Well, it’s me, not you.  I just need some space.  I’m not ready for a serious commitment, see, and honestly, I don’t even know if you’re my type.  Hell, I don’t even know who you are; you know….on the inside.  Or really on the outside for that matter.  See, kid, it’s just not working out.  But we can still be friends.

As you (the collective you) may or may not have noticed, my input here has become less and less frequent.  On my morning run today, as I was listening to songs suggested by dug long ago, I decided it was time to take a break.  As the good book says, there’s a time for blogging, and a time to shut-up. 

Also, Bob of Bob’s Top Five has removed me from his list of favorite bloggers, so I just need some time to heal.  Let’s not speak of this again……it’s too soon.

I’ll be back, certainly.  Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe in a year.  It will be when you least expect it and probably when I’m drunk and lonely.  Let’s hold on to that.  We will always have that.

Oh yeh….and I’m still reading you.  I’ll be commenting my little heart out, to be sure.

Peezout.

My client this morning was one of the most adorable snowboarder guys I’ve ever seen.  He reminded of Bill…or Ted….hmmm….whichever Keanu Reeves played in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure.  Let’s call him Ted.  He had that stoner way of speaking, the large hand gestures, the “ahhhh’s” and “uuuuu’s” down to a science.  We spoke of the challenges he faces currently, and meeting girls seemed to weigh heavy on his mind.  Ted is trying to not go to bars so often, and said the hardest part is that he has no other way of meeting “the potentials”.  I suggested the library, the grocery store and was going to keep going on my lame-o list of places to hook up when he stopped me.

“The grocery store!  That’s such a great idea.  I’d be like, ‘hey, you like wheat bread, and I like wheat bread too!’  And then she’d totally talk to me because I was interested in her healthy lifestyle!”

And my work with Ted was done.

I watched Hotel Rwanda recently and it made me think.  I know I’m late on this film, but understand that I just recently received the gift of Netflix and all that it offers.  Anyway, I watched this movie.  It was so hard to watch.  It would have been easier to watch if it was fiction.  If it was about events that aren’t/weren’t real, I could have watched it and enjoyed it for the dramatic impact it had.

Instead, I watched it and cried from about middle to end.  And then I sniffled for a little while afterwards.  Every once in a while things like this movie rip off the filter-blindfold I walk around with, and force me to see things that are going on in the world outside of this limited and privileged view.  If you haven’t seen it, or aren’t familiar with the story, it’s about the civil war in Rwanda.  It could be about any war I’m guessing, but the part that was so poignant was of course, the inaction of the U.S., and the United Nations as a whole.  While genocide was going on a daily basis, nothing was done except for token “peace-keeping” shows. 

The exchange that killed me and made me know I was guilty was when the character of Paul Rusesabagina (Don Cheadle) said to a cameraman played by Joaquin Phoenix that he was grateful for the filming he had done which showed his people killing each other with machetes, because people in America would see it, and send help.  Joaquin’s character replied something to the effect of “they won’t help you.  They’ll see it on the evening news, say ‘that’s terrible’ and go back to eating their dinner”.  That’s me.  That’s what I do.  Or else I just turn it off because it’s too hard to watch.   

This film has stayed with me for seven days.  I think about it endlessly.  They ask for contributions to Amnesty International at the end of the film, and I suppose I could do that and maybe I’d feel better.  What stops me is that I feel like it’s a treadmill.  I give, they spend, and what has changed? 

I’m amazed that our country can go to war over imagined weapons and such, but that we hold back on matters that just seem so clear cut.  I suppose it’s probably not so clear cut as the film makes it seem.  Good and bad are spelled out pretty clearly in it, and I have to admit things just aren’t so in real life.  Still, the amazing numbers of murders in that war just hurt to think about. 

This weekend I’m watching Monsters Inc.  I’m guessing it won’t be such a trauma.  Dumbing it down a little…sometimes it just has to be done.

I was told by a friend last week that Elmo was going to be at Barnes & Noble today.  I decided Junior had earned an Elmo sighting, and got him all psyched up to see the big red furry monster.  Junior donned his Elmo shirt and his favorite pants which don’t necessarily compliment each other (brown, red and blue anyone?) and we set out as a family to experience Elmo, up close and personal.

There was a lot of traffic on the way.  That is weird because it was eleven o’clock in the morning.  And we were traveling less than two miles to Barnes & Noble.  There was no parking.  That was weird because I live in the land of milk and plentiful parking.  There were hoards of parents running with children in their arms…like they were in a race.  I just totally did not comprehend what was going on.  This Elmo experience, as it turns out…was a huge hellacious deal of an event.  Now, I just want to say that we were going on a whim, not necessarily an event, per se.  But I had it all wrong. 

