a pretty picture. She's my aunt's mother's sister, and, mercy me, she should come with a warning! She's from Dallas, you understand; she lives in Highland Park and she knows it. And she wants you to know it, too. She regails everyone with stories of what is and is Not found at Neiman's this year, and throws around her Neiman's shopping sack with style. When she's not insulting her sister, that is. Or playing with her little pet, Vulgar Brother. Oooooh, she seems to like him! Maybe she wants him to whisper to her from behind, bringing his cheek in close like he did to me. Or maybe she just wants someone to boss around, who knows. But when she gave my cousin's butt a much-too-friendly slap, I realized my end of the family is not the only one with problems!

Better Days

Christmas Eve is crazy, tommorrow will be worse. So, here's a little something to think about, a song that's really meant a lot to me this holiday season. I hope you enjoy it too. Just rememeber, tonight's the night the world begins again.
Merry Christmas!

Better Days by the Goo Goo Dolls*

So you ask me what I want this year,
And I try to make this kind and clear,
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.
'Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in string,
And designer love and empty things,
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.

So take these words,
And sing outloud,
'Cause everyone is forgiven now;
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.

I need someplace simple where we can live,
And something only you can give,
And that's faith, and trust, and peace while we're alive.
And the one poor Child who saved this world,
And there's ten million more who probably could (be saved),
If we all just stopped and said a prayer for them.

So take these words,
And sing outloud,
'Cause everyone is forgiven now;
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.

I wish everyone was loved tonight,
And some could stop this endless fight,
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.

So take these words,
And sing outloud,
'Cause everyone is forgiven now;
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.

*Revised for theological correctness. ;-)

The Home Front

I realized today for the first time why they called it the 'Home Front' during World War II. I guess they wanted to make the housewives feel important by suggesting that what they did at home was like a battle. (You know, the Russian Front, All Quiet on the Western Front, etc.) Well, what could be a more appropriate metaphor for my home? A Battle. Fabulous.
It really hasn't been that bad, I guess. Sure, my parents pick each other, and then my brother, to shreds by turns, but it doesn't really matter. Sure, they make jokes about all the hurtful things they did to me as a child and then expect me to laugh, but that's fine. (And I'm not the least bit bitter, either.)
Before I left SoCal, Dr. Stacey (my psychologist) and I talked about ways for me to 'nurture myself.' Which sure as heck sounds like just so much psycho-babble to me. But Dr. Stacey's not really the psychobabble type. We've been talking a lot lately about how I felt pretty un-nurtured as a kid, how my mom just wasnt' able to be nurturing to me because of her depression. So, she said, espescially when I'm going back in such a difficult and emotionally-laden environment, I need to 'nurture myself,' because Little Me is in there and needs nurturance so desperately. So, we settled on lighting a nice-smelling candle while I'm here at home. It's not much, but I bought myself a nice one from Bath and Body works that really smells like Christmas trees. And as I sit here and let the tension run out of my body, I feel a little better.
The candle is lit in mourning for the child who didn't always get to be a child, because when she walked in the door from school, she had to figure out what kind of mood her Mommy was in. Could she be herself today? Oh, no, Mommy's too sad and upset for that. Must be someone else today, the person who comforts and helps Mommy with everything. However, it is also lit for a different reason. It is lit as a symbol of hope, a light for a different future.

Why I Do Not Like Altar Calls

So, I was going to write about sex, and how I want to have some, but then I got back home to Texas and interacted with my family, and now I'm feeling vastly cynical and bitter about anything marriage or family related, and am thinking that perhaps we should all go live in caves and no longer procreate or touch each other.
So you'll have to wait for the juicy stuff till some other day.
Instead, I'm going to tell you a little story:

When I was a senior in high school at Horrendous Christian High School (HCHS), we had a 'revival' in January. Oh yes, kids. The full-on, old-fashioned, Baptist kind. (My appologies, Baptists.) For a whole week, we would gather everyday in Cool & Trendy Youth Room for the Horrendous Christian Church that Horrendous Christian High School was attached to. And there was Cal Mason.* He had bleached hair with a cross shaved in the back of his head and proudly called himself a JesusFreak, or some other cutesy name. I remember we were all extremely skeptical, because after four years at HCHS, we were tougher and more deeply bitter than any African Native. We thought nothing could touch us, that we'd heard it all.
Unfortunately, we underestimated the powers of mass hysteria.
Now, you must understand, not everyone at HCHS came from a Good Church Background like mine. But, honestly, I think some of the people with a Good Church Background we're even worse off than those without it, because they were so callous to the Gospel, they could not hear a Thing. But, oh, honey, they knew what to say. They could convince anyone, Anyone, even Dr. Old himself (head of Horrendous Christian Church) that they were the most spiritual, most godly, most squeaky clean teenagers in the world. Oh, they could fool anyone. Except of course their classmates. Thus, as we all filed into the Cool & Trendy Youth Room, we were already pulling out our Worship Hands and Worhship Faces and duely wrapping our hearts in duct tape.
Now, admittedly, I don't remember much about what Cal Mason* said. He went on and on and yelled and screamed appropriately, just like a revival preacher is supposed to. I think he talked about Moses, once. But, oh, I remember the Invitation, the altar call, whatever you want to call it. He had us all put our heads down, in typical Baptist fashion, with eyes closed so that only the preacher could see what was about to happen. We were all supposed to 'do business with God,' making sure our souls were properly stored in the Heaven box.
"Now, how many of you believe you're saved today, I want you to put your hands in the air."
Silence.
"Yes, I see a lot of hands out there. Now, are you sure you're saved? Are you sure you're sure??"
Silence.
"Now, of course, if you're Really saved, I want you to keep you're hand in the air, but I want you to think about this. If Jesus came today, are you 100% sure you'd go to Heaven with Him? Are you truly sure? Are you sure you wouldn't go to Hell? Because if you're not sure, you know the consequences of that. I want you to think about that now, to think about if you're really sure, and if you're not, I want you to put your hand down and pray this prayer with me ..."
For a self-doubting, OCD kid like me, this was torture. I would raise my hand tentatively at first, hoping I really was saved, hoping that all the millions of times I had prayed the sinner's prayer, it had 'counted.' But by the time he got to his third entreaty, I was gone. I was too scared, too horrified to think of my own damnation. I couldn't keep my hand up, because I just couldn't be saved.
I'm not sure how many other kids went through the same agonizing process as I did, but I do know this: almost all the kids, even the meanest and most calloused of all, were scared to Death. Yes, indeed, the Fear of God had been forced into them, and they dutifully went down to the altar calls, and even gave up drinking for a couple of weeks. And, for a couple of weeks, or even longer, I was ecstatic about the Revival and Cal Mason*. After all, if you could scare Ben Wallis into not using dip, you were on to something.
The funny thing about fear as a motivator tho, is that it doesn't last forever. You get used to the fear, you grow accustomed, and then you're not so scared of it anymore. And pretty soon, it stops having so strong a hold over you. So you start drinking, and smoking, and screwing around again, because, after all, the idiot with the cross shaved into the back of his head is gone.
The funniest and most tragic thing of all, of course, is that Christianity isn't about fear. It's about Love. A Love that casts out fear. And when you force a mask of terror over God's face, I don't really see how you can expect people to follow Him, or want anything to do with Him at all. I am slowly learning, the hard way, to remove that mask, and see God as He truly is.
And that is why I do not like Invitations or Revivals.

*Name has been changed to protect the Guilty.

Dreams Come True

The other day, while trying to study for finals, and in the middle of a mixed mood episode (see Saturday Dec. 10 and Monday Dec. 12), I glanced at my lip gloss tube and noted the following phrase: Dreams Come True. Now, my first thought was, "What the heck is a corny phrase like 'dreams come true' doing on my lip gloss? Are they saying their lip gloss is just That Good? Or are they trying to send sublimal, non-suicidal messages to messed-up teenagers, as per 'Reach for the Stars' slogans found in public high schools, etc.?" My second thought was, "Wow, that's aactually kind of true."
I certainly don't tend to look at things this way very much, but, well, many of my dreams for my life Have come true and Are coming true, as we speak. Maybe not always quite the way I've envisioned them, because in my fantasies I'm always skinny, emotionally stable, and blissfully happy. But this is life. And sometimes, Life Sucks. So the fact that I am so lucky (blessed) to have so many of my dreams come true is really a miracle. Here's a few I've thought of:

1. I no longer live at home. Now, that may seem rather heartless to you, but, honestly, my home isn't always the nicest place in the world. In fact, most of the time it's incredibly painful and depressing. And now . . . I'm moving towards independence, living in a room that's all mine, and not at all my parent's. I am not (read: much less) under their thumb. Now that's a dream come true.
2. I'm studying to become a clinical psychologist. Kids, as scary as it is, I will someday have Dr. and the front of my name! I have dreamed of that since I was a little girl. And, oh!, not only will I have Dr. in front of my name, but my doctorate will be in something I Love. I once told my quasi-mollesting youth minister that when I grew up, all I wanted was to make people happy. He laughed hysterically at that and made fun of me, rather cruelly I now realize. Well, guess what, hon? You know what, I'm not trying to make people happy now, I'm doing something even better and more idealistic. I hope happiness will be the end result, but now I'm doing something even more profound: I hope to help people's souls become Healthy, and have the capacity for happiness. I can't think of any other vocation that could top that.
3. I LIVED IN EUROPE. The further I get away from my wondrous undergrad, the University of Dallas, the more I realize how incredibly lucky/blessed/privaledged I am to have studied in Rome for a semester. I learned so much in such a short time! I learned that "America, right or wrong," is not patriotic. I learned to have an openess to different perspectives and different ways of doing things, from national policies to grocery stores. I learned that American chocolate Stinks. I learned to love and appreciate the Catholic Church, particularly our beloved Papa, John Paul II. I learned that, yes, I truly can do things on my own, that I can navigate countries where I don't speak the language, that I can travel All By My Self, that no matter how scary things may seem, I can do it. Yes, there were struggles. But they were all made worth it by walks down the Via del Corso and gelato at Blue Ice. I think I can honestly say that, difficult as they were at times, those were the happiest four months of my life.
4. I have friends. Not just any old friends, either. Friends who really love me and plan to stay by me Forever. Even when I whine and fuss and cry and do stupid things. And, honestly, I never thought I'd have friends like that. But, lo and behold, I do. The dream of having true friends, not just close aquaintainces, has finally come to pass.
And I could go on and on. But I'll stop here, because I've really got to go pack to go back to Texas. However, it's been a good thing to think on. What are you're dreams that are coming true?

On why Roommate is so Wonderful :)

Mmmmm, housemates. Gotta love 'em.
So, I just got through the grueling 'Roommate Dinner' that we have once a week. Stupid me, I was even partial instigator of this. Little did I know! See, um, one of my roommates is, shall we say, special. Honestly, it's really hard to describe her accurately, because 'annoying' just doesn't cover it. Annoying sounds so Normal.
The firs thing to be said about this particular housemate is that she is a Boundary Pusher. She will come as close to you as she can, as near the quick as possible, until you put up a boundary, and then she'll push against that repeatedly, just to make sure you really mean it. It doesn't matter what it relates to, she wants to be in the big fat middle of it, whether it's your recent break-up or your coffee creamer. And she just won't stop! Subtle hints do not work, but obvious hints hurt her oh-so-easily disturbed feelings. And when she is unhappy/disgruntled/ever-so-slightly off, you Hear about it. So, either way, you're stuck.
Secondly, she's paranoid. I won't really go into this, except to tell you that she's currently convinced that the US Postal Service is reading her mail, messing with her cheques, and very possibly stealing her money. She has been to two different Post Offices to tell them so, and refuses to leave the post office until the Postmaster comes out and yells at her. And, no matter how you try to reason with her, how you try to explain that it makes No Sense that the US Postal Service would be out to get her, it doesn't matter. The Postal Service is out to get her, and That's That.
Thirdly, ahem, well, this really is just a re-hash of her need to be in the big fat middle of everything. She just spent the half-hour of dinner grilling me on my oppinions on a former classmate who left our school. She goes up, she goes down, she tries to go in the back door, but, oh!, I will not say very much. Because, unfortunately, I've seen what she does: give her one little dirty piece of gossip, and she'll run a mile, and tell it all over the shool, and then sneer to one of my classmates, "Ohhhh, you're Catholic, aren't you," as though that one piece of information tells her everything she needs to know. And, sadly, it does. The fake smile is almost chilling.
Scariest of all? This girl is going to be a clinical psychologist.

This Week = Suck, Christmas = The Best

So it's finals week. Yuck, gross, the worst. It means staying up late and stress and eating weird things and drinking too much coffee (I always drink too much coffee, but this is waaaaaay too much coffee). Still, I have a secret! Only it got out! And I'm glad! Guess what???
IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!
Or, more precisely, it's Advent. But, anyway, can I tell you how much I love Christmas? I Love Christmas. In fact, I love almost everything about Christmas! Except these things:
1. Blow-up yard Santas/Snowglobes/Snowmen, etc. - Tacky!
2. Fruitcake. ~Sorry, fruitcake-lovers of the world.
3. Kids finding out Santa isn't real. - A very traumatic experience for me (naturally).
4. The song "Santa Baby" - I'm sorry, but bribing Santa with implied sexual favors is just Wrong.
5. Greedy people. - No explanation necessary.
I'm sure I'll think of some more, but really, it's hard. I like just about everything at Christmas, including:
1. Christmas lights! - There's a reason why college students leave them up all year! They're just so lovely and festive and make the world so magical!
2. Christmas cookies! - One year, Roommate and I had a cookie-decorating party, with homemade sugar cookies and frosting, and it was The Best. We had waaaay too much fun!
3. Christmas songs! - I love them all (nearly, see above). I love the traditional ones, I like new ones, I love sacred ones, I love the 'secular' ones that I was taught to hate. I think my favorite Christmas carol is "O Come All Ye Faithful," but I love everything from that to "Let it Snow" to "Better Days" by the Goo-goo Dolls.
4. Advent Wreaths - Ohmygosh! My absolute favorite! When I was growing up, during every Sunday night during Advent we would light the candles of the Advent wreath, read a Christmas reading from the Bible, and eat desert. My college friends and I tried to continue this, and it was The Best.
5. Christmas trees! - Despite all those scary anti-Christmas tree people (I wish I had a link, they're pretty crazy and pretty funny), I love, love, Love Christmas trees. I love decorating them, I love smelling them, I love sitting by them at night with just the Christmas lights on. However, I do not like killing them. Someday I will have to tell you some funny stories about Christmas trees. ;-)
6. Getting presents! - Come on, admit it, you like getting presents! (Or maybe you don't. Apparently, some people Really Don't Like getting Christmas presents.) I love it! I love the surprise and magic, the wondering and suspense of looking at the boxes under the tree. Oh, and did I mention I love Wrapping presents?? It's like my favorite!
7. Giving Presents! - Honestly, this may be my favorite part. Yes, I love getting presents, it's so much fun! But giving them is just so exciting, I just love to shop, and think about what the person would like, and them imagine the person getting their gift. . . . I think that's one part of having kids I can't wait for, giving them presents. I mean, I'm sure I"m Totally Idealizing this, but it's so magical to give adults presents, I can't imagine how much fun it must be to put out all the toys from Santa and watch them giggle with glee, all the while knowing it was me (and husband) that was causing all their fun.
Now watch me, ten years from now, hate giving Christmans presents to my kids above all things. ;-) Still, I think not. With Christmas, and presents, what's not to love?

Update

In case anyone was worried, do not be worried, I am just fine. Yes, I was quite upset yesterday morning, but I went on to study at a coffee shop in the afternoon and make Christmas presents in the evening. Admitttedly, I couldn't manage to haul my butt out of bed soon enough to make it to church this morning, but I finaly got up, and went to the beach with a classmate and watched the surfers and got more caught-up in my theology reading. Later, I went to a coffeeshop with another classmate and studied Random people from the history of psychology and then went home and did a write-up of a fake psychological intake interview. And, mercy, this girl had like every daignosis in the DSM! (Not really, but it was a lot. ;-))
Yes, it was a crappy weekend, but one of many crappy weekends, all of which I have gotten through before, just like this one.
Now, can I just make it through a Christmas at home? ;-)

Lord Have Mercy

***Warning: Bad Language Ahead***
Taking a shower the morning after a binge is the worst.
Well, actually, that's not true. Getting up out of bed the morning after a binge is the worst. Taking a shower is even worst-er.
I don't know why, but that consistantly seems to be my time to unload on myself. I would attribute it to having to look in the mirrors in the bathroom, and seeing the damage I wreak on myself, but that's not true. I hardly ever look into mirrors if I can help it. What's there is just too painful.
So, I don't know why, but there in the bathroom, as I wash my face and the room fills up with steam, I light into myself:
"Why the fuck are you so fucking disgusting?? Why do you do this to yourself?? Why don't you just Stop Eating, you fucking idiot? Why can't you just do what you're fucking supposed to do and not eat so much fucking food so you won't feel like fucking shit all the time, and you won't Hate yourself for being the disgusting person you are???"
"And why are you such a Selfish Bitch to be carrying on like this?????"
Thankfully, I don't say this outloud, it's just all in my head. But it still hurts, it still grinds me into the ground until I literally sometimes have trouble moving because it's like I have a huge boulder on my back, pinning me, helpless, to the ground.
See, that's the thing. I feel so Helpless in my hate, so unable to do Anything to make things change. Oh God, why don't You just fucking change me!?!? Why??? Can't you see that I Can't Do This By Myself?????
Sometimes, I just want to go to sleep and never wake up. Which is so not true, because I don't want to die. And, let me tell you, that's a new and improved state! There have been many times where I've said, "I want to go to sleep and never wake up," and I Meant It. Ohhh, how I wanted this all to be over. Thank God, that's not me anymore. I want to Live. But I want to live differently, I want to live in a world where I don't eat until I feel sick and then keep on eating, where I don't internally shudder at my appearance becuase it's so disgusting to me, where I one of my classmates doesn't have to call me three times a week, on our 'early class' days to make sure I get out of bed in the morning.
Oh please, God.
And, oh!, what is Wrong with me, I feel like such a selfish bitch, hating myself and carrying on this way, because, after all, nothing really horrible has ever happened to me. My parent's didn't beat me. Yes, I was molested as a child, but so was fucking everyone, and it wasn't by anyone in my family. Not like one of my classmates, who was molested by his Own Mother. Can you imagine??? My parent's aren't divorced. Yes, their marriage sucks, but at least their still together. There was never a long train of boyfriends/girlfriends/step-parents coming through our house. My parents have never used drugs. No one ever shot at me or bodily threatened me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Oh God, I need Help. I so much wish You would just wave Your magic wand, and everything would be better. But I know you don't work that way. So, this is what I ask: Help is needed, here, Right Here, 123 Fairmaid Rd., Insignificant L.A. Suburb, Ca. I don't know what that help is gonna look like, probably not anything like I would wish it to, but I Need It. NOW.
Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Kyrie Eleison.

