First Day of the Rest of my Life

Love Thursday

2006-12-28T21:51:00.000-08:00

My brother, my only sibling, was born when I was eleven years old. I'll never forget being taken out to a fancy restaurant to be told The News. And I nearly lost my fancy-schmancy supper because I couldn't believe that My Parents were having a baby. A baby! Was the Apocalypse upon us, because, as a fifth grader with no other siblings, the thought hadn't entered my head in years. But there they were, telling me, and I had to "take like a man."
I spent a lot of my childhood "taking it like a man."
I don't think I've ever quite forgiven myself for my raging sibling jealousy. Oooooh, how I Hated that baby! How I hated my parents for allowing his conception! How I hated their excitement, their giggles, their delight. I Did Not Want this Baby, and that was that. And hatred and rage boiled inside me, carefully hidden from everyone else. I, of course, appeared to be just Thrilled to have another child Take My Place and Be Loved More Than Me. (The one time I ever became upset about this in front of my mother, she became so upset with me that I never let it happen again.) I was just So Mad.
Then a funny thing happened. My brother almost didn't get born. He came six weeks early, and the birth had so many complications, we weren't sure he was going to make it. But he did. And then he came home. And I fell in love. I fell in love with his sweet kissable face, his chubby legs, his blond girls, his radiant smile. And I could not hate him anymore, not as I rocked him to sleep or held him while he cried. Not when I picked him up and swung him around and made up songs just for him. He was, and is, My Baby, and no one can take that away.
That was 12 years ago. A lot of things have happened in that length of time. The craziness of our family has taken a toll on him, and he is now an adolescent, somewhat angry, somewhat cynical, very hurt. He rarely smiles anymore. It makes my heart ache to see him, to see what he has to live with, to see the way he shoots himself in the foot. He reminds me so much of myself at 12 and a half years old, only he doesn't even have a little baby to love. That I think was part of my saving grace. But, I remind myself, we are Survivors. I was a survivor, and he will be one too. Only six more years, and he will be out of this house, out and free and able to be who he truly is. We are strong, and we can make it. I hope he will let me help him.
I love you, my darling little brother, and I always will. Let's survive together!

101

2006-12-24T23:32:00.000-08:00

Seriously, we're not even commenting on my posting infrequency. But here's a "101," just to be cool like everybody else.

1. I wish I blogged regularly.
2. I am in a doctoral psychology program.
3. #2 pretty much makes #1 impossible.
4. In my psychology program, I am getting a PsyD. (Doctorate of Psychology) rather than a PhD.
5. I am insecure about this.
6. The smell of oranges makes me nasceous.
7. So does the smell of coca-cola.
8. My favorite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.
9. I first read it when I was just turned 13.
10. I've been in love with it ever since.
11. I am Horrible at keeping up with friends I do not see frequently.
12. I feel very guilty about this.
13. I Love coffee yogurt.
14. I love coffee.
15. My favorite colors are purple and green.
16. I would never, ever want a room decorated in purple.
17. I do not wear pants when I sleep, only undies and a shirt.
18. I hate it when I share a room with someone and thus have to wear pants.
19. I have backpacked through the Rocky Mountians in Colorado twice.
20. The first time I was anorexic.
21. I have been both anorexic and a binge eater.
22. I have never been bulimic, thank God.
23. I can trace the disordered eating in my family back through five generations of women.
24. I'm hoping my kids will be free of this.
25. I spent the second semester of my sophomore year of college studying abroad in Rome.
26. It's one of the best things I ever did.
27. I desperately wish I could live there again.
28. I also really want to live in England.
29. I don't think either of those things are going to happen.
30. I really love history.
31. One of my proudest moments was when I received the "Gold Medal" for history my junior year in high school.
32. I also had a huge crush on my history teacher at that time.
33. I am the least musical person in my family.
34. I am obsessed with the Holocaust.
35. I am always looking for new books about it.
36. Someday I hope to figure out why I am so obsessed with the holocaust, and genocide in general.
37. I think Middle Eastern men are hot.
38. I would love to visit the Middle East, but I'm not all that interested in the "Holy Land."
39. Don't tell that to my mother, she'd freak.
40. When I was in high school, I was flashed once by some greasy guy outside a cloth store.
41. Don't tell that to my mother, either.
42. I am very anti-abortion.
43. I am very anti-death penalty.
44. I am not Catholic.
45. Sometimes I wish I was.
46. I was blonde when I was a little girl.
47. Now I am most decidedly brunette.
48. My only sibling was born when I was eleven years old.
49. I can still close my eyes and feel the weight of carrying him in my hands like I picked him up five minutes ago.
50. I wish we were closer now.
51. I have wanted to go to Greece ever since I did a project on it in sixth grade.
52. For the project, I dressed up in a chiton, the outfit ancient Greek women wore. I thought I was super sexy. But I obviously didn't tell anyone that.
53. My ancestors owned slaves on a plantation.
54. I feel like I should somehow make restitution for that, but I'm not sure how.
55. I also really love the South, but feel guilty for all it represents.
56. I have never dyed my hair.
57. I secretly wish to have a nose ring.
58. I love dogs.
59. No, seriously people, I Love dogs. Like, almost pathologically. (Still trying to figure that one out, too.)
60. When I was little, I had a best friend with the same name as me.
61. Now she lives in Florida and I haven't talked to her in years. I wonder about her sometimes.
62. I had another close friend in college with the same name.
63. I do not have a common name.
64. I want to have five children.
65. I often worry I won't be able to have any.
66. I am convinced I am going to die of Alzheimer's.
67. Seeing my grandma die of it convinced me it is Not a good way to go.
68. I'm pretty sure my grandpa cheated on my grandma while she was dying.
69. I hate sandwiches.
70. I love squash.
71. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mountain climber and I chemist when I grew up.
72. Now, I am afraid of heights and in high school, I hated chemistry with a passion.
73. I used to have dreams where I showed up places with no clothes on all the time. It was awful!
74. I still have weird dreams, but usually I am fully clothed.
75. I am very cynical about politicians and politics in general.
76. I do not claim any particular political party, and may not even vote in the next election.
77. This feels quite blasphemous to me, considering my patriotic upbringing.
78. You couldn't pay me any amount of money to teach school, at least not above kindergarten or below the univeristy level.
79. People who manage to be good teachers utterly amaze me.
80. I am very suspiscious of police officers in real life.
81. However, I love watching them on CSI and Law and Order.
82. I Love the movies - seriously, take me to the movies, and I'm happy. Espescially independent films.
83. And not horror.
84. My mother labeled my first radio with the two stations I was allowed to listen to: classical and Christian.
85. My mother and I have still not discussed my disobeidiance of listening to 'secular' music when I began driving.
86. I am 23 years old and I have only been to one New Years party in my whole life.
87. I have never been drunk.
88. This year, I hope to remedy the former, but keep the latter.
89. I am also very suspiscious of milatry personel and do not always have very good oppinions of them. I feel very guilty about this.
90. While men in uniforms are attractive, I would not want to marry one.
91. Peonies are my favorite flower, but I almost never get them.
92. Actually, I almost never get flowers at all; I certainly can't afford them.
93. One year my best friend got me flowers, along with something else, for my birthday. I think that was the best birthday present I ever got.
94. She also gave me a perfume bottle she painted herself. She was a wonderful best friend.
95. I think she's in med school now. I haven't talked to her in a year and a half.
96. I feel very guilty about that too.
97. I do not really want to be famous or write books.
98. I do want to be a good therapist who helps her clients.
99. I cannot think of a greater honor or privilege than that.
100. I also want to be a good mother and grandmother.
101. I want to die happy.

A Good Time and a Brief Beef

2006-10-07T22:42:00.000-07:00

Today was my church's Fiftieth Anniversary, and we had a fantastic celebration. The day began with a Ceremonious High Mass (i.e. really fancy church service), using the same liturgy and Bible readings that were used for the first Sunday service 50 years ago. A parishoner even wrote a whole new set of service music for the occasion! Then, in the afternoon was a carnival for the kids, as well as singing, dancing, and karate demonstrations (our pastor wrote his own Christian karate curriculum - woah, alliteration - so karate is v. important). Then, in the evening we had a spaghetti dinner, a silent auction, and a live auction.
I guess there's nothing particularly remarkable in the events - typical church-picnic-style activities. But, as with anything else, it is the People and their faithfulness that made today wonderful. And, I have to say this for the people of my church, they have Joy. - I think that was something that was very often missing from my church growing up. Oh, we were faithful, allright, faithful, and dutiful, and rigid, and almost dead. There was rarely joy or life in our giving. - But today, the wine flowed, and the babies cooed, and everyone laughed as our (slightly tipsy?) auctioneer/parishoner and his wife paraded around the auction items, giving their all to make today a success. I love the spontaneous laughter, the hilarious comments, the warm embrace of Community that I recieve when I'm there.
Happy Birthday, Blessed Sacrament!