If you’ve ever tried to get into a club that has a bouncer with an evil eye and a velvet rope, you have an idea of how it was to get into heretofore easily accessible Barnes & Noble.  The place was packed to capacity, and parents were using elbows and knees to get up the escalator to the kids section.  These parents were getting nasty.  No smiles, no happy kids.  It was like a mass panic exodus from a building on fire.  But we were not trying to get out we were trying to get in, and as far in as possible because who knows where Elmo will appear?

It was silly and terrible.  I could tell that the experience meant far more to these swarming parents and kids than it did to me, so I held Junior up on my shoulders for a chance to see, and intended on high tailing it out.  He saw Elmo, and had this to say:

“Ah-na hot toe-toe ‘n’ uh pee-yat-zel”

Any guesses as to what it means?

“So, tell me something about myself that drives you nuts. Something that won’t hurt my feelings.  Something that I could change and it would make you like me just a little more”.

“Actually, there is something.  Are you sure you want to hear it?  You won’t turn this on me?”

“No.  No I won’t turn it on you.  I’m a professional at taking feedback.  What is it?”

“You don’t close things.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

 “The jar of peanut butter, the jar of jelly, the lid on the toothpaste.  Cheese in saran-wrap.  You make contact from one to the other, but don’t actually close it.  So I’ll pick up the peanut butter, by the lid, and the jar will fall out from under it.  The cheese gets dried out because though saran-wrap has contact with it, it’s not actually wrapping it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m just going to try to do it more, now.  Just to get back at you for criticizing me.”

“You can’t do it more.  You’ve done it to capacity.  There are no other things that can be un-closed.”

“I may just find a way.  Good night.”

This week, I have been given six new female clients by the Universe.  Each female client has been under twenty years old.  Each has suffered childhood trauma, and each has a significant anxiety and depressive disorder.  All the young girls brought into my life this week have been pretty girls, and very very sad.  All have substantial substance abuse problems, and all deserve much better than they currently have.

It’s curious to me how the clients I get are random, but often times I get these waves of similarity.  I seem to receive what I need, though.  I think I needed to have people this week that really needed me.  I would have been useless to the narcissist, because their wounds are too deep….but these girls, who needed another girl because they don’t trust men, they got me and I understood them.  One recognized me from my former life, and broke into tears as she said “I’m really happy that I met you today.  You know what life is like in this group of friends.  You know they’re not bad people.  You know I’m not a bad person”. 

I also had a 77-year-old man meet with me this week, but he didn’t need me.  He did all the talking, and out of respect, I answered all of his way-too-personal questions.  I also had a man who cried for about two hours straight, and had no interest talking about drugs or alcohol.  He was heartbroken as his wife had just left him and he missed his three children, and he just needed to tell his story.  He kept saying he would be ok, and I agreed with him.   

The thing is I know all these people will be ok.  They would probably be ok with or without the intervention that is me.  These people are everywhere.  These are the people on the street in the supermarket at the stoplight.  This is humanity and we are a desperate bunch.  I sometimes feel overwhelmed by the things I hear, but I know these are just stories.  The stories that people need to tell in order to get on to their next story.  Lucky for me, I get to go home to a tenacious two-year-old whose biggest problem is that his shoes are on the wrong feet. 

I wonder when we get so distressed.  At what age does life become so mangled?  

This week I had the opportunity to work on a party being held for the premiere of a movie (Wristcutters) at Sundance.  I did a bunch of things, mostly using my undeniable OCD superpowers to help organized things.  The night of the party I was able to unleash my prior self, the one who works a door with a VIP list in hand and a judgmental eye.  No saving people from themselves or helping the world become a better place.  Just one thing to focus on, and that’s keeping the Regular Folks away from the Very Important People.  An amusing job, mostly, and I learned some things.  I am passing them on to you, my reader who is not on the guest list.  (Reader who is on the VIP list, you should upgrade to a better blog.  We’re just the normal people here.)

1. If you’re not on the list, do not try dropping three names of people you know.  This will not work.  It just aggravates the door person (me).
2. If you’re not on the list, please do not try to sneak in with a group of people who are.  This is what the under-trained and slightly aggressive security staff are looking for you to do, and something they relish overreacting to.
3. If you are on the list, the VIP list, and have been granted access to this soiree, please do not keep bothering the door person with requests of letting “one more friend in”.  It’s almost enough to make me rip your precious wristband off, and banish you to the foyer where the Regular People are waiting to get in.
4. Actors/Actresses: stop referring to yourselves as “talent”.  It sounds dumb and grandiose.  I may diagnose you with an Axis II Cluster B personality disorder if you insist on saying “I’m talent.  I’m on the list”. 
5. If I’ve let you into the party, don’t remain angry that your name wasn’t on the list.  You’re in, buck-o.  No need to take a look and double check.  That gorgeous stripper-looking blondie on your arm will likely forget your utter humiliation as soon as she gets her first drink in her.  You are important.  You are successful.  You are in the party.  Congratulations.