Seven (Six) Sevens

Well, since my last post was rather scary and depressing and dark, I'll stick with something light and breezy today. I thought I'd take part in the Seven Sevens Meme (what the heck is a meme?), as seen at Mel's blog, among others.

1. Seven Things to Do Before I Die

1. Finish my doctorate.
2. Get married.
3. Live in Europe again.
4. Find a good gellato place in L.A.
5. Have a strong relationship with my brother.
6. Have five babies.
7. Be happy.

2. Seven Things I Cannot Do

1. Higher math.
2. Find jeans that fit.
3. Play baseball (or any sport requiring hand-eye coordination.)
4. Carry on a decent conversation with my brother.
5. Play chess.
6. Keep potted plants alive.
7. Play an instrument. (Darn me for quitting piano in fifth grade!)
(Ok, that's like way symbolic that I can't 'play' on 3 out of 7 things. What does that say about me and fun? ;-))

3. Seven Things that Attracted Me to Boyfriend

1. The second time I met him, he offered to help me. (Apparently he did this to everyone, but I didn't know that, and anyway, that makes it almost more endearing.)
2. Pretty blue eyes.
3. Ability to tease me and make me laugh at myself.
4. Goofball sense of humor.
5. Supportiveness of me and my dreams.
6. His love of children. (Memo to guys: If you like/play with kids, it's Super Hot.)
7. He read Pride and Prejudice, before we started dating, because I love it so much.

4. Seven Things I Say Most Often

1. Holy crap!
2. Grascious me!
3. Well, poop.
4. That's completely inappropriate. (My new psycho-babble word for bad).
5. That must be really hard for you.
6. Are you serious??
7. Craziness!

5. Seven Books I Love

1. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
2. Persuasion by Jane Austen
3. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevesky
4. The Horse and His Boy by C.s. Lewis
5. Traveling Mercies by Anne LaMott
6. The Book of Common Prayer
7. Dante's Divine Comedy

6. Seven Movies I Watch Over and Over Again

1. Pride and Prejudice (1995 BBC Version)
2. Life is Beautiful
3. Schindler's List
4. Return to Me
5. Love Actually
6. Emma (Gwenyth Paltrow)
7. Italian for Beginners

So, I'm supposed to tag seven people here, but since I don't know seven people, I won't. But feel free to tag yourself!!

Somedays

Somedays its hard to like myself.
Wow, that's an incredibly self-centered statement. It's just all about me, isn't it? And when I ruminate about how awful I am, in a way it's really a form of narcissism: staring at myself, all day long, wasting away.
But, unlike Narcissus, I really don't like what I see.
I went to the mall today, looking for some black pants. You see, when you're constantly gaining and losing (but mostly gaining) weight, you never have clothes that fit you. So you have to go buy new ones. And thus, I needed new ones, black pants to be specific. But when you can't fit into anything that most of the stores carry, because you're too dang fat, shopping tends to be a less-than-enjoyable experience. When you're so self-consious about how ugly your body is that you just want to be invisible, just hope no one looks at you, it's not really fun to be out where there are people.
Maybe that's why I spend so much time alone. ;-)
Part of me feels guilty for writing this, part of me ashamed. "Just get over it!" after all. "Lose some weight!" then you won't look and feel like crap. - I can certailnly imagine thoughts like these floating through the heads of those who read this. AFter all, there's nothing more annoying that listening to people go on and on about things they dislike about themselves but refuse to change.
And there's nothing sadder than listening to a person who hates a part of themselves. I know, because I've listened to my own mother countless times tell me how fat and ugly she is, and how right it is that others should think badly of her for it.
Funny how we sound a wee bit similar. ;-)
I don't know what to do with myself, don't know what to do with my life, so I just keep plodding on, hoping for a change, however small, towards something better.

The Boy-Hat

Today marked the illustrious begining of Boy-Hat Season. Due to the freakish nature of weather patterns in Southern California, it has just now become necessary to wear winter apparel The Boy-Hat being my cheif winter accessory, I happily took it off the hook and wore it for the first time today. And, as usual, the Boy-Hat delivered,
For the uninitiated, the Boy-Hat is a news-boy cap I have worn throughout my undergrad years. It has gone through sevearl reincarnations, the current one in black velvet. The Boy-Hat is so named, because, well, boys love the Boy-Hat. It has been known to induce random men off to the street to comment on the adorableness of my hat. (Random, Straight men, I might add.) And today was no exception. Fat and ugly as I am, I received two male compliments on how nice my hat looked, as well as several female ones. And, as stupid as I feel recounting all of this, I must admit there's a (large) part of me that always feels smug and happy when the Boy-Hat generates these comments.
I'm not sure I want to know what this says about me. ;-)
(And, admittedly, it would be nicer if a hat was not required to solicit comments about my all-surpassing beauty from random strangers. ;-))

A Minor Revelation

So, apparently more people read this thing than I thought. Which is fine, but it freaks me out a little, because I'm just so brutally honest here, and I don't want to scare anyone with myself. And I'm not just honest here. Here, everyone can see how mean and bitter I really am. Here I show a side of myself that I don't necessarily normally let others see. And, altho I intended this to be private, not read by anyone I actually knew, turns out, that's not quite happened. Now several people I actually know in real life read this blog. So now comes the big question, the one I alluded to in my last post, that if people who really know you see how mean and messed-up you are inside, will they still be your friend in spite of it all?
I think the answer is yes.
But that doesn't mean it doesn't scare me and make the think twice or three times about what I write here. However, I am determined to forge on, determined to continue in my realness, keep on in the pursuit of truth, even if its a little (a lot) rough around the edges. Just please don't hate me.
(And please, dear grascious!, don't tell me my parents are reading this! ;-))

To My Dearest Girl:

Most darling of Roommates,
I am so, so happy for you! I feel so hackneyed in talking like this, but sometimes, I suppose it's the best you can do.
Soon, I think I will have no right to call you mine, because soon, altho the words have not yet been spoken, it will be time to relinquish claims that have truly belonged to someone else for a long while. And, yes, it makes me sad. And yet, I am so happy for you!!! So happy for you and him! How can I be sad, and yet so, so very happy at the same time?? Honestly, I never thougth I could feel so unequivocably happy for anyone as I do for the two of you now.
I am so proud of you, my brave girl! You are truly facing up to what this impending decision means in your life, in a way I think few people around us have. Most profoud of all, tonight, you talked about how you feared that if you truly stepped out and married him, somehow he would discover the truth about you, and what an awful person you really are, and not love you anymore. That is the great risk in love, my dear, the great fear in relationship, and when you voiced it tonight, you hit the nail on the head. I am so proud of you for looking that fear squarely in the face! I can well imagine the scariness of such a step in faith. But, as I told you this evening, this is your chance to experience Grace. I truly believe the sacrament of marriage will bring you Grace, my darling.
My dear girl, I will be sorry to lose you. But, as I am beginning to realize, altho our relationship may grow and change, I will never lose you, ever. You and Michael are friends I will have Forever, yes, literally, FOREVER. I don't know if I ever believed that could happen to me, but now here it is, and here you are. And it is a privaledged, to love and to be so loved.
Grace and Peace to you, darling girl!