(ok, now the beef:
So, there's this couple that's newly engaged at church. Oh how nice for them! We're all very happy, I'm sure. However, oh dear God, can you please STOP KISSING EACH OTHER IN CHURCH???? Ok, granted, I might just be a prude. But this ain't no peck on the cheek, people. This is a long, drawn out, smuckering smooch two feet from my face. ummm, ick. Because, seriously, can we not get creative? Can we not employ the strategies that other young couples have discovered throughout the millenia? - The touch on the cheek, the caress of the hair, the air kiss, or even holding hands! (Ok, here's where I might be a prude: holding hands in front of me in public kind of makes me uncomfortable too. Like, not some people walking down the street or anything, but if we're trying to have a conversation and you're holding hands and making eyes at your significant other - no thanks!) For gosh sakes, go make out in the car if you have to, but don't make out at the table with all of us sitting around, while the speaker is talking! Because that's just wrong. - Please, oh, please, may they get married soon, so that hopefully this will be taken care of in the bedroom, and Not in the pew.)

Saints Go Marching In

2006-09-25T22:43:00.000-07:00

This summer I worked as a volunteer social worker for disaster victims in Southeast Louisiana. And, lemme tell you, if I wasn't already a fan N'awlins before, I surely love it now.
In my volunteer work, I met all different kinds of people, many walks, but one road 'through the waters' when Katrina hit. These were the people who starved in the Superdome, who left the bodies of their loved ones' by the side of the road. These were the ones who told stories of hanging on to the roofs of their houses, cycling their babies through their laps as the water came ever-upward, because they had to hold on to the roof with one hand, and the child with the other, and thus couldn't hold on to all their children at once. These were the people of the 9th Ward, of St Bernard parish, whose lives were literally obliterated. These were the people who Survived, even in the midst of so much chaos and death. As I said, I met many people, both good and bad. But the overwhelming impression I had from them was Dignity. These people had lost everything, and yet in their pain-etched faces I could see that they were trying to go on, one step at a time.
So, when I heard the beneift concert by U2 and Greenday on the radio today, it brought back all my memories of these people's suffering, and all of my hopes for their continued hoping. U2 and Greenday opened the first Saints game back in the Superdome, and they adapted some of their own songs to the situation, and it was beautiful. (Specifically, if you go here you can buy the mp3 of the performance, proceeds of which to go buy musical equipment for New Olreans schools.) Most beautiful of all was the song, Beautiful Day, adapted particularly to the floods of New Olreans. It was wonderful.
So, New Olreans, and all of Louisiana affected by Katrina, I hope you continue to heal and continue to grow in hope. And I hope that, for you, today was indeed a Beautiful Day.

Seventeen

2006-09-11T21:56:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I had to drive me (non-crazy!) roommate to pick up her car at the shop, and on the way back I was alone, just me and the music and the breeze.
I have a little confession to make: I just Love the song "Stacy's Mom." I know, I know, how terribly juvenile. But, as I listened to that song, and drove, and felt the breeze, I realized that this breif moment of blissful freedom is something that is so often missing from my life.

"Stacy's mom has got it goin' on." - Ummm, who doesn't remember being in high school and finding some unavailable adult unspeakably attractive. There's something so freeing in the acknowledgment of this fact, espescially as the wind whips through the opened window and I sing into my water bottle - turned - microphonen.
"She's all I want, and I've waited for So Long." The perpetual plea of adolescence, and yet, in so many ways, that's still the way I feel. Do you know how long I"ve waited for independence, for sex, for doing things My Way, for not feeling so incredibly bound to my family? Do you know how long - a long frickin' time. And yet, as I do crazy-car-dance moves that I would never, EVER do anywhere else, it feels like somehow, some way, I might get what I want - even if I have waited.
"And I know that you think it's just a fantasy - but since your dad walked out, your mom could use a guy like me." Mmmm, yes, the fantasy. I have so many of them, and they all feel so far away, so very far from any truth that could ever be. And also, there's the responsibility I feel, a responsibility that I think a lot of adolescents feel for ways in which parent's have failed them. I point my finger and sing so loud, almost to the point of yelling.
"I know it might be wrong, but I'm in love with Stacy's mom." I think this is the part I love most. I've spent so much of my life taking on that responsibiltiy that my parents didn't take - I was responsible for my infant brother, responsible for making perfect grades, responsible for my mother's emotions. And yet, damn it!, there are things I want that have nothing to do with these responsibilities that are not really mine and as I sing this line, they seem to melt away, seem to fly off into the music, into the breeze, into the cool, smoggy, California air. They are gone, and I sing with exhiliration, at the top of my lungs, just for a moment realizing that this is probably the way I was Supposed to feel at 17.
And then the moment ends, and I am brought back to reality by the wave of another driver. - Apparently he liked my dance moves. I freeze in embarassment for a moment, but then think, darn it, I want to dance!
And so I do.

A Small Religious Ranting

2006-09-04T10:08:00.000-07:00

Today's religious angst is brought to you by Random New Clergyman at church yesterday, whom I'd never seen preach and didn't even know who he was. But he was definitely preachin' it yesterday morning. Good grief! Among other things, the sermon claimed that sending your kids to public school is basically morally wrong, and that homosexuality is inherently "compulsive" and "addictive." AHEM. While I do not think that homosexuality is God's plan for anyone and I do believe that homosexual behavior is morally reprehensible, homosexual relationships are no more "compulsive" or "addictive" than any other sexual relationship. In other words, yes, some homosexual relationships are undoubtedly "complusive and addictive," but so are many heterosexual relationships, while others are not. (What brings further irony to this is that the sermon was about the importance of Truth-with-a-capitol-T. - How about we get our facts straight before preaching, hmmm?)
I guess what pisses me off the most, though, is that the God he protrayed is so similar to the picture of God my mother gave me: hard, angry, arrogant, and completely unconcerned with my feelings. Now hold on. I'm supposed to want to have a relationship with a God like that?!? - Part of me is very angry that people have fed me this image of God for so long, and that I've bought it hook, line, and sinker. And yet, there's this other part of me that whispers, "But what if they'r right? What if God really is like that?" Because somehow to just seems too good to be true, and too far outside my experience to be believed that God actually is loving and actually does care about my feeligns. It seems too risky to hope because, well, "What if He's not?" And, like so many other things, it seems that if I dare to hope, then I must be disapointed.

Yes, I'm still alive! (And other exciting news)

2006-09-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

Hello, dear readers (all three of you), yes, I am back. For real. I hope to go back to blogging w/ some regularity, and maybe even blog more frequently (wouldn't that be amazing). Meanwhile, lemme give you the quick overview: last spring, the crazy roommates messed w/ the internet stuff, and I was too lazy (i.e. to scared of conflict) to put up a fight, so I didn't have internet at school. Then, I went on an extensive roadtrip w/ Best Roommate Ever (BRE, her new name, since I have so many roommates at this point) and we were in a wedding, etc. I ended up in Louisiana, where I lived w/ BRE for the summer and her fiancee' -sp?- came and visited us. Intermittently I traveled to various places, including back home to Texas, up to Boston, all culminating in the Family Vacation from Hell up to Maine (which, btw, is a beautiful place - it's not the state's fault that my family is Awful.)
Ok, so, umm, since it's been like four months since I've posted (woohoo), I obviously can't fill you in on every teeny, disgusting detail between then and now. So, here's a list of 11 New/Sort of New things about me:

1. I now live in a new house with fabuloso, non-crazy roommates. Yay!!
2. I now have my own bathroom. (The luxury of this is indescribable.)
3. Oh yes, I'm back here in SoCal for my second (of five!) years of psych grad school.
3. I got in a car wreck this summer and had to have my radiator and other Important Components of my car replaced. (Oh God.)
4. I got back together and then broke up with the Boy (Oh God, oh God, oh God.)
5. I put together, refinished, and painted my new nightstand/file cabinet - can I tell you how proud of myself I am?!?!
6. Honey, the miracle-dog, is still alive and smilin', despite kidney cancer, benign (but humongous) tumors in her leg, colitis, and gosh only knows what eles.
7. I want a doggy so bad I can Taste it (and I'm trying desperately to NOT LOOK AT THIS SITE.)
8. I now attend yoga class (don't tell my mother, she'll send me straight to the Deliverance Ministers to have those Eastern religion demons cast out). I'm now learning to "Lift from the chest!" and "Extend your spine!"
9. I worked as a volunteer caseworker for disaster victims in Louisiana this summer and have now become a self-appointed Katrina Awareness Promoter. (Can I tell you how much it pisses me off that the media spends so little time on Katrina? Or the way people dismiss Katrina victims as stupid and 'deserving' of their plight because they're still not on their feet a year after the storm. - Ummnm, excuse me, have you seen New Orleans??? Have you actually talked to these people??? Because, lemme tell you, it's awful, and it's Not just because people are stupid or bad.)
(Whew, ok, tirade over.)
10. I have actually seen a dog Surfing! Yes, surfing! This was the highlight of my week. I was going for a walk on the beach, I glanced up, and there was a dog, riding a surf board, just as non-challant as you please! It was fabulous, and the funniest thing Ever. The best part is how the dog just stood there, as calm as anything, while all the people trying to surf were struggling and making faces and genearlly looking like they were about to die.
11. I now have a name plate, a mailbox, and a voice mail at the X(name of univiersity) Counseling Center. - People, I am officially a therapist. (Are you scared, or what??)

It's good to be back!

Identity Crisis

2006-04-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

Can I tell you one of my deepest, darkest fears, the one thing upon which I make my fate hang on a daily basis?