The party was a blast and the night was a success.  I had an amazing time visiting my past, where I stayed up past 10:00 p.m., and actually wore lipstick.  Junior survived a babysitting, and even….even….oh it’s hard to say….seemed to enjoy his time away from us.  Apparently Junior and Grandma had their own little VIP party with no guest list and no name dropping.  I wonder who had more fun?

Inspired by Rockhead, I’ma break ya’ll off a piece of knowledge learnt from the streets in my hood.  Yeh, that’s right, the mean streets of Utah.  Ha.  It’s obviously Friday.  Anyway, in + out of the office, here’s what I’ve come up with:

• If you’re transporting 35 pounds of marijuana from California to Utah, do NOT speed through Nevada.
• Easy money turns out to not be so easy (reference possible consequences from speeding in Nevada with said contents in trunk).
• If a boy’s father abandons his family when the boy is very young, the boy often takes on a parenting role to the other siblings, and unfortunately the mother may not be up to intervening.  This is not really in the eldest boy’s best interest, and his experiences end up being very very sad, with little reward for the boy.  This boy may end up in jail and later prison, and still be full of hopes and dreams for his siblings.  This boy may well sacrifice any opportunity he’s ever had for happiness to the end of taking care of siblings.  One substance abuse counselor in his life may try to turn it all around, but ultimately can just cross her fingers and hope for this boy.  (It’s really hard to type with crossed fingers).
• It’s not terribly hard to convey “liar liar pants on fire” in a clinical way.  In fact, it’s kind of fun. 
• A woman who states that she simply “cannot remember any of the circumstances around that arrest.  I was eighteen and stupid.  It was a mistake” and then realizes she was actually thirty years old and stupid and it wasn’t that long ago and certainly she CAN remember it but just doesn’t want to talk about it, is a liar liar pants on fire.
• This substance abuse counselor is disabled in that I can not really tell the difference between fresh alcohol on the breath and mouthwash.  However, I have super powers in that I can easily smell if you drank a bunch last night and are sweating it out today.  I wish that super power would go away because that is a very stinky smell.
• If you get a subpoena to testify in court that mandates you show up at 8:30 am, it’s likely the judge won’t roll into the room until oh, say 9:30 am, and it’s very unlikely that your case will be called first.  Court is only interesting for about ten minutes.
• The universe is conspiring in my favor currently.  My lucky numbers are: 01, 08, 02, 28, and 73.  Feel free to play these in any lottery around the world.  You owe me half the loot if you win.

The Vortex of Chaos

Friday night my husband’s best friend came into town to visit.  This guy has got a heart of gold and the sense of a suicidal thirteen year old.  He’s still apparently living the dream as it were: not married, traversing the world to snowboard and surf, working intermittently, womanizing.  He usually walks through the door carrying a bag that smells vaguely sweet and sick and smoky….what’s that smell?  Somehow it reminds me of High School.  The other hand is usually clutching a bottle of Maker’s Mark Whisky.  We don’t discuss my profession and we don’t discuss his habits.  He’s adorable with Junior and truly cares about my husband.  This man is the one friend that’s remained in my husband’s life throughout everything.  They’ve been friends since childhood.  And honestly, he’s easily one of the most charismatic and likeable fellows I’ve met.  But each time he comes into town, it’s like watching a vortex of chaos and destruction swirling around dangerously close.  I’d love to put my hand out and pluck him out of it, but the guy….he’s not having it.  So no Come to Jesus discussions have happened, though I’m certain he has a solid understanding of where I am.

The Vortex of Chaos Plus One

They went out together (in a cab….I’m not totally impotent) with another friend that came with the Vortex of Chaos.  This other friend was even more of a disaster.  Fast forward to the end of the evening, and The Husband ends up ditching the Vortex of Chaos and friend, and walks home in the Winter cold rather than stay in a bad situation.  He wakes me up to tell me how disgusted he is with how drunken guys act, and apologizes for going out with them.  It’s sweet to me that The Husband on his walk home was berating himself for going out with the guys, thinking to himself that “I’ve got a wife and son at home…what am I doing in this place?”  And even though he stinks of that mysterious bar smell, I can’t help but get closer to him and think that I am the luckiest woman on the planet.  I don’t mind The Husband going out; I think it’s good for him to get some diversion in life.  But I love it that he runs his own interference, he gets himself out of situations that aren’t cool with him.  I think that takes a lot of tenacity to walk away from the guys…

Exhaustion Prevails

So that was the beginning of the long weekend.  It got less crazy, but remained persistently tiring.  Last night I admitted to The Husband that I don’t believe I’ve ever been so tired.  This last month has worn me out, with the holidays, the emotional turmoil, the friends, constant (loved and welcome) visitors at home, the loss of my dog, my work, the impending move.  I feel tired.  The Husband forced (ha ha) me to sleep in this morning, no running, no running after Junior.  I slept late (well, until 8:00 am) and had a relaxed morning.  Still, I don’t feel like my eyes are completely open.  But even feeling this way, I do have a sense of tranquility.  I know that everything I need is available to me for the asking.  I’m just learning how to ask still.  Sometimes that’s the hardest thing.  I’ll get there.  I’m getting there.