Book Binge

Today I went on a book binge. While less than ideal, I'm rather proud of it because it did not involve calories. My two hour tour of Barnes & Noble ended in the following purchases: Traveling Mercies, by Anne LaMott, Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller, and Words of Comfort for Everyday, by Rev. Josheph T. Sullivan, in brown fake leather.
The latter is a daily devotional guide whose theme is "I love you, Lord," and has the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur, as verified by Francis J. McAree, S.T.D. and Patrick J. Sheridan, D.D. Those funny little words give me comfort, first because I know the Catholic Church has checked it out and verified it as not being New Age Crap, or similar. Which is funny, because I think I could identify New Age Crap pretty well, but it comforts me all the same. Second, I'm not real open to Anything from a Protestant author right now, as all I can see is my mother preaching at me through their words, so I'm hoping I'll be able to hear a nice Catholic book somewhat better. On the other hand, I'm not feeling real "I love you, Lord" at the moment, so it will be interesting to see how things go.
The first two have been recommended to many times by many different people, and seem to be appropriate books for those currently, ahem, disgruntled with the classic evangelical/fundamentalist church. I've read excerpts from both, and am loving them because of their willingness to cuss and be real about the crap of life. I've only read two chapters, but already Donald Miller has hit the nail on the head about much of my spiritual life:
That's when I realized that religion might be able to hose things down, get me back to normal so I could have fun without feeling guilty or something. I just didn't want to have to think about this guilt crap anymore. ~Blue Like Jazz, pg. 8
God as the cosmic guilt remover: if you're just good enough/spiritual enough/Bible-saturated enough, you won't feel like crap anymore. And so the quest begins. The thing is, tho, I want that quest to end. I'd like to actually know God for who He is, instead of what He can do for me. Evangelicals are great at emphasizing what God can do for you, all the fringe benefits of being associated with Him. Well, I don't want fringe benefits anymore. I want the Truth.
You know, I used to think the search for truth was all up in your head. You searched for truth when you read Plato and Augustine and Dostoevsky, and magically crystalized it when you wrote papers. I'm beginning to realize, however, that that is only half the deal. The other half is in the nitty gritty, down and dirty, shit that makes up the journey of life. Yes, I can and should search for the Truth in St. Thomas Aquinas and Kierkegaard. But I also need to search for Truth in my everyday life, the Truth of who I really am and who I have become and who I have allowed myself to be molded into. I need to look at the hard facts of how life really is, and somehow, some way accept that I have Failed, and my parents have FAiled, and the church has Failed, and yet I can still go on and lead something of an ok life. I don't know if my search will 'work' or how it will end, but I know that in looking the crap in the face, I am beginning the first step.

Familiar and Familial

It's funny, because going home for Thanksgiving really wasn't that bad. In fact, coming back here was really, Really hard. There's definitely something to be said for the familiar, even if the familiar sometimes sucks. (It also helps that Texas/the South is the Promised Land, and so to be Out of California is always a vast improvement. ;-))
I was really, Really nervous about going home. Knots in my stomach, couldn't sleep, the whole nine yards. I've been going through a lot of crap this fall in therapy, and have realized a lot of not-so-good things about my family, and as a result, it seems like every time I talk to my mother on the phone, we end up fighting, I end up crying, or both. So I expected it to be just like that at home. But it wasn't. Why?
I think part of it has to do with the (not-so-good) way I tend to relate to people: they're either all good or all bad, and shades of gray cannot reside within the same person. [This is also known as splitting, a favorite of those with Border Line Personality Disorder. Woohoo.] Thus, when I go home and my mother is kind to me and my father's a jerk, I box them up in those catagories: mother = good, father = bad. This fall I've been boxing them up in precisely the opposite catagories, mother = bad, father = good, and so I think that's part of why going home was so confusing. Why is it so hard for me to synthesize the good and the bad that's in everyone????
I have no idea. But I keep trying, keep struggling, keep crying in Dr. Stacey's office and making desperate hand movments - that I've become quite famous for - in an effort to bring together two things that it seems to me are impossible to conjoin.
I am trying to pursue truth, the truth about me and my family. However, as SimpleKindofMan says, sometimes the truth is hard to get to.

Your Voice

You called tonight.
I saw the Louisiana area code on the 'missed calls' section of my phone and did a double take. No one else would be calling me from there.
My first thought was, ohmygosh, he's hurt or something horrible has happened! Go me, the eternal catastrophizer. I anxiously listened to my voice mails, and my stomach got knottier as I deleted each message prior to yours. Then I heard you speak.
I love the sound of your voice.
You said you had gotten a cell phone, which made me laugh b/c you have eschewed cell phones for so long. You said "call me." So I did.
It was wonderful.
I love to hear your laugh, love to hear the teasing in your voice, love your professional "Quality Hotel," which sounds like you're speaking Spanish. ;-) I love it when you tease and joke with me. I laid on my bed and listened to the babble of your voice mingling with other people speaking as you did your job. Only you would do your job and carry on an hour and 15 minute long conversation at the same time. ;-)
I'm so glad you called me today, and am secretly delighted that you called me on the First day you got a phone, not weeks and weeks after.
I think I will interpret that just as I like!
And now I will lay down to sweet dreams of you.
Goodnight!

Random Thoughts and Observations from a Thanksgiving At Home

1.) Honey is a Sweet Doggy.

2.) My brother, age 11, is, like, practically an adolescent. He has a peach-fuzz mustache! What the hell is going on?

3.) Sometimes there's just no point in trying to explain The Profession (i.e., psychology), espescially if people have already made up their mind as to what they think before you ever open your mouth.

4.) My aunt has a vulgar brother (whom we never talk about) that randomly showed up at Thanksgiving and said "whore" and "asshole" in front of the children, while talking about the mafia and showing off his knowledge of Texas history. Personally, I think he liked my breasts a bit too much.

5.) My mother is the most Indecisive Woman in the history of mankind. She painted hte dining room Three Times before deciding the third color was actually ok. I think my dad is going to kill her. After all, we're getting the house remodeled and she still hasn't decided on Tile or Wood for the family room. I shudder to think.

6.) I showed my Prowess as a shopper by finding a Gorgeous blue-and-white Ralph Lauren bedspread for $50. (The ugly cheap ones at Wal-mart cost $50 too and look like crap). I am very proud, and my mother is in awe. She hates to shop.

7.) I hate, Hate, HATE the game Risk. At least when playing it with my family. I swear to you, our familiy dynamics play out like nobody's business in that game. Mama and Daddy battle cruelly against each other, with plenty of stabbing comments along the way, while Michael tries despearately to form alliances with my father, who wants nothing to do with it becuase his only desire is to win (and beat my mother). In the end, Michael (with his mustache) ends up sobbing, my parents end up yelling at each other, and I end up Mad.

8). Does my father actually hear me when I tell him important things while I'm crying? I tend to think not, that he's just staring in horror as I gasp for breath and try to speak calmly, with tears falling down my face. I'm not sure how to remedy this situation, except to hope that maybe he really does hear more than it would appear.

9.) My mother is determined to send me to a dermatologist. Clearly, my skin is not good enough for her.

10.) Even worse than getting your period while away from home without one's preferred feminine products is when non-preferred feminine products leak, allowing blood to get all over one's new Christmas panties. Very sad.

Hope your Thanksgiving was a good one!
(Maybe someday I'll get around to posting the Juicy Details of my assertive and confronting holiday. I know you're on the edge of your seat. ;-))

Tidbits

Random tidbits about me and my life:

1. I have a wrinkle forming between my eybrows at the base of my left eyebrow. It scares me every time I look at it, becuase it makes me look like the brooding person I am. Everytime I see it, I try to smooth my forehead and pretend it's not there.

2. I lit a candle at church today for the first time in my life. It was a good experience.

3. Capote is a really, Really depressing movie. It's pretty good, and very interesting, but don't go see it unless you really, Really want to be depressed.

4. The house toilet is broken, and so, while it's currently 'ghetto rigged' to flush, it could break again at any moment, leaving us toilet-less. Our landlord promised to fix it by this morning, but, what a surprise, he hasn't.

5. My room is actually clean.

6. I have fallen in love with Boba (bubble) tea. MMmmmm, so good!

7. 80-90% of people with schizophrenia are nicotine dependent.

8. My roommate does not do her dishes. Currently, there is a soggy crust and a slimy piece of half-eaten lunchmeat sitting in the sink, which have slid from her still-unwashed dishes. I think the plate is from Wednesday or Thursday.

9. Same roomate has left two notes by the sink, reminding us to do our dishes Right After we use them.

10. I'm really nervous about going home at Thanksgiving. Things do not bode well with the parents/grandmother. I'm scared.

And I leave in less than two days. Meeep!

Temptation and Redemption

Cinnamon rolls sit on the counter. A Family-Pak, half eaten, for the rest of us to share. They call to me, mock me, even as I sit here, two rooms and a hall-way away. It's even worse in the kitchen. Every time I walk past, they tug on my sleeve.
. . . Must Resist . . .