Kids, I'm terrified that I will fail at school. Because this would mean that I was, in fact, a failure.
First of all, let's define our terms. For me, failing is pretty much getting anything below an A-. That's the cut. And last semester, I made four Bs and one A.
See the problem?
Let's review some ancient history.
I grew up in a home where the intellect was prized above all things. To this day, my father shouts things like "Nerd power!" when I or my brother does something smart. And I was born with nerdy genes: my mother graduated from Welsley, my father got his doctorate at MIT. It's always been an unwritten rule that I Will Do Well in School.
I first remember being conscious of grades at age six. This was first grade, and we got real grades this year, not just checks or minuses. When we got our report cards, we were all marched down the hall to have them signed by the principal. And there, I noticed an important fact: some kids got Blue and Gold stickers and some kids' stickers were only red. - Didn't take me long to figure out what that meant.
In the third grade, I remember my first bout of grade-induced anxiety. I was sitting at my table, waiting to be called up to the teacher's desk to learn my grade in math. I twitched. I figeted. Finally, she called my name and I flew up to the desk, learned my grade, and sank back into my chair, murmuring, "Thank God it's not a B." For me to take The Lord's Name in Vain in the third grade meant things were pretty serious.
In fourth grade, I transferred to a priavate school because I "wasn't challenged enough" in public school and there I quickly established my place in my class of 12 students as 'the Smart One.' I may have been pudgy and socially awkward, and worst of all completely incapable of hitting a softball when lobbed slowly over the center of homeplate, but by golly, could I read! I read constantly, pretty much anything my mother would let me (we had v. strict book rules), during lunch, at recess, and any spare moment, because I had no friends, but I did have a brain. As time went on, things improved somewhat, and I at one point I even had friends, but my role as the Smart One never changed. It was the only thing I had to offer.
And then came high school. I went to a (somewhat) prestigious private "Christian" school that was supposed to offer a good education, altho that claim remains dubious at best. They weren't really interested in educating you so much as puffing up their own reputation, and thus they kept a few kids around to boost their test scores and left the rest of the school to be planned by a group of socialite parents who had waaaaay too much money and time on their hands. However, among the test score-boosting kids I met my nemesis: my dear, darling friend Anne. Anne is one of those amazing (disgusting) people who is good at Everything. And I mean everything. She sketches beautifully, plays the classical guitar, dances (on the drill team, in high school) AND managed to score over a 1400 on the SAT in the eighth grade.
When I took the SAT in seventh grade, I didn't even break 1000. And thus, the moment I met her my world, my role as the Smart One was shattered. She was now the smart one, and I was just me, the . . . ?

I've been struggling to figure that out, ever since. And even though my role as the Smart One has been shattered, I still cling desperately to the broken pieces, trying somehow to find signficance through school. In college I was surrounded by smart friends who got 'smart' grades and even now I struggle with feeling inferior to them. Because, at the end of the day, I have discovered that in my heart of hearts I believe that if I can't be the best at something, then I have nothing to contribute.
Which brings us back to my four Bs. Clearly, if one makes four Bs, one is not the best. And if I am not the best, what am I?

Drama Rama

2006-04-04T19:59:00.000-07:00

So today, my Uber-Conservative Evangelical College was visited by Some People, whom I'm sure some of you have heard of, the Equality Bus Trip People. (Can I share with you that I am not paranoid At All. Nope, not one bit. I just like to give people really, really vague names.) Now, I have to tell you, I was a wee bit scared. First, I was scared, because, well, said people are contending for an 'end to religious and political oppression' to 'LGTB' people (sometimes there is a Q or an I in there, and i'm not quite sure what the I stands for, but anyway, basically non-heterosexual people), and, well, sometimes on TV, people that protest for things like this are a wee bit rabid. So I was scared about that. Then, I was scared because I wasn't sure we could guarantee the civility of all my classmates. Let's just say I was afraid they might be a wee bit rabid, too, only on the other side. Finally, let's be perfectly blunt, I was scared because I've never had a great deal of contact w/ 'LGTB' people, and, call me a homophobe, but I had no idea waht to expect. (Except, of course, just people, but a lot of 'just pleople' scare me, so that doesn't help.)
Anyway, hurrah, it went just fine. Like, it was a little awkward, I'm not gonna lie, espescially b/c they were pretty much coming in saying our school was wrong, and our school was pretty much saying, no, you're wrong. But, we were all very civil, and we had some decent discussions, and things were all fine until Russian Orthodox boy started describing his understanding of salvation, and then one of the students about hit the ceiling with a cry of "That's not what the Bible says!!" Thankfully, however, several other people stepped in, and crisis was averted. Ahhhh.
By contrast, my own home is a battle ground. Gotta love the roommates. ;-) Currently, both the Crazy Roommate and the Happy Roommate feel utterly and horrifically Wronged by the other. Clearly, the other person is Out To Get Them, and, moreover, a horrible person. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, this all started on Sunday, when Happy Roommate (who is currently Not Happy) left a note with a List of Greivances for Crazy Roommate. I might add that these greivances are mostly about the house as a whole, but the note was addressed only to Crazy Roommate and no one else. Yay. So, the house has been on edge every since, with Sane Roommie and I tiptoeing around the house, hopeing to avoid the other two, who wish to bemoan the unfairness of it all to us.
Kids, this sucks.
We're set to have a 'house meeting' soon. In which, honestly, I hope Crazy Roommate and Happy Roommate have a knock-down, drag-out fight, so at least we can all stop pretending that 'everything's fine.' (Like, not that we actually pretend that completely, but we try to.) Maybe if they just have a fight, soemthing will get resolved.
And there I am, the pot calling the kettle black.
In any case, if things get really bad, Sane Roommie and I can just be like, "Y'all are crazy," and run away and live happily ever after.

The Fat Lady Shops

2006-04-01T20:26:00.000-08:00

(**N.B.** I am a wee bit hesitant to write this post, for three main reasons. First, after again realizing the number of people who read (i.e. Lurk at ;-)) this blog, I am again made cognizant of the fact that I am not the only person effected by what I write here. Thus, I am a little hestitant to refer to myself as 'fat,' for fear of backlash in my real life. However, regardless of lurkers, I write this blog for me and about my experience, and I defintely experience myself as 'fat.' And, well, if that word offends others, so be it. Secondly, due to reasons already mentioned, I fear this post may seem like a bid for pity, as tho I just feel sorry for myself and want other people to feel sorry for me, too. Well, I suppose that might be true, but I'm not so sure. Again, this blog is for me, written to help me as I experience life. Yes, this particular post may be pitiable, but I don't write to be pitied. Finally, well, let's face it, it's pretty darn embarassing to write about this. I Hate being fat, as everyone already knows ;-), and calling people's attention to this fact is not usually my aim. But this was my life today. And it was embarassing, and hard, and funny, and thus, I'm going to write it down, because I need to.
And, wow, I hope that didn't sound really deffensive.)

Apparently, fat people do not wear dresses. (Let me re-phrase that. Fat women do not wear dresses. Fat men can not wear dresses all they like.) Today's mission was cute sundress/attractive spring attire for upcoming showers, weddings, and Easter. Except, they don't make dresses for fat ladies. Now, I ask you, who thought up this brilliant idea?? Why can fat ladies not where dresses?? Believe me, I realize there are some things that fat people Should Not Wear. For example, tops showing any kind of belly. Or skirts too far above the knee. Both of these reveal excessive amounts of Fat Roll, and who on earth wants to see that? However, I do not see how dresses fall into this catagory. Dresses almost inherently do not reveal belly, and can be made appropriately long. So why does the regular-lady department have racks and racks of dresses in pretty spring colors, whereas you're lucky if the fat-lady department has even two. It's descrimination, I tell you!
Needless to say, today's search was not-so-successful. I arrived at Robinson's-May and made the embarassing trudge towards the escalator, because the Women's department is tucked away upstairs between Kids and Housewares, I guess so everyone can momentarily forget that fat people need to be clothed, too. (However, I'd think we'd all notice, and not in a good way, if they stopped making fat-people clothes! ;-)) By the way, why do they call it the 'Women's' department?? Admittedly, it's rather preferrable to 'Missy', the name of the normal-sized clothing department. It makes it sound like normal-sized people are slightly androgynous adolescents, and only when you become fat do you become fully in touch with your femininity. Anyway, there I was, but not for long, because there were, like three racks of dresses, and two were displays of the Old Matron Horror, which, clearly, I refuse to wear. (And who thinks it's a good idea to dress fat old women like that, either? I know Fat Old Women aren't exactly anyone's dream to design for, but have some compassion!) At least here there was something, because at Macy's there were no dresses at all. Again, equal rights for Women's!
I did finally find something, but my mother would not be pleased with it, and I'm not entirely, either. A bit too much cleavage, if you know what I mean, espescially for Easter Sunday. Plus, it's so much white fabric that I feel rather Moby Dick-esque, lumbering about like a whale out of water. (Lot's of blubber, too. ;-)) Anyway, we shall see. Come Easter, I must be wearing something, so hopefully I'll find something nice between now and then.
In the mean time, maybe us Plus-Size Girls should start picketing.