Junior has figured out the keys to life:  transition, replacement and acceptance.  While I didn’t really expect him to notice the dog was gone, I’ve been curious to see if he would.  She’s been around since he was born, but she usually high-tailed it out of the room when he would enter (did I mention what a smart dog she was?).  Anyway, Mecha served a few really useful functions that will be missed.  First, when any food was ever spilled on the floor (with a two year old, this is about every five minutes), it was always quickly and efficiently cleaned by the dog.  Second, if Junior had a plate of food he wasn’t particularly fond of, I could always trick him into eating it by offering/threatening “ok…I’ll just give your dinner to Mecha” at which point Junior would get so territorial, he could be tricked into eating broccoli. 

Manipulation Method Malfunction

Last night I made Junior a plate of sautéed vegetables placed on top of pasta.  He totally thought it sucked.  So, though she’s not around, I proceeded with my normal ploy, and asked if I should give it to Mecha.  For the first time ever, Junior smiled really big and said “yah!  Maa-ka!”  So he called my bluff.  Another first time ever, food went into the trash can.  It’s funny that this event made me so sad.  Mecha was such a scavenger.  She could absolutely be relied upon to eat all left-overs or discarded dinners.  I haven’t thrown food into the trashcan for thirteen years.  It felt really weird.

This Version is Much More Obedient

Then this morning, out of nowhere, Junior began toting a previously completely ignored stuffed animal, a black dog.  He called the toy “Maa-ka” and insisted upon having her present with him at all times.  He jumped with her on the bed, watched T.V. with her, and even tried to feed her some of his breakfast.  I told my husband that I believe this stuffed animal will replace any memory he has of the real Mecha.  But to me, that’s ok.  Junior is nurturing and loving and bonding with a dog reminiscent of a dog I loved like crazy.  And this one, the stuffed animal dog, will likely never break his heart.  That seems like a good thing right now.

After seven days of her not eating, not drinking and suffering through the night, I finally found the courage to make a decision to help my best friend of thirteen years.  This morning I literally just couldn’t convince myself to let her go on this way even one more day.  Mecha had good moments still left in her…maybe lots of them.  But they were becoming less and less.  I read over the comments in my last blog entry, and found such support and help from everyone who wrote to me.  So I called my friend Jake, who has known and loved/hated Mecha almost the entire time I’ve had her, and sobbed on the phone to him, asking him to pick us up and take us to the Pet Emergency Room.  In the hour that passed, I changed my mind about two hundred times, called my sister for reinforcement and cried cried cried my little heart out.  Mecha, in the meantime, began acting like everything was fine.  She’s always been quite clever.  When Jake got to the door she hopped up like always, barked like always, and got double excited when she saw me grab the leash.  

But I somehow maintained the resolve I’d come up with, and went forward with the plan.  I guess I was hoping after it was over that I would get a buzz from heaven indicating I’d totally screwed up, or a ding dong chime from heaven indicating I’d made the correct choice for the mutt.  Neither came, but I sit here right now all cried out and sad, but with a feeling that I’m pretty sure I did right by her.  Mecha has always been wild and tenacious, and she had abandoned these traits in the last few days.  She was shaking and timid, and certainly not enjoying every second of every minute like usual.  Mostly, I wanted as Rocky said, to help her along with the inevitable, and to make sure she didn’t go through it on her own. 

The folks at the ER were genuine and caring, and Mecha died in my arms, peaceful and serene.  She stopped shaking, and had no convulsions or discomfort.  She simply rested in my arms until the doctor listened to the absence of her heart, and told me she was gone.  I wept and wept and pet her and then finally said goodbye.

This has been a hard hard day.  My husband took these photos before I left to the ER.  At the time, I thought it was weird to be taking them, but I’m grateful for them now.  I will miss this dog intensely, but am happy that it went the way it did.  The Husband went out with Junior while I was gone and got me a silver link bracelet with a heart shaped charm engraved with her name.  With this gesture, I’m reminded not only of how much I loved that pooch, but also how lucky I am to have the people in my life that I do.

While I know that there are terrible things going on in the world and that my life is charmed blessed and lovely, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself today.  For those of you who do not love dogs, please do not read on, as it will be too easy to mock me.  Also, for those of you who have any sense of decency and are grossed out by descriptions of vomit, I’d suggest not reading further. But  here’s the thing, my dog is really sick and I’m really sad.  But not only am I sad I’m also a bad dog owner again, trying to balance pragmatism and emotion. 

