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Last Night, Dancing With the Weirdos

I took Alex to a Bar&Grill that turns into a whoopie bar around 9:55pm every night. They have dancing lessons every evening at 7pm and on Tuesday, it’s Salsa night.

The dance floor is quite large and nice but not exactly secluded. Surrounding the perimeter are tables for 2 or 4 where people not choosing to participate in the dance lessons can watch those that are.

Alex and I were very excited to finally be going to dance and learning the Salsa. Totally cool. I hadn’t gone to check out the place before hand so I wasn’t aware of the positioning of the room but even if I had, it wasn’t until about 5 minutes after we started that all the chairs filled up. With men. Men aged 45 and up. With little to no hair on top and greasy scalps shining through. Have I mentioned my daughter is beautiful?

About the time our lovely instructor Conrad *123* with the shirt open at the throat and his glistening chest gleaming beneath the lights *567* starting incorporating the turns *back23* and the side steps *glideandback* that I slowed a little and took a breath, laughing and looking around the room to see who else was having as much fun as us.

Oh, the vultures with their beady eyes. Alex and I sat down for a bit and got a drink of water and within, oh, 90 seconds we were approached. And then we left. Because, as Alex says, ‘Eww. Gross. That guy was hideoderous and he spit all over my face.’

*ahem*

Next week, we’re doing belly dancing, an all-women class in the female teacher’s home.

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Mutterings

There are times when I find that even thinking about thinking about what I’m feeling is enough to induce a sleep-like coma for an additional three hours of the morning. I could easily get out of bed, as I did for years, around 6am every morning when my brain snaps to attention and begins its daily factoring, searching and planning regimen. I could. I could if I wasn’t so scared of the empty feeling that engulfs me within seconds. A solid core of emptiness with layers of what ifs and insecurities wrapped tightly around and around like the inside of a golf ball.

This week I will go to the doctor and ask for medication. Despite all the bravado and planning ahead in the case of this emergency, I feel like a failure. I’ve managed well for a few years now with meditation, vitamins and supplements. I’ve made it my mantra to be fearless and do the hard thing first as a way of keeping my emotional-self healthy. I’ve made decisions with machete perfection as to what situations I’m willing to walk in to regarding work, family and my social calendar. And now, it seems, that even with all my careful planning and attention to detail, I’ve not taken two steps back but more like a mile. This from the same mind and mouth that recommends to anyone that if medication is needed then grab it with both hands and don’t look back. I’m a hypocrite.

My practical self tells me I will do well to take care of this soon. My reasonable self knows that the thing to do is to call right this minute so that all the time I spend with my kids this week will be as great as it can be. My intellectual self tells me I have not failed and that everyone’s life comes in waves of highs and lows, in seasons of sunny and dark. My clinically depressed self tells me that I am alone, ugly, unlovable, inconsequential, worthless, unworthy of being in the same room with my kids who might get some of my poison on them and that in not secluding my person in a dank, dark place to merely exist until I die I somehow endanger them. By just being alive I endanger them. That the best gift I could ever give them is to disappear from their lives. That voice worked once before and I struggle to keep it at bay.

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Brassiere

‘Mother’ she said, ‘you do realize that that….flesh-colored thing you are wearing is doing nothing that most females require their bras to do…?’ And yes, I did. But there is only so much time to be vain in one day and if it’s my brassiere that sags a little and barely covers and completely fails at protecting the world from my nipples, then so be it. At least I have matching socks on. Oh. No? Well, I’m wearing pants.

But then she took me to the store, leading me by the hand through aisles of underwear and lingerie, which I almost didn’t recognize, so long it’s been since my eyes laid on them, and wondered who the people are who manage to wear plum and ecru flimsy, dressy things while I can barely seem to find my shoes.

She stopped short in front of a wall filled, nay, teeming with breast restrictors of all types. I immediately felt overwhelmed. We left and she had to live with her disappointment.