Mommy and Me

2006-03-14T21:35:00.000-08:00

Well kids, I'm back among the living once again. Mama came, and then she went. That's the nice thing about visits, they come to an end. And yet it's sad, because here's the real deal, kids: I really love my mother. I love her so much! And we are quite alike, she and I. We both love good books, cozy little animals, good art, and safety. (Altho her definition of good art and my definition of good art are a wee bit different.) I enjoy talking to my mother and even enjoy hearing what she has to say (at least some of the time). But, aye, here's the rub: she has also hurt me, down to the very depths of my being, where I cannot even begin to fathom. And to hold that love, and yet that hate of her all in the same place, at the same time, is hard to do. It's espescially hard, considering Good Christian Girls aren't supposed to feel hatred in the first place, much less for their mothers! (And I hope I haven't offended anyone's sensibilities.) I want so badly to think and feel just one thing, to pick one, and go with it! I could hate her, oh so easily! I could say, "F- you," only say it aloud, instead of saying it silently in angry thoughts and gestures, as when I 'eat at' my mother (as tho eating a cookie can really communicate my anger to her). Or, I could take what seems now the easiest way of all, the way I'm used to, the way where I run towards her, and after her, and every which way, always yearning for her approval. Because msot days, I would do anything for it.
For some reason, on her visit, my mother decided to bring up When I Was Depressed In Seventh Grade. I'm not quite sure why this was so necessary, but apparently it was, and so we discussed that horrible time, opening many, Many cans of worms. I even revealed to her, for the first time, that even then, I wanted very much to die. She had thought I was only suicidal when I was older. And, of course, I cried, and, of course, she tried to comfort me, but as she and I sat there, her arms around my shoulders as I sat on the floor, sobbing, I realized that my dearest fantasy could never come true. For some years now, I have fantasized about crawling up into my mother's lap and just sobbing, completely accepted and completely loved. Well, that will never happen. Because, as much as part of me wants to fuse back into my mother, and simply become a little part of her, I can't do it. I'm not her, I'm me. And to 'fuse' with her means giving up myself, means acting like she never hurt me, and I Can't Do That. I just can't.
So instead, I'll try very hard to see and accept my mother just as she is, very flawed, but beautiful.
(P.S. No, I just could not bring myself to use 'fuck' in a sentence about my mother. It just seems so Wrong. So we'll go with 'f-you' instead. ;-))
(P.P.S. I know this is a lot of psychobabble crap. But bear with me. I needed to write this out for my own sake.)

We Who Are About to Die, Salute You

2006-03-08T21:48:00.000-08:00

Well folks, tomorrow is M-Day, the day when Mama comes. And, oh lord, I should be flipping out, and part of me is very anxious indeed. However, there's another part of me, a small part, but a strong part that doesn't care, because, miracle of miracles, that part of me is Happy.
Yes, happy, I know you just about fell off your chair. I did too, and all day, I have hardly known what to do with myself. But, my understanding of myself and my mistakes with Boy, and all of my relationships, has given me this amazing sense of relief, and freedom, and Hope. And, good grascious, it's been a long time since we've seen much hope around here.
Today was a crazy day of even more 'clicking' in therapy. I explained all about The Revelation (see below) to Dr. Stacey, which was a crazy whirlwind, and then we took it even further. Why can I not light a scented candle, get my PhD, or date Boy? Well, dear readers, it is simply because I want to do those things. And somehow, deep inside of me, every time I want or need something, a voice inside of me, the voice of my mother, the voice of the 'Moral Monitor,' tells me that I Cannot have it, that because I want it, it must be Bad, and moreover, because I want it, I am Greedy, Selfish, Stupid, a Bad Christian, a Whore, etc., generally a piece of shit. Thus, everything I want, from a graduate education to cute panties, is inherently bad. If I let myself have it, I don't enjoy it, because the Mean Voices spoil it, telling me I"m a whore, etc. If I don't let myself have it, then I am deprived, my needs go unmet, and I run around, ever insatiable. This even fits in with my bingeing, because there I am desperately trying to fill myself, desperately trying to give myself what I need, only food isn't it. So, I go around, "Always hungry, but always full."
Now, kids, I realize that this may seem rather basic and obvious. Or it may seem like my excuse to go buy a Mercedes (because after all, I want it.) That is Not what this means. It simply means that I understand better why I ALWAYS FEEL GUILTY ABOUT EVERYTHING. (And I mean everything, people.)
And maybe, since I understand, maybe I can start on the road to change. Maybe I can someday get what I want, and let it fill my needs, as well. Maybe there is a little hope, a little reason to feel happy.
My heart tells me so, as I feel a little corner of it, a tiny part, opening up slowly to the sunlight, like a butterfly spreading it's wings for the first time.
Please oh please, Fly free!

A Revelation

2006-03-07T20:12:00.000-08:00

So, these past couple of days have been my whirl-wind tour through the mysteries of my own attachment, or lack thereof, to the significant people in my life. This may get a wee bit technical, but I'll do my best to explain. Attachment theory simply deals with the infant's attachment to mother in the first two years of life, and posits that later relationships are seriously affected by these early infant/mother interactions. If your mother did not or was unable to care for your needs as a child, the idea is that later in life you will continue to seek after relationships to get those needs met in some way. In seeking this out, people's whose attachments didn't go so well the first time around tend to act in specific ways in their relationships because of past hurt or unmet needs.
So that's the general overview.
This all started yesterday when I was free-associating (ie., day-dreaming) in Dr. Porter's class. (Actually, all this started long before that, but this seems to me to be the best place to begin.) I was goign along, half-heartedly listening to the lecture, trying to stay awake, when I had this sudden fantasy of Dr. Porter taking me in his arms, holding me, and then taking me home to his wife and baby. (I know, this is really weird, bare with me.) Only, the thing of it was, it was Not Sexual. So, being the good little psychologist I am, I was like, what the hell is this about? (Psychologists must use swear words.) I mean, Dr. Porter's a nice guy and all, but why him and why that?
And then for the rest of the evening, it was this massive 'clicking' in my brain, with things all fitting together like crazy.
Why did I want to be held by Dr. Porter? Because I never felt emotionally held as a child. My mother was too depressed, too off in her own little world to handle my emotions; instead, I had to handle hers. From a very young age, I learned that my emotions were 'too much,' that one must not be sad or unhappy, because two people being that depressed was just too much to deal with. So, make sure everything's 'fine,' make sure it's ok, make sure you don't show too much of what's really going on! No one can really handle you, you're too much. So, please hold me, Dr. Porter, please be able to contain me, don't let me be too much for you!
Oh!, but there's more!
Why must it be a man to hold me? Because women are fundamentally unsafe. First, my mother was too fragile to deal with me, and thus when I was sad or angry around her, things quickly became much too frightening for me to handle, because she freaked out and I had to parent her and make her feel better. However, even more importantly, I was molested by a woman, and thus touch from women frightens me to the core, and my whole being screams, "Get away!" That's why it takes me Years to be comfortable with a friend giving me a hug. Add to all this mix that my father was completely unavailable to me when I was little, and you have some crazy emotional crap!
So where does Boy enter into all of this? Oh so easily.
When I found you, you were my first 'secure attachment,' the first person who ever came even remotely close to meeting all these unmet needs, screaming from inside me. The problem of it is, that once your safety and grace overcame my barriers, my needs came out like a flood which no one, or at least no person, could ever fill. I was (and am) insatiable, looking desperately again and again and again for unconditional love, acceptance, and delight. You delighted in me in a way my mother never had. And I ate it up. And I wanted more. The problem being that you couldn't give me more, because it wasn't yours to give.
And then I became bonded to you out of fear. I was desperate to keep you, so desperately afraid of rejection and abandonment. And I began to use you as well. Oooooh, I am very ashamed of that, but it's true. I couldn't make myself feel happy, so I used you as my upper, fishing for compliments, fishing for kisses. I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I was so desperate, and I sucked the life out of you, sucked every bit of love and affection I could find. But my needs don't make it right.
I could never understand why I was so jealous of every girl you talked to, and why it made me so angry when you went out with your friends. Oh!, I was so bitchy in my heart! I mean, a boy needs some friends, after all! But, oh!, I felt so hurt and rejected by it because I wanted All Of You. Just the parts you should and could give me were never enough, because I was asking you to be all the love and affection and joy I had missed.
And then I worried, because I realized you couldn't meet my every need, and so I thought, oh no!, something's wrong, because I didn't realize I was trying to make you meet needs that weren't yours to fill. And so my desperate fear that I would loose you grew and grew. So I held on harder, held on more desperately, and hid many parts of myself, because I so much feared that if you saw them, you would reject me. And so in spite of my desperate desire to be close to you, I pushed you away as well because it was too frightening to have you near. (As one of my articles says, "The closer we get, the scarier it gets, so I have to avoid the closeness or the father away we get, the scarier it gets, so I have to manipulate closeness.") Push and pull, back and forth, close and near. I cant' stand to loose you, but I can't stand to have you close.
And for heaven's sake, I definitely couldn't be myself, because you'd surely reject me then.
So, things got scarier and scarier, and I needed you more, and pushed you away more, and then a scary monster reared it's ugly head: Commitment. Was I going to marry you, or not? And while the thought of losing you terrified me, the thought of getting closer terrified me more, because our relationship wasn't 'perfect,' and for heaven's sake, you weren't meeting all my needs!, all those needs that weren't yours to meet anyway. And so, finally, in a last act of desperation, I rejected you, to beat you to the punch, so that you couldn't out-and-out reject me. I did the rejecting for you.
And that, my friends, is why all that mother/infant bonding crap is so important.
And that is why you shouldn't try to get a boyfriend to meet every attachment need you've ever had in your life.
And that is why I am very sorry for how I hurt you.