The Dog

Mecha (pronounced Mek-ah, not meeecha, ok?) has been puking her doggie guts out for the past three days.  It’s terrible, on a lot of different levels.  It’s sad and it’s also not so fun to clean.  So I took her to the vet yesterday, who said he’d run some tests, come pick her up in a few hours.  When we got back, he said the tests were basically non-conclusive, and here are some anti-nausea pills and antibiotics.  Oh yeah, and here’s your bill.  Yesterday’s tests cost $250.00.  Just to put that into perspective, that’s a whole bunch of money to me.  But ok, I guess I can live with it.  It’s for the dog, after all.  My thirteen-year old companion, mi perro de amor.

The Grossness, The Tears

But last night, (another sleepless night.  I must say I’m looking a bit weary today) she was back at it, retching and choking and overall just not sounding great.  Upon inspection this morning, many blood clots and other things that are just not encouraging were in the mess.  I called the doctor who said I should bring her back in and they’ll do more tests.  I swallowed all my emotion and pride and asked the doctor how much that would cost.  He said it could be anywhere from one hundred to one thousand dollars.  Bah bah bah.  I asked for any type of other option and he said that I could start medication, and see what happens.  He said I could try giving her a pill and if she can keep it down, give her another and if she can keep it down, she then may drink some water and if she can keep it down, by tomorrow, she may eat again.  So a pill was given and I had to go to work.  My friend at work asked how I was doing and I broke into tears.  In my whole life, I’ve never cried at work.  It’s just a really inconvenient place to cry.  Especially when a client (who turns out to be a sociopath, by the way) is waiting for me in the front office.  Well anyway, boo hoo my friend said I’m a good parent a good dog owner and a good person.  That just made me cry more.  She’s a bad friend.

The Cliffhanger

And now, things are not good.  The dog wasn’t able to keep down the first pill, so the next sequence of events I discussed with her doctor are not happening and I’m waiting for his call which will inevitably tell me there’s nothing else he can do unless I bring her in.  And even then, if they figure out what’s wrong with her, well with a dog her age, there’s a possibility there will be nothing they can do. 

And that is why today is not such a great day. 

You often hear that one needs a vacation after their vacation.  This is true for me.  My Christmas/New Year’s vacation was excellent.  The family was around and Junior couldn’t believe his astounding fortune that his cousins kept showing up at each new place he went to.  They flew in from New York, and when we would leave one destination and they would show up at the next, he more often than not threw himself onto the ground with shrieks of excitement.  It was cute.  I don’t know if the folks at the restaurants we went to thought it was cute, but really if they didn’t, they were just wrong.

Lovely Sleep Deprivation

Overall things were kept calm, but my sleep habits suffered immensely, as Junior was a little terrified of sleeping in his grandfather’s home.  It’s new, and his room was big.  I decided that it was vacation after all, and did not take a hard line.  Instead, I ended up sleeping in the same bed as my little son about every night.  Though I pretended to be a little put out by this when in the company of my husband (as to elevate my score in the how-much-have-you-done-for-our-son-if-it’s-less-than-me-I-get-a-nap-tomorrow-while-you-occupy-him game) I totally loved it.  Junior would curl up next to me and put his hands on my face and fall asleep.  He would make funny noises while he slept, and even muttered words like “Santa” and “applesauce” as clues to what he was dreaming.  He would get bad breath while sleeping like all of us, but somehow I loved having his funny smell close to me.

Loved by the People

Hanging out with the family was great.  Rocky (of the Karmic Black Hole fame) kept me entertained and mentioned that certain comments I’d make would make him wish he could poke his mind’s eye out.  I don’t know if he actually did this at any point, but it’s gratifying to know I can have that effect on people.

Epiphany

This one is for dug.  I’ve been a mother for two years and two weeks.  I have been a parent for an excruciating fifteen minutes, and they happened last night.  I have many times touted that raising my son has been easy, and it has.  Until I had to draw up and enforce a boundary last night.  As I mentioned, I slept with Junior every night for about the past week and a half.  Last night he was finally home, in his own bed, and I expected things to go normally.  He’s always been a great sleeper, and falls asleep on his own.  I suppose I set myself up for this though.  As I put him in bed last night, I did what I normally do: kissed him and walked out of the room.  Screaming ensued.  That’s happened before.  It usually ends very quickly.  But Junior not only screamed, he figured out how to open his door.  So I put him back to bed, and he began hyperventilating.  Then he raced me to the door.  I shut it, and he opened it and I put him back into bed and he raced me to the door which I shut and he reopened.  This strategy was really going nowhere.  So I did what I guess I had to do, I held the door shut.  He started screaming my name again, and then saying “omen omen omen” which sounds really freaky except it’s just the way he says “open open open”.  I continued holding the door, and feeling him try to out-muscle me.  Then, he pierced my already sad and bloody heart by saying “mama, please.  Please.  Please!”  Junior was using every weapon he had.  The husband was standing behind me with wide eyes.  Then he went into the kitchen and I heard ice clanking in a glass.  I held the door for about a year and a half, or actually probably about four minutes, before Junior finally gave up and went to bed, whimpering.  I still haven’t recovered.  I even talked to our pediatrician this morning about what I did, and he laughed at me and said he was going to add this technique in an addendum to a book he’s written on raising toddlers.  I guess it was appropriate.  Still, it’s hard to be a parent.  It’s easy to be a mother.  Now I know.