A few days later, my husband said, ‘Oh, dear. That really is the saddest bra I’ve ever seen. Is it doing anything at all for you besides making your breasts look like sagging, deflated balloons? Why don’t you wear a different one?’ I looked in the mirror and realized that truly, 2 years is a long time for a bra. It had lived a good life. I thanked it and deposited it into the nearest rubbish bin. However, by some strange life predicament, it was the only bra that I had. So, now I had none.

Later that day, my husband and I went to the store and looked at all those bras together. I took fifteen or so into the dressing room and I’m happy to say that when we walked out, I had a total of 4 breast restriction devices in a bag. Never has a woman been so blessed. I was rich with brassieres! I felt a heady sensation and looked at every person we passed with a slight air of superiority because, really, not one of them was walking home with one pink, one off-white, one rose with white polka dots and a darling amount of white trim around the edges and one dangerous and racy dark red number with a steamy black overlay made of black mesh.

‘Really?’ my daughter exclaims after I tell her the good news. ‘Well, why don’t you look any different?’ she asks, examining my mid section. ‘I can still totally see your nipples.’ ‘Oh.’ I replied. ‘I’m not actually wearing one today.’ ‘You mean, you’re totally braless?’ ‘Um, yes. But I combed my hair!’ Her eyes told the story of an old woman that had sailed the sea of a thousand storms and seen vast disappointment. She sighed and said, ‘Well, if saggy boobs are what you want, then who am I to try and change you?’

The next morning, truly repentant, I wore one and have been every day ever since. I still don’t do my makeup every day or shave my legs on a regular basis. But at least the world is saved from my nipples. I only have so much time per day to be vain.

Leah 1
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Two Many Links

It’s no secret I shred like a demon. And now I find out I can make my own music?? (Via Waxy)

Not Martha made awesome rechargeable sun jars. Her step by step instructions rule. These are definitely a contender for next Christmas.

I waited breathlessly for months for Paul Ford to write again and now he is. My lungs thank him as does my brain because he is one of the funniest and smartest writers I (would like to) know.

Miss Snark is a great resource for writers. She is very to the point and full of great information. I would love her as an agent as I’m sure she wouldn’t put up with any funny business. She links to the 20 worst Agencies.

Joe sent me a link to a Thomas P.M. Barnett blog entry which says in well-written words what I sometimes feel after receiving a whole bag of reader mail.

I can’t believe this happened. It just seems so stupid and preventable.

Sassy keeps yelling that we need this stuff to combat the ants throwing a party in our walls. I must admit that it feels like nothing will work but we will be giving it a try as soon as it stops raining.

Susan sent me a bunch of stuff as did Susannah and Lisa. Photos and an update to the painting page coming soon.

Tyler and I play a game where we text each other numbers and it’s like a code where the other person has to decipher it using the keypad to see what they said.

For example: “99966688 277733 2 366677755443323.” is “You are a dorkhead.” But sometimes when a word uses two letters that show up next to each other on the keypad, it gets confusing and since there is no way of knowing what the other person said you just make it up.

For example: “666667777 333333 77766622255” is supposed to be “Moms def rock” but because M and O are on the same key, it ends up being hard to figure out. (Unless I’m your mom. Then you know I rock and there is no question.) But thank goodness we have free texting because the kids and I use it all the time. This entry from Bethemedia is about T9’s effect on our language. I hate T9 and have it turned off but as a result I probably have to hit more buttons than T9 lovers do. On the other hand, I won’t accidentally say ‘book’ instead of ‘cool’ and it won’t be until my boys start saying it and thinking that book is another way to say cool that I’ll start using it to make fun of them which will really just perpetuate the issue and I’ll be the only 93 year old person still saying ‘That is so book’ and ‘Rad’. I am the only 36 year old person that still says ‘Dude’ on a regular basis so I guess that is par. (Via Kottke)

Code Monkey by Jonathan Coulton is my new favorite song. (Via Joe)

Sarah sent me this the other day. She and I are going for sure and bringing our crystal shards with us. Also, have you sent in your entry for the Cringe book yet? (Read Heather’s entry here.)