So far, I'm holding. (And now my blog is stuck in italics, but hopefully maybe it won't show up that way on the post.)
Anyway, the week from Hell is officially over. This morning, I slept till noon. (Yes, I know, I get Friday's off. Before you get too jealous, you must know I spend most of them testing and/or slaving away on Measurement & Assessment.) I'm feeling well rested now, altho not quite ready to face the mountain of homework I have to do, a stats test on Tuesday being most frightening.
Now, some thoughts on my spiritual life, courtesy of St. Ignatius of Loyola and Dr. Steve Porter. It's been some crazy times around here lately, as far as my spiritual life is concerned. I have realized, among other things, that I don't know where I end, and my mother begins, and more importantly, where my mother ends, and God begins. As in, when I think of God, I really think of my mother, projected onto Him. Which, I must tell you, is not a pretty picture. So, basically, I don't know God very well, I don't reallly have much of a relationship with Him, I more have a 'relationship' with a deified version of my mother. Yipes! (Go therapy!)
All this to say my feelings towards God have not been the most warm and fuzzy of late. But, you know what?, for the first time I feel like I'm really being Real. And that feels really good.
Anyway, in theology class on Monday, I had two minor revelations: First, Dr. Porter was giving us the down-and-dirty paraphrase of St. Ignatius' view on the spiritual life, the long and the short of it being (at least for me) that just because you're not feeling all joyful and happy about going to church, or reading your Bible, or whatever, does not mean that God's not working in your life. On the contrary, you may be in a period of Desolation, in which God is working like nobody's business, but He's working in and through your desolation. And that's ok. And you don't have to beat yourself up for not feeling lots of consolation-feelings. (And I know this is probably a butchering of St. Ignatius. Please understand that I'm simply saying what was helpful for me at this time, and not trying to give a full study of his spirituality.)
Secondly, we were talking in class about the meditations we had just done on a psalm, and Dr. POrter was asking us about our attitudes towards the Bible right now, etc. He was going on and on and then he looked at me and said, "Now, if you're really struggling right now, and when you read the Bible, all you see is the pain and hurt inflicted by others in the name of God, maybe this just isn't your time. [FairMaid], maybe you shouldn't be reading the Bible just right now, becuase it sounds to me from what you've said that you're upbringing makes it really hard to See God in the Scriptures just right now. And that is, after all, the point."
So there you go kids. We're taking a little breather. Because, after writing my meditation notes and seeing the word HATE carved into the paper and underlined many times, I'm thinking he's probably right. If all I can see is my mother when I read God's Word, what's the point??? It only makes me madder, only makes me Hate God and my mother more.
So, for the moment, we're taking a deep breathe, going to church often (I don't feel so much hate there), and working in therapy like nobody's business.
Isn't Thanksgiving going to be fun!?!? ;-)

It's Over

The week from Hell is over. The wretched paper is turned in. It took seven hours, start to finish, all in one sitting. Boyfriend would be proud, it's just his style. ;-)
Now I'm exhausted. As in, I'm not sure I can make it to CSI. And if you can't stay awake until CSI? It's a Very sad day.

The Banana Republic Princess

Yeah, so, I know, I said I wasn't going to post. But this is just a quickie, submitted during an unexpected window of time. So there! ;-)
I was supposed to have a testing client today at four, but they canceled at the last minute, leaving me with an unexpected two hours of freedom. I should, of course, be writing the huge paper (which I haven't Started) that's due on Thursday. Instead? I went shopping.
Oh yes, boys and girls, I was That productive. There's nothing quite like spending money you don't have. And yet . . . I had a great time. I went into an expensive store I dont' usually shop at, and luxuriously browesed through hundreds of soft, beautiful sweaters, smart, tailored pants, and gorgeous silk evening-wear. I was in Heaven. Why do I like looking at beautiful things so much???? Is it just purely covetousness that leads me to run my fingers across gorgeously fitted satin? Is it pure sin? A part of me really doesn't think so. I mean, yes, I know I take things too far sometimes (often). Being in such stores always makes me wish I was the wife of Mr. Darcy so I could just buy everything I see, and I know I'm not good at being ok with being 'poor.' (I am So not poor, by the way. Well, I am, I'm in grad school, but I have a place to live, and enough to eat. I'm just in debt up to my eyeballs. ;-)) I know I place too much emphasis on having fine things and taking them for granted.
And yet, on the other hand, I can't honestly say I think it's wrong to enjoy a well-made garmet, something truly fine. I don't think it's wrong to feel like a princess as I try on a beautiful lacy blouse, which I could only (barely) afford because it was on deep discount. Is this a bad thing? Sometimes I think yes, sometimes I think no, most of the time I just have no idea.

This Week = Suck

Just so you know, this is the week from Hell.
Today I had a time-consuming "Meditation" due for Theology, tomorrow TWO Measurement & Assesment Write-ups of my two live clients, and on Thursday the Psychopathology Literature Review that I have not started. I am Screwed.
Due to this unfortunate circumstance, I will probably not be posting again until, like, Thursday. I know you are all (my, like, three whole readers) vastly dissapointed. However, rest assured that I will be back by Thursday or Friday, and will then post a long-awaited review of P&P, thoughts on St. Ignatius and my spiritual life, and why I do not have to read the Bible (right now): specific, personal instructions from my Theology teacher. I know you can't wait. ;-)
In the mean time, I will be checking everyone else's blogs and trying to come to a decent understanding of Dissociative Fugue.
Wish me luck!

Grace

So, I know I said I would review P&P, and I will. But right now, I just have little comment to make about my evening. This evening, I went to visit a fellow psych grad-student. We made brownies and watched a movie. It was nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, but I haven't felt so comfy in a while. Which is espescially ironic, becuase in many ways, this girl is Nothing like me. She lives alone, has almost no family, and advocates same-sex marriage. She is far more liberal than myself and has only been to church once since moving to California four months ago. In some ways her world has been a lot harsher than mine, in other ways our stories are very similar. But probably more than anyone else that I've met here in California, in fact more than almost anyone else I've ever known, with the exception of Boyfriend and a few others, tonight she offered me grace. I told about my life and she didn't judge or try to 'fix' my world. She just listened in compassionate silence, letting me tell my own story instead of framing it the way she wanted to see it. That kind of acceptance is rare in this world, and seems even more rare in Christian circles. We must always judge, always fix, always urge onward, instead of letting the other just sit and experience the pain.
I don't know if this girl and I will ever become really close friends, but I do know I have found a Minister of Grace, however unlikely. I now have an ally, oddly enough, although she is someone with whom I disagree with on many things. How odd, that I should have such a friend, and yet, I think, how good for me! Maybe I am growing?

Bewitched

So, contrary to the post below, I rather liked the movie.
First, may I just say I committed my very first act of social defiance and snuck into a sold-out movie. I paid for it with a nervous stomach, tho, clenching everytime a person in a movie-theater polo shirt would come by, until I was swept away by . . . I don't even know what.
Perhaps I was just in the mood, perhaps I just wanted desperately to hope, but right now I am a giddy little girl, sitting here, with bubbles of happiness welling up. When I first walked out of the movie theater, I could not stop hiccupping and gasping with happiness, as tho I was Lizzy Bennet, not some poor grad student, fat and alone. For those few moments, and even now, I was a girl whose every wish had come true, who was too happy to bear her own happiness.
I could give a review of the movie, and I probably will yet, I have lots to say about it. But right now, I think I'll just float away on my cloud of delight, and not worry about weary analysis. When Mr. Darcy says, "You have bewitched me, body and soul," there is really nothing left to say, only to feel my chest heave at the thought. That was not the best part, tho. The best part was at the very end, when the Darcys are now at Pemberley, and Mr. Darcy is teasing Lizzy, asking her what pet names he should call her. He finally asks her if he should call her "Mrs. Darcy" when he is cross, and she says, oh no, "Only when you are completely, incandescentely happy."
I couldnt' agree more. To be called "Mrs. _________" would be better than anything else, espescially as you husband whispers it to you, kissing you with each repetition, kissing you until you float away into another realm entirely.

P&P

Ummmm, so, News flash! Pride and freaking Prejudice COMES OUT TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How did I miss this?? How did I miss the fact that my favorite novel Of All Time is making its big screen debut TONIGHT???
Ok, yes, I realize this last statement is slightly debatable. But the two BBC versions were only shown on TV and video - completely marvelous as they are - and, well, the 1940 Greer Garson one totally doesn't count. A.) The story is completely messed up, Lady Catherine actually Likes Lizzy in this version, and B.) Do you know the film was actually made as a WWII propaganda film to make people sympathetic towards England? - Watch it, and you'll totally see what I mean. C.) The Scarlett O'Hara dresses - wrong country, wrong decade.)
I suppose I had forgotten about the film because, to be perfectly honest, I'm a little leery of this new version. I mean, first of all, I love, Love, LOVE the second BBC version with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, that's pretty near perfection as far as I'm concerned. The mini-series length makes it possible to really do justice to Jane's writing and dialogue, the costumes are great, and the acting is superb. (And did I mention Colin Firth is, umm, very nice looking? ;-)) So, basically, I don't think any other version could really measure up. Secondly, ummm, Kiera (sp?) Knightly. Need I say more? I really, really don't like her in general, but, even worse, I know she's going to make Lizzy into some w(b)itchy femi-nazi who is nothing like the intelligent, courageous character Jane Austen created. And I love Lizzy. So tampering with her I know will make me sad.
Nevertheless, I must go. I can't not support Jane. And, well, I'll be back to tell you whether or not the film is worthy of her name.