My Altruistic Self

What good have I done in the world today?  Well…not today, but one day, I answered the call of the Police Force.  They needed my help, and they needed it quick!  Police officers have to train to give Field Sobriety Tests somehow, after all.  They needed a group of folks to come to the station, drink, get drunk, and then try to pass the road side tests given by the rookies.  Never one to shun my civic duty, I adjusted my halo, put on some lipstick and went on over, red rover, to help those in need.

Two-Drink-Easy

It was great.  I went with my boss and her boss and my favorite co-workers.  The weird thing was that we began drinking at about 10 in the morning.  That felt really early.  Soon enough it felt ok, though.  Then after a few drinks (two), I let the police officers know I felt like it would not be ok for me to drive.  They administered a breathalyzer test.  My BAC was .05.  That totally surprised me.  The legal limit (in most states) is .08.  I could have had another drink and still probably been legal.  I’m suuuuuch a lightweight.  It made it even scarier to me when I thought about my clients who get busted with a BAC of .24 or higher.  I’m certain I would be in a coma.  But there they are, walking, talking and driving.  Egads.

The Arrests

After a few more drinks, we did the Field Sobriety Tests.  The officers administering them weren’t privy to which of us were over and which were under the legal limit.  They had to “arrest” us based on their observations of how well we did on these tests.  Out of eight groups, I was arrested by five of them.  But at that time, my BAC was at about .10, so good on them.  The other ones….who didn’t arrest me….ha HA!  I rule at being intoxificated!!

And…the Inevitable Moral of the Story

Here’s an interesting tidbit:  There’s a theory called the Melon Bee effect.  Basically, it suggests that when you’re on your way to getting drunk, you have more clarity regarding your level of intoxication versus when you’re on your way down.  To wit:  when I began drinking, I stated at .05 that I wouldn’t drive.  Later in the day, after I’d consumed my last drink, and waited for a while and ate some food, I let the police know I felt like I could probably drive. (Of course, we weren’t allowed to drive home from this little training exercise.  We got to ride in Police Cars!  Unfortunately, they wouldn’t let me play with the lights and sirens.)  Baaaad decision.  I was just above .08.  I could have been arrested for DUI with that decision.  So let that be a lesson.  Just because you feel less intoxicated than you did about an hour or two hours or three hours ago, it doesn’t mean you should drive.  My advice:  take a cab or get a friend to drive.  If you find yourself wondering over the holidays if you’ve had too much, just be a good person and don’t chance it.

Happy Holidays!  Stay alive, be safe and keep the rest of us safe by making good decisions.

When Junior was born, he ended up needing to be cared for in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for about one week.  It was never life threatening, and the doctors and nurses were so kind to my husband and me.  We would arrive at the hospital at about 6:30 a.m., and leave at about 10 p.m.  I remember this time fondly and kind of in a blur.  I wasn’t really allowed to hold Junior as much as I wanted to, but when I was allowed, it felt like eating after starving.  The only reason I knew it was the Christmas Season was because on our drive home every night, we’d see the lights on houses and it would occur to us that there’s life outside of us, and this experience.

On Christmas Eve, I was sitting in the NICU watching Junior breathe, checking his little IV’s, tucking his blanket around him.  He had Velcro on the side of his head to attach little glasses on his eyes so the lights wouldn’t blind him.  He looked so funny and sad.   I was exhausted, and it was almost time to go.  I looked out the window, and there was my sister Lori and her daughter Em.  They had gifts and were beckoning me to come out.  I went out to meet them, and they were wearing matching red tights.  Em handed a box to me that was wrapped, and we all sat around a little hospital Christmas tree and I opened the presents they brought for me.  It meant the world to me that they brought this normalcy to me during a time that was a little difficult. 

On the following day, Christmas day, the doctor said we could bring Junior home.  We took him home and I couldn’t believe that I could just hold him all I wanted.  Lori came over with her family and some hot soup.  Her kids ran around my house like crazy, and held Junior and I think they were a little disappointed that other than laying there and being adorable he didn’t do much.  It began to snow, and we had a record snowfall that week.  Christmas only means a celebration of my son in my life now.  It’s the time that commemorates his arrival in our home, and the love I have for my family.  I know it’s cool to hate Christmas and all the commercialization and hypocrisy it symbolizes, but you know….I love Christmas now.  This is a good time of year for me.