A Visit

2006-03-05T22:34:00.000-08:00

When your mother announces she's coming to visit you two weeks before she arrives, you tend to do crazy things. Like plan the right outfits, pray your pimples go away, and purge your vocabulary of "Holy Crap!" and other unacceptable phrases. And clean out your car. Which is what I did today.
Now, this may not sound like that big of a project, but you must understand that I haven't really cleaned out my car at all since I got it a year and a half ago. And I haven't removed excess paperwork/crap since basically last spring, or at least last August. So, ummm, there was a lot of stuff. And a lot of grime (L.A. SMOG, people - the dashboard was coated with this disgusting black layer) and a lot of coffee stains. So I got the vacuum cleaner and hooked up the attachments and vacuumed the whole dadgum thing, and scrubbed with the carpet cleaner, and used Windex, and . . . went through all the Stuff. Old tupperware (ewww), empty waterbottles, and paperwork galore. Receipts from my old therapist, confidentiality documents from my new therapist, maps of the Grand Canyon, maps of LA, worksheets, notices from school, wedding catalogs, you name it, it was there. (The kitchen sink was happily absent.)
The little compartment over the radio, where the tape player would go, if I had one, was espescially full. Full of stuff, and full of memories. There was a receipt from Steak and Shake in Texas, two shakes and one order of fries - we often went there late at night. A receipt from a Smoothie King in Picayune, Mississippi for a mocha - you always put up with my coffee cravings so patiently, giving into my whims and driving us all over to find me a Starbucks! And the little 'growing dinosaurs', the little capsules that when you put them in water, it grows into a sponge in the shape of some wild animal. Remember how we used to bring those home from the grocery store and pop them in warm water, waiting to see what they were? Some special fortunes from special fortune cookies, from a special night. Do you remember your fortune, baby? Do you remember that night? You always had such funny rules about opening fortune cookies! And, in the backseat, a grocery list. Which seems so simple, but I nearly started crying. We went to the grocery store together, every week. I loved so much to shop with you, even something so mundane was fun with you. We went up and down the aisles together, you hiding from me, or telling jokes, or stealing a kiss - in the middle of the freaking grocery store. ;-) I miss that simple weekly ritual, I miss the joking smile, I miss you and I love you.
Just in case either of us had forgotten.

Something New

2006-02-25T12:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I did three new things! And (I think) they were all good, altho not equally so. Here they are:

1. I went to a jazz club! It was so much fun! The singer was so fabulous, she was so into music, interacting with the songs, dancing, twirling like a little girl, she was great! Her dreadlocks were great, too. ;-) The place was really fun, until we realized that there was a two order minimum per person. Poop on them! Anyway, still lots of fun, lots of giggling, lots of good times, but I missed you . . .

2.I mopped the kitchem floor witha 'real mop' and a real bucket of water w/ Pine-sol, just like the lady on TV! No more Swiffer for me (that's the only way I've ever mopped the floor)! And actually, it wasn't that bad. I scrubbed, and mopped, and lo and behold, the floor was shiny clean! I was awfully proud of that floor, the ladies at LAF would be so proud. ;-) (Scary, Scary women, btw.)

3.Finally, yesterday, I inaugurated my career as Baby Therapist. Yes, yes, I know, pretty scary that I, The Messed Up One, am trying to help someone else. But, nonetheless, such is the nature of therapy. If we had to be completely healthy to be therapists, there woudln't be any therapists at all. In any case, I was So Scared, and about choked while I was trying to explain the paperwork because my breath was coming so fast, it felt like no words could come out. But then, when things got underway, I started to calm down, and for a moment, I had this feeling of exhiliration: this is it, people, this is what I've been working so long to be able to do, this is what I've dreamed of for so many years. And now? Here I am, I have Arrived.

On Why I love Uncle Joey

2006-02-23T15:51:00.000-08:00

So, let me begin by telling you that I'm slightly (a lot) obssessed with the movie Cinderella Man. I love the story, I love the kids, I love Renee Zellweger, and, naturally, I love Russell Crowe, seeing how he is an Extremely Attractive Man. (Actually, I don't like the boxing part of this boxing movie, it's a little graphic, but never mind. ;-)) I espescially love the message it gives about family, about sticking together, about the very positive and important role of women in marriage, even if the woman is not the "Big-shot" in the marriage. I love what it has to say about love. Jim and Mae have a beautiful relationship.
But you know what I love most of all?
I dunno, maybe it's just because I have a soft-spot for guys with poke-able tummies, but the thing I love best about Cinderella Man is Joe Gould. Sexy as Russell Crowe may be, Uncle Joey steals the show for me. Honestly, I have trouble exactly putting my finger on what it is I like so much about him. Maybe it's his self-deprecating sense of humor. Maybe it's the way he sufffers all alone, and is so meek about it once it all comes to light. Maybe it's the special look and wink he has for his wife, as he steals a moment from the tummult to look at her. Maybe it's his love and compassion for his friend and fighter, Jim. Maybe it's the way he stands by his friend, no matter what, no matter what defeats come, no matter what anyone says, and would gladly fight for him any day. I think perhaps that's what I like best. Maybe it's just my mother issues, and feeling unnurtured and uncared for, but the fact that Joe Gould, who is like 5"4' and tubby, would stand up to some huge boxing champ all for the sake of love is intensely admirable to me. Perhaps it's simply that I want to be protected, taken care of, and I rarely look for those qualities in anyone, espescially not men, because my father wasn't a particularly nurturing protector.
Or maybe it's just his "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" speech that I like best. ;-)
Watch the movie, see for yourself!

2006-02-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

So, here it is, I'm rather pleased.

The Haircut

2006-02-19T21:13:00.000-08:00

So . . . I got my haircut. Which, is, like, so not that big of a deal. But it was a little-bit big deal for me because it's a bit shorter than I originally planned. But oh-so-cute! I really like it! But . . . short!
Lemme explain. When I was about 4, my mom took me to a new hair-cutter-lady who promised to make my hair look So Cute. Well, don't ask me where my mom was in the middle of all this to stop the Butchering, but suffice it to say, I came out with The Haircut of Horror. Ya'll, my ears kinda stick out, and the haircut was basically a bowl-cut, with the hair cutting off just above my ears . . . . I looked like a Boy with ears the size of elephants'. It was AWFUL. I felt soooo ugly. At the age of four. Anyway, in response to this trauma, I have had my hair long ever since, except briefly in college when I cut it all off for Locks of Love.
Anyway, so I went to Paul Mitchell The School yesterday, where they give haircuts cheap b/c the people are just students, so for $15 I got a massage, a haircut, styling, and a little more personal contact with my stylist than I would have liked. Admittedly, the massage part was a bit of a surprise. When he started running his hands through my nasty, dirty hair I almost freaked. But that pales in comparison to the part where he Massaged My Face, folding a hot washclothe over my face, with a little hole for my nose, and then rubbing my jaw. I think I would have liked it better if I had known this was going to happen . . .
Overall, a two thumbs up experience! (Except I wish he would learn to cut people's hair without pressing his groin against their arms. But he's only a student, so maybe they haven't covered that part of the syllabus yet.) Now the question is, should I post the pictures of my haircut . . . ?

Homicidal Ideations

2006-02-16T22:35:00.000-08:00

I'm gonna kill 'em . . . I Swear, I'm gonna Kill my roommates. (Ok, not really. But still.)
It all began at our 'Sunday Meeting' when New Roommate informed us with her tone of voice that we were all five years old and mentally retarded and moreover not Christian enough for her. She explained to us that because we're women, God created us to be more 'orderly' than 'guys,' as it says in Proverbs 31, and so we need to become more 'godly women' and clean up after ourselves better. Personally, I'd love to read her Bible and find this verse about how you're a manly, butch sinner if you don't clean your dishes immediately after use .... But I digress. The point is that now we have Two Control Freaks in the house, with me and Sane Roommate trying our best to not be mercilessly tossed about by their stormy winds of frustrated manipulation. (I'm not bitter At All.)
But it gets better.
Just now I got to listen through a pornographic panegyric by Scary Roommate on the newest member of her Lifegroup (Bible Study thingy) who happens to be male. Now, here's why I'm against any kind of 'singles' groups at church: she spent what seemed like ForEver describing to me the way it felt when he touched her (on the shoulder), the way she could see his thigh muscles through his jeans (yes, his Thigh Muscles, people. Soooo Sexy, lemme tell ya), and how when they were holding hands to 'pray,' she simply stood there and repeated to herself over and over again, "Think about how this feels...Feel it!"
Ahem. She met this guy today and she's already talking like their having sex. Fabulous.
Too bad I dont' know anyone in the Mafia ...