Sappy Stuff about Dogs (or, as Y would call it, The Cheese)

A small miracle has just occurred on campus. There was actually a dog! A real dog! And I got to pet her! Yay!
Ok, so, you must understand my great devotion to dogs, particularly my own babies, to understand the horrors of my deprivation. I got my first dog when I was seven. Maggie, or Pup, as we called her, was a Christmas present, the sweetest present I ever got. I still remember her clumsy puppy-ways as she bounded across the kitchen to see us. She was Beautiful, and oh-so-prescious. When my little brother came along when I was eleven (yeah, I know, more on that later), Pup became the best little Mother-Doggy you've ever seen! We have this Adorable picture of her, up on her hind legs, leaning over, looking into the bassinet to see the baby who, as far as she was concerned, was most definitely Hers. She was the sweetest and most patient of mothers, letting LittleBrother tug her ears, her tail, 'pet' her by slapping her on the head, tolerating all his little baby ways with sweetness, always glad to see him. Very, Extremely, Sadly she died when I was a freshman in high school of a rare, genetic gall-bladder disease.
I got my second dog the summer before my junior year in high school. That was a Hard summer, and I was so glad, when I got back from a church youth-group trip, to see a dancing little puppy in our kitchen. I had to read Tess of the D'Urbervilles that summer, Wretched Book, but Honey would curl up in my lap and dream sweet puppy-dreams while I sat cross-legged in front of the dishwasher. My sweet puppy still remembers every time I come home, still the dancing little girl she was when she was a baby. That's the great thing about dogs, they never hide their affections. On the contrary, they're always happy to show you just how much they love you.
In other words, while petting a Real Dog is not quite the same as kissing my girls, it brings me back to all the sweet times I've had with my darling puppy-girls.

The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

So, I was coming back from didactic therapy today, trying, as usual, to beat the traffic and use as little gas as possible. Consequently, I was going the 'creative' route and thus was barreling down an unknown freeway, looking desperately for something familiar. Then, Behold!, the Interstate North, towards Los Angeles! I had almost completely merged before I realized, Holy Crap!, I live in Los Angeles! (Ok, so, not in Los Angeles, but you know what I mean.) Wow, ummm, some things have changed a lot, I guess without them compmletely 'registering.' (Ok, so it totally doesn't help that I actually live in the Anonymous Suburban Wasteland which could be ANYWHERE. - In fact, the houses all look so alike, that after three months here, I STILL MISS THE DRIVEWAY OF MY OWN HOUSE.) So, here's some new fun facts about me, for those (one ;-)) of you who would know any different:

1. New favorite drink at Starbucks: Grande Iced Percent-Milk Caramel Macchiato - Divine! With two shots of esspresso, it's a great way to start the day!
2. I have said the F-word, aloud. More than once.
3. I have developed a taste for cilantro.
4. I have taken to crossing myself like a Fiend. (Holy water is a favorite, too.)
5. I am now in credit card debt.
6. Apparently, I am now more of an optimist! ;-)

On the other hand, the more things change, the more they stay the same:

1. I still love doggies!!!, of whom Honey, my sweet puppy, is the Queen Bealge.*
2. The Propel addiction continues unabated.
3. Ditto on JA (Jane Austen), altho I wouldn't call her an addiction; Jane is a lifestyle.
4. I still shop too much.
5. I still play my mother's manipulative games. (But I really think I'm getting better!)
6. My heart still leaps in my chest when I get an e-mail from Late Boyfriend.

So there you go. Me, different, but still the same.

*(Btw, ok, I totally thought peeps in California would be of the taking-annoying-yappy-dogs-inappropriate-places-in-kitchsy-bags variety, a la Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde. On the contrary, I'm hard pressed to find a doggy outside of Starbucks of a Sunday morning! And forget dogs on campus - I haven't seen a single one!)

Phone Calls

Today was a bit of a rough day.
I talked to my dad today about how I'm not coming home for the summer. There was a numb silence on the other end of the line. He had nothing to say. Neither did I. Deep down, we both know, it means I'd rather be somewhere else than home. And that hurts. I know it hurts, but I can't spend another summer there. I can't lie to them, and myself, and go back home, to hurt and be miserable. I just won't do it. But it hurts like hell for both of us to know that home is that awful. So we just sat in silence.
The plan is that Roommate will fly out to L.A. in May, after the end of the semester. Together, we will drive my car, full of my crap, from L.A. to Dallas. (Roadtrip!) There we will fulfill our duties as Bridesmaids/Acting Maids of Honor and see Semi-Estranged friend married. Then we will drive back to Louisiana and room together there, for one last summer of Us. Bliss!
All the more blissful because of the (not unexpected) news I received in another call I made today. Friend Michael revealed his definite intentions to marry Roommate, and, please don't misunderstand!, I am sooooo happy for them!!!!!!!! (This declaration has not actually taken place, mind you.) I know they will be so happy together, and I am so happy that they will make each other so happy. But now, of course, I must give up my girl forever. And this is as it should be. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
Thus I must spend the summer with her.
Thus (and for many other reasons) I must not go home.
Thus I will make my father feel abandoned and unloved.

Don't even get me started on the conversation I had with my mother today! ;-)

The Godfather: The Obsession

So here's the thing: I'm not exactly an organized-crime kinda girl. I'm not really into prostitution rings or brutal slayings. But when Vito Coreleone is head of The Family, I want to be a part of it too!
I'm trying to decide what is so appealing about the mafia. Part of it, of course, is that Al Pacino = Hot. No questions asked, kids, that is one fine looking man. And when he looks at Apolonia (the Sicilian girl) and his eyes about burn right through her . . . ahem, well, this is soon going to become fodder for a trashy romance novel. I suppose part of the appeal is the power, which is both a good and a bad thing. Of course I would love to be in a situation in which, if I needed something, the Godfather would get it done for me. (In undergrad I felt a bit like the wife of a mafia don; Late Boyfriend was definitely a Big Man on Campus. I remember one time, I was going to do some cooking, and I mentioned to Late Boyfriend that I needed some vinegar. Practically before I reached my apartment, there was a bottle of vinegar on my doorstep, and another offer came by a few minutes later. It was great.) But there's really so much more to it than that. I think what is most appealing is the power that comes with their sense of family and community, which most people don't really have nowadays. I come from a very small family, with one brother and two cousins. Those are all the kids. If I need help with something, need to find a job, need someone with a special skill, I definitely don't go to someone in my family. No one there could help, or would help me if I asked. If I did something reprehensible, most of my family would drop me like a hot potato, not because they are Bad People, but, on the contrary, because they are so dedicated to doing what is right that they have no problem abandoning a relation who does what is wrong. For the Corleones, loyalty to the Family is paramount, and once you come within it's embrace, you 'belong' forever.
(And, of course, it helps that there are so many phallic symbols, mixed with all that power imagery . . . mmmmm, yes please . . . ;-))
So, basically, sign me up.

Because Blogroll won't work. (Grrr.)

So, I can't get Blogroll to work. V. peeving. I've signed up at Blogroll site, have a password, the whole nine yards. I've fussed with my own settings to see if perhaps I need to 'turn something on' on my own blog so that it can work. No luck. Anyone have any ideas?
Anyway, in lieu of having a real Blogroll, I've deicded to bring you two of my favorite blogs, the only two I check religiously. (And I really don't feel like giving the didactic therapy update yet. We're getting there.)
Mel: www.melodee128.blogspot.com Mel tells it like it is, and is funny and profound to boot. I love to hear about her kids, her husband, and her childhood, the stuff of life. (She also has great movie reviews. ;-))
Y: www.joyunexpected.com Y is just plain hillarious. Her kids are fabulous, too, and so much fun to hear about! I really identify with Y's struggles, but most of all, I love the way she's not afraid to laugh at herself. If you need a laugh, Y is your girl.
Enjoy!

Hallowe'en

(That's how my British day planner spells it. ;-))
So, when I was growing up in my Good Evangelical Household, Halloween was from the Devil. It was the holiday in which Satan was worshipped and cats were sacrificed in the bayous. In fact, when I was in high school the local Christian music station decided it was going to enlist cars to drive in loops around the city while praying to protect us from the devil's work in Halloween and a Marilyn (sp?) Manson concert.
It was fabulous.
So, anyway, I kind of have a chip on my shoulder about Halloween. I am Determined that, for me, Halloween will now be a Fun and Wholesome experience, no longer tinged by guilt or Satanic overtones. I went to a Halloween party and dressed up. I got candy to give out to the little kids. I even carved The Most Adorable Jack-o-lantern Ever. (Don't tell my mother, she'll think I've joined a Satanic cult.) My roommate and I (the sane one) had a great time handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters, admiring all the costumes, wanting to steal the babies, and desperately searching the house for more candy to give to demanding adolescent boys when we ran out. (We finally found two suckers and told them to split them among a group of about six boys. It was pretty funny. We managed to keep a snickers and a kit-kat for ourselves. ;-))
On the other hand, a part of me is still a wee bit sympathetic towards the anti-Halloween people. Down the street there are two houses that went All Out as far as decorations. Both have set out graveyards, monsters, and, tonight, homemade haunted houses. However, the part I find really disturbing is this: in addition to the fake dismembered heads stuck randomly around the yard, one of the houses has a man hung from the eaves. The noose is tight, the body is limp, the head is drooping, and a small trickle of blood runs from the neck.
Alright, here's the thing. Remember that scene at the beginning of Braveheart when little William Wallace walks into the barn-thing and finds all the men hung from the rafters? Remember how frightening and disturbing that was the first time you saw it, and how frightening and disturbing you thought that must have been for little William? Well, the thing is, that's Supposed to be frightening and disturbing. Such a display of suicide or human- inflicted brutality Should be horrific, because both of those things are so terrible. But when it's something on the house of the Guy-Down-the-Street, the sight simply brings a thrill of fear and rebellion.
So please stop robbing the little kids of their God-given right to feel horror at something that should never take place.
(And I bet the people next door would really appreciate it too, because even in Southern California with the 'hot real estate market,' those poor people can't seem to manage to sell their house. ;-))
After all, people, you're just inciting Christian radio stations to perform weird, slightly cultish rituals anyway. ;-)