A Sudanese Refugee came my way today, with a Dinka translator.  My court-ordered client stared at me like he hated me, and answered most of my questions with very little information.  I don’t think the translator translated any of my jokes, or else they were just not funny at all, because I did not get one smile from my client throughout the two hours we were together.

At the end, with me wondering how I could have made him feel better, more comfortable, less judged, my client told me that I was the first friend he had made here.  In over four years, he has not met anyone else.  He told me, while staring out the window at the snow, that he is allergic to snow.  And then he asked that I not tell the judge to kill him.  He requested that I suggest the judge let him live.  And then he laughed and it was beautiful.  He shook my hand and said “thank you” in English and he smiled, and that too was beautiful. 

Sometimes the last thirty seconds are the best.  I think I will suggest that the judge not kill him.

As I was on my way to work, I heard this message:

The Department of Environmental Quality has issued a health advisory because of air poor air quality.

Some particle levels in the air could be unhealthy for sensitive people in the next 24 hours.

The D-E-Q issued an advisory today, warning that children and the elderly should avoid prolonged or heavy outdoor activities. People with heart or breathing problems should also be careful.

How is one supposed to be careful about breathing?  I am completely unclear on how to choose which air particles I inhale, and which ones I reject.  If I could, I’d just hold my breath until this stuff hightails it out of here.  Running this morning made me feel queasy, and I don’t know if it was psychosomatic, or real, but I felt as if I was choking.  Also, the mountains were gone.  Either David Copperfield has figured out how to make molehills out of mountains, or they were hiding behind a thick blanket of….whatever.  Very bad stuff this air.  Also, Junior is coughing like a 90 year old 3-pack-a-day smoker.  That just makes me sad.  Egads.  Looking forward to moving to NYC, where the air is clean.....how funny is that?

I suppose it’s because I’m a girl, or because of the media, or because of supermodels or because of video games or because of rock music.  I care and think about how much I weigh.  I have never really been overweight, though sometimes I’ve been heavier than others.  But the preoccupation never really changes.  If I’m on the heavy end of where I should be, I think about loosing it.  If I’m on the light end, I think about maintaining it. 

After each weekend, (and today is Monday...) I roll my eyes into the back of my head and silently curse myself and all of the indulgences I allowed.  During the week I’m a soldier.  I eat sensibly, I eat well.  My husband tries to sabotage me, though.  He makes pies, breads, cookies, creamy soups.  I see them and talk myself out of them “just wait until the weekend” becomes my mantra.  But then the weekend comes and all of my feelings of entitlement come out and are expressed via eating the best and most amazing foods I can.  To wit: on Saturday night, my husband made this concoction dreamed up by some madman.  Pears, with a caramel sauce and bleu cheese with crushed pepper.  I don’t know.  I don’t know how it was so good, but it was so good.  It was good enough to make sitting through the prequel to The Exorcist not terribly painful (I don’t recommend trying to watch this movie without food as a crutch.  It’s that bad).

I guess the end result is this: though I know better cognitively, my weight is intrinsically tied to my self worth.  When I’m five over, I feel bad and somehow become more difficult to get along with.  When I’m five under, I feel pretty good, and I’m nicer to The Husband.  It’s ridiculous, and honestly, embarrassing.  I really wish I was one of those fantastically self-actualized and confident women who do not let these things define them.  But I guess I’m not there yet, I’m still concerned with the numbers on the scale and what they mean to me. 

As I’ve mentioned before, when my sister and her family high tailed it to fancy pants Brooklyn, my husband and I took that opportunity to squat at their (still furnished with toys, clothes, furniture, food and liquor) home, while renting our home out.  The time is getting closer for us to get our own arses over to fancy pants Brooklyn, so we’ve put our rented-out house on the market to be sold.

More and more, I’m beginning to regret it. 

The house is a good house.  Complete with a beautiful kitchen with great appliances and gorgeous cabinets.  I won’t go into all the features here…unless there’s any buyers out there…but let’s just leave it at, it’s a good house.  But now this good house has taken on the characteristics of a rented-out-by-college-students house, as it is.  There are pictures of girl’s boobs and butts on the brand new Amana Stainless Steele refrigerator.  The spacious, loft-like front room has been divided up with huge over-sized disgusting (albeit comfortable) bean bags, and third-rate tan (probably white at one time) furniture.  The Jacuzzi tub no longer is gleaming and lustrous, but quite grimy and has something scientific growing around the grout.  I’m just saying.

It was my hope that people could see past this, but truthfully, I can’t even see past it.  The price has been reduced twice, and I’m thinking we should just yank the sucker off the market and start over when Animal House once again becomes Our House.

The only reason I’m writing about this is because I went over it about two thousand times this morning, at oh….about 3:30 A.M.  I am trying to alleviate my stress by giving you, the internet, all this information for you to mull over instead of me.  There.  All done.  It’s Friday, have a good weekend.