Quickie

2006-02-13T20:26:00.000-08:00

So, woohoo, my internet is working once again! (ComCast, you are evil.) Which is still a shoddy excuse for posting so infrequently, and no excuse for the fact that this post will simply be a quick smattering of thoughts, feelings, and observations.
First of all, I'm trying to ward off the Valentine's Day angst. In fact, I'm even relunctant to talk about it, because I've been doing such a good job of forgetting about it, and I don't want to jinx myself. So, I'll try to make this as innocuous as possible. When I was a little girl, my Mama was Great about Valentine's Day. We baked, we decorated, we got each other little presents, it was a Very Serious Holiday all about love! Of course, there was no such thing as romantic or sexual love in my house as a child, but this worked out rather well because then Valentine's could be about a more general love for friends and family. And it was so much fun! When the Christmas decoration went down on January 6 (Epiphany), the Valentine's Day decorations went up as a kind of consolation. Roommate and I used to decorate for Valentine's as well, but this year, due to unfortunate amounts of Housemate Drama, I decided Not decorating would be better. However, a word to the wise: don't loose all your Valentine's cards and thus have to go out and re-purchase them the night before, because, lemme tell you, all that's left are the ones that Suck.
Oooooh, Roommate Drama. I won't go into this too fully, except to say New Roommmate and Scary Roommate got into a fight about The Path Through The Crap in the Garage. Oh y'all . . .
I have just completed my second week Binge Free. I'm proud, and yet so scared, and feeling very ominously that there's No Way I can ever keep this up, that I can ever be really healthy and well, etc. I feel like I'm walking on thin ice, and if I step the wrong way, down I'll go.
Finally, a little upset, and little change in my summer plans. Nothing big, mind you, but for whatever reason it has hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm feeling a bit bummed, and feeling even more bummed because of why I am bummed: a lot of my emotion is simply about the root issue that when people get engaged, get married, etc., nothing is the same again. And nor should it be. The friendships must change because the couple must come together. But, to get hyper-dramatic and quote Galadriel "I must diminish and go into the West." Literally. I must accept the West as my home, at least for now, and I must slowly retreat, ever so slightly, from things I hold so dear.
And yes, I am speaking cryptically for a reason.
And yes, I think I am done.
And yes, I know this is all a bit crazy.

The Year in Review

2006-02-07T21:33:00.000-08:00

Today was Preview Day at school, meaning that prospective students come and look at the school, go to classes, have interviews, etc. All the prospective students filed into class today, some in suits, others in jeans, and I was brought back to this time a year ago, which seems at once such a short and yet such a long time ago.
This time last year I was in a serious relationship, getting ready for a happy, laid-back, love-filled Valentines' Day. I had finished the mad rush of grad school applications (y'all, it Sucks) and was now waiting to hear back from schools. I was topsy-turvy in that respect, a bit unsure where to go, and these schools in SoCal were my first schools for interviewing, so I didn't know what to expect. I was lonely and scared, binging like crazy on my trip because I felt so incredibly alone in this bright, crazy Los Angeles world. I couldn't wait to get back to the warm comfort of Roommate and our sweet, cozy little appartment, all decorated for Valentine's Day.
A year brings a lot of change.
I now live here in SoCal, however relunctantly. (Which, btw, the city is currently coverd in Ash from fires in the desert. It's like a volcano is erupting. Huge black clouds roll across the sky and the sun is red.) I rent my own little room, tiny as a closet, and it's Definitely not decorated for Valentine's day. (In fact, it's just burried in crap.) I am now groaning under the felt-prison of four and a half more years of school. I never thought they could feel so oppressive. I am now planning a Valentine's Day get-together (are we sensing a Valentine's theme, here?) for all the single people in my class so we won't feel quite so sad next Tuesday. I keep my quiet dreams of romance (mostly) to myself. Roommate lives in another state now, in another part of the country. We talk every week, but it's just not the same. How could it be? Now two of my closest friends are engaged, bringing with it very different concerns than mine. They are now literally planning the stuff of life, their weddings, their careers, their kids. I mean, I know you can't exactly plan that stuff, but to even Think of planning it boggles my mind. My plan is, can I make it till May? And then the next May, and then the next?
I am more fragile now, more exposed, more open and bleeding. I can't keep it in anymore, all the things I think and feel, can't keep lying to myself. I am more honest now, and I suppose there is a strength in honesty. I am alone, very, very alone, alone in a way I have never been before.
I am here now, a little root, small, but firm and strong. I am quiet, waiting, waiting for God only knows what. Waiting for the sunlight, waiting for the rain, waiting for my cue to blosom. But know that I am growing, quiet and small as I am.

What Food Does for Me that I Cannot Do for Myself

2006-02-05T22:10:00.000-08:00

So, in case you didn't notice the weird-sounding title, this isn't a subject I came up with. Nope, Fancy-Schmancy Nutritionist (with her other office in Beverly Hills) asked me to blog about this subject, so here we go:

*Disclaimer: I realize that at some point I will not need food to do these things for me. I am merely stating what I get food to do for me right now.*

1. Distraction! There's this Alanis Morisette song that talks about being 'petrified of silence,' and then the cd goes blank. For a few seconds, you have to face your fear of silence. Well, food's great because there's never a silent, empty moment! You can fill it up while you fill your stomach. Are you sad, scared, angry, or alone? Food is always there for you. Which leads to my next point:
2.Pushing Down the Pain: If an undesirable emotion should dare to raise it's ugly head, you can eat sometimg, and then immediately have something nice and comforting before you. It doesn't matter if you don't have any friends, because food, espescially sweets, are good for what ails you.
3. Rewards! Done anything good or difficult? Clearly, you deserve something sweet! This was instilled in me from a young age: according to Daddy, if you exercised, then you 'deserved' to have a cookie. Well, sometimes you do things that are a lot harder than exercising, and so, clearly, you need more than One cookie. Are you staying up late? Studying for exams? Are you having a really rough week? Here, have some ice cream, you deserve it.
4. Self-esteem boost: If I don't eat, then I am being a 'good little girl.' Ooooh, aren't I just so virtuous??? All I had for breakfast was a cup of coffee? Fabulous! Better that I had had nothing at all, of course, but still, doing pretty good. A Lean Cuisine for lunch? Excellent! I'm doing great. The problem, of course, is that I can't not-eat forever. Eventually I will have dinner, and then binge, and then feel like shit. But, for those daylight hours, I really am a good person because I am not eating food.
Allright, that's all for now, folks. This is a bit painful. But rest assured there's more to come.

Quality Time

2006-02-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

Can I tell you a little secret?
Sometimes I Really don't like my roommates (read: Scary Roommate). Like, ooooooh, I just shiver with anger and my vision gets all blurry because, ooooooh, I just can't Stand her!
Tonight was one of those evenings.
Now, the question is, why do I hate her so much? Why???? She is nothing but nice to me. I mean, yes, she is a bit manipulative, but that's nothing new. Mostly, I'm just struck by her neediness, her desperation for relationships, her dire need for A Man. And, normally, or at least under some circumstances, I think I would have compassion for such desperation. In fact, as I write this, I do feel rather sorry for her. But, oh!, in the moment, forget it! I wonder what it is about her, and what it is about me, that makes her so infuriating to me. Perhaps because in her I see a part of myself I don't like? I don't know.
Anyway, this evening she had me firmly trapped. She caught me off guard the other day and made me promise to hang out with her tonight, and at the time I could not think of an excuse. (Aren't I horrible?) So, we hung out accordingly, making dinner and eventually watching a movie, but not without her first wringing information from me about the Fancy-Schmancy Nutritionist (more on that later) than I ever wanted to tell anybody.
And then we saw the movie. Oh y'all, what a movie! The Notebook is about chick-flickiest chick-flick I've ever seen. Ohmyheavens, everything a girl could want. And so about me, as well. Somethings about it so apply to my life, and make me ask myself a lot of questions. Which I would post, only too many people read this blog. ;-) So, instead, I'll just contemplate them on my own, and hope I can come with an excuse faster next time she asks.

The Beginning

2006-01-30T22:54:00.001-08:00

And so another semester begins. Only 9 more to go until I actually have soemthing to show for all this crap. New courses, new school supplies, a new housemate. And, oh grascious, y'all, what a housemate! She's been living in Beverly Hills, but has now been 'called out' by God to live among the less-affluent. I guess that's us. ;-) And while, yes, we do technically live below the poverty line, it's only because we're currently racking up over $100,000 worth of debt to become certifiably over-educated. Also, she had to leave her last living situation becuase 'they weren't Real Christians.' Ohmygrascious. Heaven only Knows if we're 'Real Christians' or not. Still, Scary Roommate (see post: Why Roommate is so Wonderful) thinks New Housemate is the best thing since sliced bread. Maybe it's becuase she says things like "That's so rad!" and "She's so dope!" You never know, I guess some people like those phrases. ;-)
It's funny, because sometimes I'll start asking myself, is this really worth it? Is it really worth all this crap, all this schooling, all these housemates, all this therapy, for four measly letters, Psy.D., after my name? Is it really worth all the pain and suffering of living in ugly and unbreathable SoCal? So many times, all I want to do is run back to Texas, run back Home, back to where my friends are close by, where the things I know and love are. Sometimes I can almost taste it. But then I have moments like the one I had in class today: I grumble along, thinking about how much I hate school, I hate class, I hate SoCal, and then Dr. Porter says, "And this semester we'll be talking about the problem of Evil, the nature of human persons, and the existance of the Soul." (And yes, he really does say "Human Persons." It's like his favorite phrase.) And then I realize, there's (almost) no where else I'd rather be. Yes, I am so much of a nerd that discussing the existance of the soul actually sounds exciting to me, actually sparks something within me that makes me want to sit up and Listen! Sit up, and think, and feel, and do. So guess what, all you crap??? You can't get me down! Because, goshdarn it, I'm gonna be a psychologist, and I'm gonna be the best one I can be, and what's more, I'm gonna like it!
Because this is my call, and you can't mess with that.