Socialization

So, I went to a party tonight, like a good little girl.
Parties are soooo not my thing. To be precise, they scare the living crap out of me. So for me to go tonight . . . well, I was proud. And I even dressed-up. And I even danced (after being physically dragged onto the dance floor). I could tell you the horrible and humiliating history of my entire social life, but I'm in too good of a mood to debase myself right now, so we'll save that for another time. Instead, I'll tell you about my evening.
So, obviously, it was a Halloween party, given by people at school. I went over to a classmate's house this afternoon, and we got dressed together. She dressed as '70s girl,' and with her long, lithe figure and mini skirt, she looked Fantastic, like some sort of Austin Powers-esque Sex Goddess. (not that I've ever seen Austin Powers, but never mind.) I'm not quite so long and lithe. I did not have a mini skirt. I did not know that the theme of girls' costumes for the evening was Sex Goddess. Instead, I dressed as Emma from the novel by Jane Austen. A poor choice, really, as I'm currently feeling more like Anne Elliot from Persuasion, but never mind. I curled my naturally stick-like hair into tiny ringlets, and wore a beautiful Regency era dress made especially for me. I looked for all the world like Lizzy Bennet in the BBC's Pride and Prejudice, but alas I could not be Lizzy without my Mr. Darcy. You see, Late Boyfriend and I used to go as Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. He even bought the full Regency-era costume one time as a present to surprise me! (When I mentioned that to my roommate, she stopped washing dishes, looked at me with admiration, and said "What a guy." I couldn't agree more.) We were adorable. I could not be Lizzy tonight.
I actually had a good time at the party, even though I was forced to dance and was not a Sex Goddess. But I think one of the most poignant moments of the evening was watching my friend the Sex Goddess interact with her boyfriend. They were chatting with someone, but I was watching them from behind and I could see his hand making gentle strokes down the small of her back. I miss that hand! I miss that feeling of reassurance that someone is right there, someone literally 'has my back,' someone is watching out for me in love. How I long for that hand! That gentle touch of "it's ok, you can do it, I'm here!"
There's no need to be a Sex Goddess, when you have that hand.

P.S.

So, I definitely just ran a load of wash WITHOUT DETERGENT.
Go me.

Damaged Goods

Didactic therapy is not for the faint of heart.
It was a teary one today. In fact, it was a teary weekend as well. My high school English teacher said all creation involves pain, and while I'm not sure about theological correctness of that statement, I know it's certainly true in my life. It's painful to try and grow into a healthier, less neurotic person. A person who can call the phone company all by herself, without fear of rejection. You may laugh, but from where I'm sitting, that'll be the day.
Today, we talked about one particular memory of my mother. I could not have been older than six. I am standing in front of the mirror in the horrid, 80s beige bathroom. My mother is brushing my hair, roughly; she never liked doing my hair. I think she was brushing it back into a ponytail when she spoke. I remember, even then, that her words seemed to come totally out of the blue to me. It did not follow from what she had just said, nor did it flow with what came after. "Sweetie, do your ears bother you? Because, you know, they stick out, but when you're older, a doctor can do an operation to make them look right. It's not a big thing, just a little snip."
I don't wear my hair in ponytails now, unless I absolutely have to.
You know, that operation may not be a big thing. It probably only requires local anesthesia. But, my gosh, having defective ears has been a big thing, requiring a lot more than local anesthesia. It's required self-starvation, panic attacks, and binge eating, among other things. But that still doesn't really numb the pain. Now, when I check the mirror, I have to check how visible my ears are. Pictures of myself are rated on a.) how not-fat I look, and b.) how my ears are doing. I hated getting my hair put up for dances, and so most of the pictures I have from formal occasions are inadmissible for framing because my ears are in the way.
Mama, why can you not accept my ears? Why do you still bring up the subject of plastic surgery every time I come home for a visit? Is it because they're just too grotesque to remain in your presence? Is it because I get my horrid ears from Daddy's side, and your so bitter towards him about everything else that this just adds fuel to the fire?
Is it because I will never, ever be good enough for you, and my ears are just a symbol of that fact?

No, I'm not Catholic. (Really.)

No, I'm not Catholic. Really. I may on occasion attend daily mass at St. Gregory the Great's Catholic Parish, where Father What's-His-Name, age 75+, says mass on Wednesday's, and sings "Ain't Got Time to Die" with more gusto than should be legal for a priest age 75+. I may attend an Anglican church called Blessed Sacrament that uses more incense than the Vatican. I may even (gasp) not believe all Catholics are going to Hell. But, no, I'm not a Catholic.
However, the Catholic-bashing has got to stop.
Yes, I know, I attend the leading Evangelical University in America (sort of). Yes, I know, according to the Protestant view, there are some problems with Catholic theology. But really? I expected more of you. I expected better.
Especially you, Acquintance of mine. You seem to see so clearly some of the problems of Evangelicalism. Yet you persist in making disparaging comments about a faith tradition I have a feeling you know little to nothing about. We talk about guilt and you say, "I shouldn't have this much guilt, my gosh, that's for Catholics!" Repeatedly. I mention the length of Catholic weddings and you say, "Yup, Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses both," in the Tone of Judgment, as tho Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses deserve the same cult status, both for their beliefs and the length of their wedding ceremonies. I begin to drive in the direction of the Catholic church to get to your house and you say, "Ooops, watch out, there'll be Weird Catholic church traffic." Those Weird Catholics. Darn them for worshipping God! How could they?
I suppose these comments may not seem that negative. Perhaps I'm just reading my own issues into them. But if you could hear the tone of sneering suspicion that accompanies these remarks, I think you might agree with me.
No, I'm not Catholic. (Really.) But some of the people nearest and dearest to my heart are. And you know what? I not only love and admire them, I love and respect their faith. So don't think you can denigrate them anymore. I've had enough, thank you.

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

I miss him tonight.
I miss the way we used to laugh, I miss our jokes, I miss our passion.
I saw this TV show tonight, a murder-mystery type-thing, which revolved around a strip of pictures a couple had had done together. You know those little photo-booth things that they have at subways and movie theaters and stuff? Like those. (Why is it that couples always feel compelled to take them? Well, except for the fact that they're funny and adorable and sweet and a concrete visual image of us as an Us.) I still have ours. They're adorable. I'm sadisitically looking at them right now, in fact. The first Christmas we were together, I blew one of them up and framed it, one for me, and one for him. I hope he still has his. The one I framed is not my favorite one, tho. My favorite one is the last one. I'm smiling demurely at the camera, while he's holding on from behind and kissing me on the cheek. My face is sweet and innocent, but my fist is in the picture, the only picture with a fist, and I'm clenching it for dear life. I don't remember whether the kiss was 'planned' or not, but knowing him, I bet it wasn't. I like to think it wasn't. He liked to surprise me, with anything. And I was clenching my fist for dear life because the touch of his lips on my face was still new to me then, still magical. Actually, I think it was always magical.
We look so happy in those pictures. The last one, in particular, is a picture of a girl with a joyous secret. She has his love, and no one else does, and she's not telling anyone . . . but her happiness is sparkling out of her eyes.
Where did that girl go?
What happened to us?

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The Good:
They're building a Chick-fil-a near my didactic therapitst's!!! This means that every week, after I drag myself there to drag out the inner crap of my soul, I can go to Chick-fil-a and get a Large Diet Lemonade, and make my life livable. For the unintitiated, Chick-fil-A is the In 'n' Out of the South. Only better. (Similar in quality, not in type of fair served. Chick-fil-a is Chicken Only.) Because it serves the best chicken nuggets in the USA, and the best lemonade EVER. Mega Peach-Bowl advertisement every December. Closed on Sundays. Crazy Cow commercials. Chick-fil-a rocks.
The Bad:
I live in Southern California. Please, oh Please!, don't hate me, native SoCalians, but . . . it's bad. (And it's also ugly). I mean, where else in America can you buy a tiny '60s era house that's Growing Mold inside of it and has redneck neighbors with an RV up on cinderblocks in their front yard, for $500,000+? Where else is Cheap Vodka on special at Albertson's for $9.99?? I mean, kids! At least in Texas you have to endure the Walk of Shame and go to the Cheap Liquor store to get such things which, lemme tell you!, will make you re-think your purchase! Traffic, schmaffic. I can deal with that. But these other things? The little things? That's what gets me.
The Ugly:
Well, you see, the ugly is easy. The ugly is me. I know, I know, I know. I'm not supposed to say things like that about myself. I'm not supposed to speak badly about me for any number of reasons. But let's look at the facts. The facts are: I'm 50 pounds over weight. 50 pounds!! That's, like, a kid! My ears stick out and are completely asymmetrical. My collar bones are drowning in fat. I have an icky mole on my back. Of course, that stuff's not really ugly. Undesirable, yes, but not really ugly. But you know what's ugly? A girl who shoves so much food down her throat in a vain attempt to smother her feelings that she wakes up in the morning too sick to get out of bed. A girl who does this every weekend, to be precise. A girl who has fantasies about slogging around in her own excrement and then grabbing some and smearing her face with shit. Yes, that's ugly. And don't try to tell me it's not.