This morning the power was out, due to a long-awaited snow storm.  Junior woke up with an amazing wail, because his room, usually glowing with warm diffused yellow light was pitch black and way cold.  I went downstairs and into his room.  He was standing by his door with his arm up, waiting for my hand to land in his.

We walked together to his bed, and he said “cozy”, a word that is a demand and request, a verb and a noun to this little blondie.  I pulled him onto my chest, wrapped all his blankets around us, added a few more and curled up around him on his too-small for me bed. 

Junior made funny little snoring sounds, and had this slow rhythm of breathing which sort of gave away that he was dreaming about something relaxing.  Then his body jerked, his head shot up, and he said “mama?”  The room was so dark he couldn’t see me, but he just needed to hear my voice.  “yep” was all it took for little snoring child to head back to where ever he was before.

The power came back on coffee was made and a fire was lit.  I was glad that heat and light were restored to the house, but I was also secretly sad that our little roughing-it session was over.  Amazing how this boy has such a grip on my heart.

I grew up in a small town with conservative parents.  I wasn’t out there gobbling up culture and forward thinking by the mouthful, nor was it really even offered when I went looking for it.  Yet, somehow, some things have been instinctual which, given my early years, shouldn’t be.  I guess.  I mean, truly, these opinions seem like they make sense to me, but I guess that’s because they’re mine.  I don’t want to start a big debate here, I know this is a hot-button topic for lots of folks.  But I'm just thinking here....

It’s Not Ok To Be Gay?

Here’s the deal.  I had a client today who told me he was gay.  When we were talking about relationships, he told me he had not ever been involved in a long term relationship “because I don’t believe a man and a man can make that work”.  I was gobsmacked.  (I love that word.  I’ve never used it before.  That was fun.)  I mean, really….how can he not believe that it can work?  I guess he has been filled with so much self-loathing and has about fifty years of it all built up that he’ll never figure out that he deserves to be happy.  If that means being with a man, so be it.  If that means being with a woman, so be it.   A dog, a cat, a parakeet, a car…..you know?  Its all sixes.  But he went on to say if he ever meets somebody who he’s interested in, he won’t pursue it.  He’d rather live alone and drink crazy amounts of alcohol and “not talk about these things with my family because it makes them really uncomfortable”.  He doesn’t believe it can work because he’s had friends who have tried to make it work, and they’ve failed.  Yeh yeh I get it…but I’ve seen lots of things fail, and I still try.  My parent’s marriage failed.  It was hard to watch.  Still, that doesn’t have to be my experience, does it?

I know people are uncomfortable with these things, though I just don’t get it.  I really and truly don’t understand why we care what the people around us are doing with their partners/husbands/wives/girlfriends/selves.  Is it something that we should tell each other is ok?  Is not ok?  Should I really be involved in my fellow beings relationships?  I just don’t think so.  But this man, this lonely sad unfulfilled and clinically depressed man has had enough input from those around him that he does believe that he does not deserve to have companionship and love.  That is sad. 

I Have A Dream…

I’m hoping that one day people will look back at homophobia and hate and wonder how it was ever ok.  The way we look back at slavery and say smugly to ourselves “how did they ever think that was ok?” To me, it’s just not ok.  It’s not ok that this man will live his entire life being denied happiness because some people are just uncomfortable with it.  It’s really just not ok.

I wouldn’t normally do this, but I thought I should share a page out of my brother’s diary that I stole when I was younger.  It seems like it’s a good time for our readers to get a closer look at the soul of fatty:

Dear Diary,

I wish I could tell my music idols how much I love them.  Instead I’ll just tell you, and hopefully one day the whole world will know what these artists have meant to me.

Journey:  Thank you for “Faithfully”.  It really helped make those slow dances mean something.

Foreigner:  I don’t know… “Feels Like the First Time” or “Cold as Ice”.  I felt like they both really speak to me, but never at the same time.  Juke Box Hero, however always speaks to me.  I’ve even arranged a dance routine to it, with a baton that gets lit on fire.  I totally kick butt on air guitar.

Karen Carpenter:  Though it’s hard to admit, “Close to you” makes me cry every time.  I think I may cry right now.

Bread:  That story about a diary underneath a tree.  Pure magic.  Genious + Magic = that song.

Billy Squire:  Whenever I need a boost, I just think about the lyrics to “Everybody Wants You” and then I feel all better. 

But mostly, Diary, I wish that Graham from Air Supply would write a song for me and use a rhyme involving “hope” and then “rope”.  That would be wikkid awesome.  Also, Diary, I am beginning to wonder why wearing my little sister’s Jordache Jeans makes me feel so pretty.  Anyway, I’d better go lock this up so no one will read it.  I hope music like this gets made my whole life so I never run out of ways to be happy!