You might be a Redneck if ...

2006-01-28T15:44:00.000-08:00

So, Uncle Rico lives across the street. Admittedly, Uncle Rico is a little older, a little wiser, a little richer, but, hey!, it's been a couple years since he and Napoleon sold cheap tupperware, so he's moved up in the world. He finally gave up on football, gave up on that VW van, and moved himself on down to SoCal. Where he met other people just like him.
Uncle Rico has no need for the van. Now he has his own run down house, complete with a yard strewn with trash and old car parts, with plenty of space to fullfill his dreams: RV racing. Oh yes. His yard holds not one, but two vehicles up on cinder blocks (one of them being the RV), in addition to his four other vehicles, parked haphazardly on the lawn. When he gets home from work everday, complete with mechanic's uniform and embroidered name badge, Uncle Rico brushes his toupee-like hair, pulls off his shirt, and goes to work 'renovating' that RV, which he can't wait to go race in the desert with his buddies. Uncle Rico has no need to throw the football to get attention from the ladies, or anyone else. He just grabs a beer, shows off his (sagging) muscles, sends a lecherous glance towards the house full of hotties across the street, and works it on that RV. After all, what woman could resist that 70s hair style, or the hotness of an RV on cinderblocks? So, yes, Uncle Rico may still be a little "stuck in '82," but, make no mistake, all his wildest dreams are coming true, just like Pedro said.

2006-01-23T20:45:00.000-08:00

It's funny because I go about my life, thinking I'm, well, somewhat ok, thinking that at least things will Be ok, someday. And then, something happens, and I am reminded all over again that the wound is still fresh, that the blood has scarcely dried. The reminder came this time out of the blue, completely unexpected, like a smog-free day in Southern California. Quick and heavy, straight for the gut, knocking me nearly breathless. I begin to ache again, like before, only now I have both an ache and a smarting, as though I have been slapped.
The blow is not something new. It is only a new manifestation of an old pain, a pain I should probably be embracing, but instead am running from as much as possible. And, worst of all, I really have no right to feel this pain. But, now that I feel it, everything is different. For a moment my world is changed, and every sight is different, from my car to my bed to the books beside it. Everything is now full of fresh pain, a fresh reminder.
It's times like these where I would love to escape, love to run far away from my life. Somewhere where, yes, there may be pain, but it is not mine.

New Orleans Holiday

2006-01-21T13:02:00.000-08:00

So, I went and saw Last Holiday last night, which I was not particularly filled with desire to see. However, when somewhat suicidal friend e-mails and tell you she wants to see X movie (as long as it's not too depressing), well, that's what you see. I wasn't expecting much, and that's probably a good thing, but it really wasn't half bad. Of course, it was cheese, cheese, cheese, but not a bad kind of cheese, and, randomly, the main character's relationship with God was very well-portrayed, and, dare I say, rather nice and refreshing? For the most part, that part was h appily expempt from cheese. And, of course, Queen Latifah (sp?) movies are always nice b/c she's not exactly skinny, but you get to see her look so beautiful and happy, just the way she is. (Is she really that beautiful and happy in real life? I guess we'll never know.)
Anyway!, so, the other reason I really liked the movie was b/c it took place in New Olreans. Ok, it was so sad how excited I was when I finally figured this out. I almost leaned over and excitedly hissed, "It's in New Olreans!!!!" but then I thought better of it b/c I realized she has no reason to be excited about it taking place in New Olreans, and it would require a long explanation while something important was happening, and . . . not worth it. So, I was just quietly excited. And why, pray tell, did this make me so happy? Well, you see, Boy is from there. Boy is currently gutting and rebuilding a house that was flooded by Katrina there. N'awlins is Boy's home. (Btw, it made me really mad b/c no one in the movie even Bothered to Try to fake a New Olreanian accent, which, let me tell you, is something to hear. One of them said New OlrlEANS like they were taking about the Leaning Tower of Pisa, it LEANS. Ugh!)
Anyway, did I mention to you how much I love that city? This of course is simply becuase he loves that city more than anyone should ever love a city. ;-) But still he loves it, and still to me it is a magic place, a place where everything has a story, one for the city, and one for my baby. It is a place beautiful and run-down and charming, where you can feel the history steep into your bones, and laugh as he takes you down Scary and Immoral Bourbon street and tells you funny stories about the Houses of Sin. It is a place with beautiful old mansions, full of mystery, to gaze at while he takes you, for the hundreth time, down St. Charles so you can see them again. It is a place where people have welcomed me with open arms, always so happy to see me, always warm and accepting, even in the middle of difficulty. Which certainly makes me wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to give up my opportunity to live in that magical place. ;-)
Yes, it was just a movie. Yes, if I lived there, it wouldn't hold the same mythical power. But I love that city nonetheless, the city that is his home.

Voices

2006-01-17T23:10:00.000-08:00

Mmmm, a wee bit stressed right now! My head is full of voices (no, not those kind of voices!), voices and sounds that tell me what to do, and what not to do, and who I am in the first place. Here's a small sampling:
~"Fifty five pounds! Fifty five pounds!" This is the voice, coming from gosh-knows where, taunting me with the fact that I am now 55 pounds over weight. (Well, 54, if you must know, but then, you weren't asking, were you?) The weight hisess at me from my encumbered arms, cackles at me from my rolly middle, and openly gufaws from my enormous back-side. "Fifty five pounds!" it taunts. Next Monday, I'm going to see a fancy-schmancy nutritionist (whose other office is in Beverly Hills, which makes me laugh), because I'm at my wits end about the whole thing. Which is why I'm going to let her charge me (my parents) an obscenely large amount of moeny. Dear God, I need help.
~"Cha-ching!" That's what Sally Mae is saying. (I'm not really sure if Sally Mae actually makes a whole lot of money off of student loans, but at this rate, it sure feels that way!) Kids, at the end of all this crap, I'll be more than $100,000 in debt. That thought makes me almost want to fall over. How will I ever repay it?? Espescially if I keep buying this much coffee at Starbucks??? (Ok, I'm so proud, tho, in the last weeka and a half, I've only been to Starbucks once, and out for coffee like three times total. Considering I used to go once a day, I"m Way Proud.) So, basically, I'm screwed.
~"Ten New Voicemails!" My cell is positiviely over-run with calls. This might not happen if I would actually answer the phone. But, here's the thing. Here's the thing I just hate about myself right now, that I just can't stand: I long So Much for connection with others, a nd yet I'm too afraid to answer the damn phone. So, the anxiety builds and builds and so do the voice messages, and peoeple get madder and madder and more and more frustrated b/c I havne't returned their calls, and, still!, I stare at the phone! I hate it!!! But I think I hate myself more for not answering it. Eleven new voicemails!
~"Tick-tock, Tick-tock." I know, I know, I know. I'm much, Much, MUCH too young to be even Thinking Tick-tock. Here's the thing: when you come from a conservative Christian circle that values marriage and motherhood above all else; when your closest friends are getting married sometime soon; when all you really want is a family; when you've never flipping ever had sex: TICK-TOCK. I'm so happy for my friends, and this is nothing against them, but sometimes its hard to think about weddings and bridesmaids and showers because, well, I want that right now, and it ain't happnin'. Or at least part of wants it. And, ummm, yeah, Tick-Tock.
~And finally, that small, cold, creeping voice inside me that whispers, so subtly, and yet so loudly I feel like everyone must know: "Anna, you are utterly and radically alone. Alone, alone, alone. And it will always be this way."