On the Couch

So, I went to see my Didactic Therapist for our first 'real' session today. Before I go any further, let me explain. As a clinical psychology student, my school requires that I attend a minimun of a year and a half of individual psychotherapy. Which is great, because then I can pretend the only reason I'm in therapy is because I have to be. ;-) Anyway, back the first real session. So, I don't know about you, (all of my many readers, all of the still more who took lots of undergrad psychology,) but in undergrad psych classes I was told that no one actually psycho-analyzes anymore. As in, people may call themselves psycho-analysts and may even follow in the tradition of Freud, but no one actually does therapy the way Freud did. Well, all ye benighted psych students, I am here to tell you differently. Today I plopped down on the couch and, despite initial misunderstandings, was told to free-associate. As in, just say whatever comes into my head. No questions, no prompts, just say whatever you want, and take it wherever it takes you. My analyst (I'm not sure if therapist is the right word) kindly assured me, however, taht I won't have to lay down on the couch 'until I'm ready.' Fabulous. Before you know it, all I'm goign to be able to think about is having sex with my dad. Ummm, can I just say, Ewww? Ewwwwwww.
Admittedly, though, I think this method may have some positives. For the first time in my therapeutic life, I had to think Really Hard while I was at therapy. She didn't give me anything. Instead, it was I who analyzed my thoughts and behavior and I who interpretted my childhood. We already have a working symbol of my growing-up years, so I guess that's progress, right? Anyway, I hope this works. I hate changing therapists, it's the worst. But I think it will, if I can ever get over the fact that I will probably eventually have to say 'penis' in her office.

Coupons

On Sunday, I clipped coupons. It was the most fun I've had in a long time.

I got to go home to Texas this past weekend, to see my friends from undergrad (altho not my family, they live in a different city). I was a bit nervous going back, not sure how it was going to be. I've been a bit estranged from one of them for a while, in fact, and Roommate and I were staying with her in her apartment, so I wasn't sure how that was going to work out. Even beyond that, though, were more basic fears I always have when seeing someone I haven't seen in a while: Will I have changed, will they have changed, will they noticed I've gained weight (as usual), will they look different, will we still have anything in common, will there still be that connection? I need not have worried. If there's one thing my friends have shown me throughout these last few months, it's that they are my friends, and will be my friends, through thick and thin. In my struggles, they have truly shown their mettle.
But coupons.
Friend Michael, boyfriend of Roommate and my very good friend, made us a gorgeous after-church breakfast, complete with special-recipe coffee served from cast-off China cups. Afterwards, Roommate picked up the op/ed section of the paper, while Friend Michael thumbed through ads. You must understand that my Texas friends are pretty much all Catholic, very staunch, very devout, very conservative. Sometimes I want to kill them, but I love them anyway. So, when Roommate found an entire section regarding a rumored Vatican document addressing homosexuality in seminaries, the conversation went something like this:

R: So there's rumored to be a new Vatican document coming out soon saying that men with same-sex attractions will no longer be allowed in seminaries.
Me: Really??
FM: Do you want a coupon for Glade Plug-ins?
R: Yup, some people are really mad about it-
Me: Do you want biscuits dearie?
R: They say - what? ummm, yeah, biscuits - that it's discrimination because lustful thoughts of homosexual men aren't anymore sinful than lustful thoughts of heterosexual men.
Me: Yeah, that seems a little extreme to me, I mean, both homosexual and heterosexual men are going to have to deal with sexual issues if their entering a life of celibacy.
FM: How about Softsoap?
R: What do you think?
Me: Mmmm, yeah, I'll take Softsoap. Palmolive, darling?
R: What? Oh, no, you keep it. Of course the proponents are saying it will reduce homosexual enclaves in seminaries. FM, what do you think?
Me: Yeah, I'm kind of with them there, I mean, living with all those men they're attracted to it just seems like you're setting up the poor people for sin. What about brownie mix?
FM: You girls need feminine products?
Me: Ooooh, yes, good brand. Cover your ears, FM, but I can't stand the tampons with the blunt ends, they hurt.
R: You can't go cheap on pads, either, it's the worst. By the way, you use Dove deodorant, don't you darling? Michael, what do you think!?!?
FM: Well, I guess I don't see homosexual and heterosexual love as all that different. I mean, it's like what I did my thesis on in Plato: the Greeks had it wrong, all love is desire. And I should desire men just as I desire women, there are just different limits on those relationships. -Now, do you want a Tyson meat-kit thing, it's $1.50 off?

You know, it's not everyday you have a conversation that features Plato, feminine products, and money-saving tips. Or rather, it is everyday, if you have friends as glorious as mine. Alas, it is not everyday that I get to be with them. But then, it is not everyone that is this lucky, to experience such dorkiness and such love, all in the space of one half-hour.

Diamond in the Rough

Late Boyfriend was born and raised in New Orleans (N'awlins), and, true to his city, he weathered Katrina in a hotel, with looters down the hall. I broke up with Late Boyfriend about a month before the hurricane, for reasons to be discussed later, but it's things like this that make me wonder why I ever left him. This is from his IM profile:

I got back from a house today, a house that had been totally flooded past the ceiling. The walls and ceilings had discintegrated and the isulation from teh attic laid sopping over the floor which could not be seen. I've seen flood lines on things all over the city. I"ve seen trees fallen on streets and houses. I was here when the storm raged through my town, and i watched the water rise. I waded in waste deep waterjust to see my house the day after the storm. I head tell of people in lakeview whose houses were safe util the levee broke and cuase the water to rise to the ceiling in under an hour forcing them to take refuge in attics and rooftops. I've heard stories of mnay old people dying, not from the storn itself, but from what i can only suspect to be hte effect on them of the storm experience. Iv'e seen plants dead all around and boats in the middle of the street. I"ve heard horrible stories of victims of katrina turning into criminals and horrible guests to wonderful people. However. I"ve been to Houston where the hospitality and generocity was immesurable. I've been back to the city to salvage pictures and whatever else of real value can saved. I've seen new spots of green grass shoot up amongst the brown. I"ve wathced p eople's faces light up as they find one picture out of a hundred that miraculoulsly made it through the water. I've eaten free meals provided by the red cross, and gotten free water from FEMA. I see all the work that is being done to clean and rebuild this city. I know what it is to walk into a house and have on'e sinuses burn from the mold. I've seen the destruction, and i've seen evidence of all the wonderful things that are going to come of this storm. I will not forwake my city. I will not forget the devestation. I will not forget hte kindess taht i was shown. I am a survivor and I intend to thrive.

That's my boy. That's the boy I know. The boy who loves his city. The boy who makes me cry. Amid all the rough spots, amid all the misspellings, there is my gem. He is indeed a survivor, and I know he'll make it through.
But the question is, will I?

FairMaids in their natural habitat.
So, having troulbe with the picture thing! How does one get a picture into the 'view profilfe' box thingy? When I try, it keeps telling me my picture is too big. How do I make it smaller!?!?! ;-)

Which one is me? ;-)

Hmmm

Wow, so, spur of the moment, I have a blog. I'm not even sure why I have one, or what I want to do with it. But now I have one. ;-) I'm rather intimidated by this whole blogging world, all these people with great thoughts and feelings and Rules and Opinions. I've lurked on some blogs for a while, and people, i.e. other bloggers are so mean! They can't stand differences of opinion or others not playing the game Their Way. So I'm not sure what to do, not sure what to say, a little bit scared of what the Big Wide World of the internet is goign to do to little me. But here I am.
I guess I'm writing this blog in part because of all the changes that have happened in my life lately. I'm trying to process that, trying to figure out what kind of girl I am. I have gone from an irresponsible undergrad literature major, with wonderful Roommate and blissful boyfriend, to Professional doctoral psychology student, unattached, living in a house full of girls whom I barely know. I've gone from Independent thinking, at my orthodox but oh-so-interesting Catholic undergrad, to Strict Evangelical in my I-don't-even-know-what grad school. I've gone from sunny Texas, to sunny California, but not even the sun is the same in those two states. I've gone from rich, warm, Southern culture, to cool, shallow SoCal, all in a matter of three months. I've gone from comfy, easy, and generally happy, to hard, frightening, and oh-so-lonely. So what will become of me now?
I decided to call this blog First Day of the Rest of my Life to try and reflect a sense of adventure about where my life is going. I, like Bilbo Baggins, am not terribly adventurous by nature. I would like to stay warm, comfortable, and generally happy forever. But then I would have whiled away my life instead of Living it. We'll see if titling my life actually works. ;-)
Most of all, this blog is written to you, Late Boyfriend that I love, altho now you must be dead to me. Ha! I'm looking at your picutre now, and the smile on your face, and thinking of the life we would have had together, and I Cannot give it up. So, for the moment, I won't. Instead, I'll write to you, as well as to the world in general, and tell you all the things you'll never read. After all, there's nothing like denial. ;-)