Ummm, maybe it's time I go see my therapist, whadya think? ;-)

Mountain High

2006-01-14T23:07:00.000-08:00

So, sorry for not posting much, it's been kind of a downer week, and sometimes, when I"m down, it's hard to post. What with being alone in SoCal, going back to school, and a hard therapy session, I was down for the count. But I"m better now. ;-)
I could write about my limited journey as a Baby-Therapist, but I'm not feeling that so much right now, so instead I'll tell you about my experience of beauty yesterday.
I got out of class and then went to lunch w/ some classmates (woohoo, go me for begin social!), took my walk, and then . . . I had the itch to Go Somewhere. The smog had accumulated in SoCal once again, so I could barely see the next ridge over, much less the mountains to the north, but a few days before there had been No Smog and so I could see these Gorgeous mountains reaching towards the sky, one even with snow on top. So . . . I went. I got out my map of LA and drove north, towards the mountains, towards the light brown sections of the map where no streets or highways marred the landscape.
I never even made it all the way to the mountains. But my journey towards them was so full of beauty, gazing at the mountains as they became clearer and more distinct through the smog and filled more and more of my windshield. I just made it to the foot of the mountains before I had to turn around and go back, but being at the foot, gazing up at them, gave me such a sense of peace, and beauty, and relaxation, such as I have not felt for quite some time.
When Roommate was here, she and I went to the sea, and it was utterly beautiful, but the sea does not fill me with peace the way the mountains do. As I drove, I considered this, and, surpise surprise, I came up with an interesting psychological interpretation:
When I stand by the ocean, beuatiful as it is, I am filled with a deep and fundamental anxiety. There is a cold, creeping finger inside my chest that whispers it's not safe, whispers that if I'm not careful, the ocean will overtake me, will consume me, and I'll drown. By contrast, when I look at the mountains, I am filled with a deep and fundamental peace. Yes, the mountains are big and scary, and yes scary animals live there, like mountain lions and things. Yes, they go up and up and up. But then, they stop. The mountains have a clear, distinct border against the smoggy sky. Yes, they are large and powerful, but they have clear boundaries, I know where they begin and end, I can be certain that they will stop. They're rich brown dirt, warmed by the sun, is firm and steady. I can place my foot upon it and it will not move, but instead will bear me up; there is no danger it will rise around me and engulf me over my head.
Perhaps this says something about the kind of people and relationships I need in my life. I know I often feel like, if I'm not careful, I will be engulfed by my mother and our family in general, and that, if I put down my guard, I will soon be drowned and I myself will no longer exist. I do not mind strong people in my life, on the contrary, I would welcome some. But I need them to have firm boundaries, firm places where they begin and I end. I need to come to a place where I can have firm boundaries with everyone, like a rocky, tree-studded ridge. It is safe to be with mountain people, becuase I am me, and they are them, and there is no danger of the two of us mingling together until I cease to exist.

Duty

2006-01-09T00:12:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling very smug and dutiful right now. Today, I completed one, two, three, four, five tasks, not all of which I was looking forward to, and made my own coffee instead of going out, to boot! I went to church (yeah, yeah, I know, it shouldn't feel like a duty, but still, it does), called my mother, went for a walk, mended fences with a classmate, and called Roommate's Finacee. Not that I Mind doing all these things, in fact, while doing them, they were all a pleasure, but getting up the umph was a bit hard, and now that I've done them, I feel like a very good girl indeed.
And I don't think this is a very good thing. I feel horrible, feeling like God and my friends are duties. But really, without a sense of duty, I don't think I'd have any relationships. It takes that dutiful sense to get over the stomach-turning hump of dialing the phone. (Yes, I really do hate it that much, my stomach really does turn.) In fact, there is probably only one person in the world I would call right now without some sense of duty, but I don't call him, because I'm not sure he really wants me to call. So, I sit here, not calling, imagining conversations in my head in which I am brilliant and witty, telling him all the little jokes and details of my life that I always forget or feel too stupid to say when I'm actually on the phone.
It's funny because, while a sense of duty does help me maintain friendships, no matter how dutiful I am, I can do nothing to help or change the things that really need helping and changing. I can pray until my knees are red, so dutiful!, but it seems to be of no avail for my father, who hasn't had a real job in Six Years. I can talk about marriage counseling till I'm blue in the face, but it doesn't mean my parents' marriage will get any better. I can nod in silent commiseration when a friend tells me she's been contemplating suicide, but no ammount of sympathy can keep her from actually going through with it.
So, I'll just do my duty, pray like hell, and hope someday, something finally happens.

Stark and Still

2006-01-07T12:41:00.000-08:00

Well, here I am, back from my short hiatus in which Roommate came to visit and we drove up and down the Southern California coast twice. (Point Lomas is beuatiful, but be careful when driving around San Diego: once you accidentally get off the freeway, you're screwed, as there are no entrance ramps but lots of strip clubs with creative names like "Les Girls.") We also went wedding dress shopping (don't tell her mother) and I have been named Official Maid of Honor! Yay!!
We had a very good visit, but I'm already feeling a little down, a little lonely, a little everything. In the spirit of Mel's recent moodswing, I think I shall write a Random Post, featuring Random Reflections on school, the holidays, and life.
~ Parents, parents, parents. - What's a girl to do? I love them very much, truly, I do. So how is this love compatible with the anger and frustration I feel being around them? I suppose the better question would be, how is it not, since one is supposed to be able to handle people being good and bad at the same time.
I have a lot of trouble with this.
And I must assign blame for everything in their marriage. This is not boding well.
~ God, what is up with my father not having a job? What is this???? He hasnt' had a real job in almost six years. Six Years! That's a long time!!! And so the family finances spiral downwards, and he grows more and more depressed. And his alcohol consumption increases. Why, why, why??? I know it's not my place to know why, but, God, you're making it really hard to believe in your Provident goodness at the moment!!
~ Shall we talk about how fat I am? I don't think so. We all know how bad it is, anyway.
~ The worst kind of being alone is being alone with someone else. You talk with them, laugh with them, debate with them, tell funny stories, feel the brush of their sleeve on your arm, and Still, you are utterly alone. When you feel lonely by yourself, you can fool yourself into thinking that you are not a lonely person at all, and if someone else was there, then you would feel perfectly happy. But when you are with another and still feel as tho you are the only person, standing stark and still on a deserted planet, then you know what lonliness is.
~I am in between two worlds right now, in so many capacities. I do not belong anywhere. I am still thinking of being at home, still missing them, still missing my sweet puppy and all my familiar places, but here I am, sitting in the library in California because the internet at my house doesn't work. My heart is at my undergrad, all it's important questions and concerns, the horrors of departmental politics and ugly architecture. But here I am, again, in this brand spankin' new library, with smoggy California sunshine outside. Many of my friends are getting married, starting some new happiness, crossing over into a different world. But now I sit here, quiet and alone, with all the drudge of four and a half more years of schooling before me. It seems as tho I will Never graduate, Never be part of the 'real world,' but, really, why should it matter? It is not as tho I will magically no longer be alone when I have Dr. in frong of my name.
Believe me, ambition is no substitute for relationship.

A Little Down (But trying not to be)

2006-01-01T22:37:00.000-08:00

So, after all the fuss I always make about going home, and how I'm scared,etc., the irony is that now, of course, I don't want to leave. I'm kinda sad about leaving, and not really looking forward to SoCal either. Blech.
When I leave tomorrow, we [the family] will all be sad. I Can't Stand Them, but we will all be sad, my dog espescially. She'll look at me with her big, brown eyes, and then look mournfully at my suitcases, and then gaze back sadly at me again. Often times when I leave, she tries to climb up in the trunk of the car, or into my seat, even tho she hates car rides with every fiber of her being. My doggy is sick again, and, so I feel extra sad leaving her. The vet thinks we may have to put her down, our sweet little miracle-dog who beat cancer already. Hasn't she already had her share of suffering? Hasn't she, God??? And now this, a benign tumor that's all through her back leg, and cutting off her circulation, so that it must be removed, but the vet doesn't see how, even if they amputated her leg. I'm pretty sad about it. She's my prescious girl, you know.
Then, you know, there's the usual self-centered complaints: I'm wretchedly, disgustingly fat, etc. I could go on and on, but I think you've heard enough of that already.
Admittedly, it doesn't help that Roommate was going to visit me in SoCal starting tomorrow afternoon; it would soften the blow of going back. However, and it's totally not her fault, she can't come till Tuesday night, and I'm inordinatedly bummed about it. It's not long to wait! And I'm spending the whole summer with her! But I miss her, and as it stands now, I have to face 24 hours of SoCal by myself.
Finally, it's been hard without Boyfriend during the holidays. I miss him terribly. I miss his laugh, his smile that seems just for me, to share a private joke. I miss the way he helps me to see good in a situation, and to laugh at myself. I could use a joke right about now. I miss shopping for him at Christmas, and opening the huge package full of Christmas gifts he sent me every year. I just miss him. A Lot. And I want to see him soooooooo much . . . . And, altho I hope to see him this summer, well, that's a long way away.
So I'll just sit here now, and wish I could cry, and hope I fall asleep on the plane tommorrow.

Belonging

2005-12-29T21:53:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-26T16:47:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-24T23:15:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-22T23:12:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-18T20:32:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-16T16:41:00.000-08:00

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 :)

2005-12-13T18:15:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-12T14:29:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-12T00:47:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-10T12:38:00.000-08:00

***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

2005-12-08T11:18:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-06T23:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-06T00:07:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-04T23:58:00.000-08:00

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:

2005-12-04T00:59:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-02T18:54:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-01T11:23:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-29T23:34:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-27T22:39:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-20T23:22:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-18T13:37:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-17T19:24:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-15T17:08:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-14T23:36:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-13T00:35:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-12T01:06:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-11T13:11:00.000-08:00

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)

2005-11-10T11:46:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-08T21:32:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-06T21:55:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-05T20:19:00.000-08:00

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.)

2005-11-01T21:52:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-31T20:59:00.000-08:00

(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

2005-10-30T00:33:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-10-25T21:49:00.000-07:00

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

Damaged Goods

2005-10-25T20:58:00.000-07:00

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.)

2005-10-23T23:18:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-20T23:37:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-18T23:34:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-04T22:03:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-28T18:54:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

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!?!?! ;-)

2005-09-27T16:19:00.000-07:00

Which one is me? ;-)

Hmmm

2005-09-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

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. ;-)