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Poo?

Joe – don’t read this one. And mom, I’m talking about bowel movements, which aren’t funny, so you should skip this one as well.

Devon is going off to college in the fall. He knows how to make toast and pour milk and sneak wine. That is about the end of his culinary skills at the moment so when he asked me a few weeks ago if I would sign him up for cooking classes, I got excited. Kind of just excited to spend time with him because, dude, I’ll be in those classes with him, but also because it shows he’s thinking farther into the future than when he can have his next LAN party.

Anthony has always loved cooking (pickles) and asked if he could come as well. So, maybe an odd threesome, but I’m very much looking forward to it. And, it’s not dancing. Although I might still try to sneak that in.

Over the weekend we decided to give some baking a try. Now, cooking I can do pretty well most of the time. I’ve learned that beets and beef don’t go together and somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remembered how to make a mean white sauce. Baking, however, is a completely different thing. It’s a science. Things have to be in proportion or bad things happen. I can’t just throw in an extra teaspoon of this or that and give it a taste. Everything has raw eggs in it and is runny or bumpy. It could be hours before you find out if your mixing and whisking was successful. Substitutions don’t always go well. And you should probably read the entire directions before you start, just in case you don’t have everything you need and just in case you start making the sauce that goes on the outside like frosting but you think it’s for the batter so you start pouring it and mixing before you realize that you just added twice as much liquid and 100% too much milk (since there was no milk in the recipe to start with) and then have a huge mess in the oven when the cake rounds explode all over the oven and it burns and stinks up the entire house until you put a cookie tray underneath and catch the last bit of it. And it looks terrible. Kind of like poo. Kind of like poo strips. Which you take off the tray and put on a plate for your son who thinks it is so funny he can hardly stand it.

Case in point:

poocake_5

Tyler, who was not emotionally invested in the least in our baking session, was free to throw jokes around willy-nilly. It was sad and funny at the same time. But it tasted delicious. We ate the crap out of that poo cake.

poocake_10
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Happy Birthday, Me.

It’s 10pm on the 11th. I’m just about ready to hit the hay.

I’m 36.

I’m super emotional, but it’s not because I’m 36.

I’m happy. And I’m sad, but not for any discernable reason.

I woke up to the sounds of Joe downstairs, puttering around. Then he drove me to LA and I took a photo of a photographer for an interview I’m doing (meta?). I found the photographer at the Disney Concert Hall, went in and got out within 5 minutes (thanks to the helpful and courteous security man at the stairs) and when we got out the sky was strange all afternoon: low clouds with the odd bird flying around (photo below). When we got back home, Alexandra took me out to Starbucks and bought me a Grande Soy Chai Latte with her own gift card (I’ll see the boys tomorrow for the weekend (including Monday! Woot!) but she is going to be gone, so we had our day today). Then we went to the house and watched The Family Stone and picked songs for the CD we want to do together (If anyone has a recording studio, let me know).

Even when I pool all my resources and gather all my strength, I’m still mostly a mess. Picking out what to eat for dinner is almost too much and Joe has to lead me down the grocery aisle feeding me yes or no questions (when I say the words rice and soup, are you happy?) and singing me Little Fat Man to help me through.

But here it is, 10:13 pm on January 11th, 2007, and I’m happy. I may be crying because I can’t seem to control my emotions, but really? I’m happy. And things are great. And Joe made me his famous raspberry donuts and told me he loved me. I know whatever issues I’m having with my sadness and tear ducts isn’t really REAL. It’s hormonal. And everything is fine.

It was a perfect day.

disneyhall_1

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Keepin' It Real

I can’t even tell you how emotional I’ve been for the past week or so. It’s taken over a week to get over Christmas and Christmas was great! There is something about being with large groups of people that puts me just slightly over the edge to a place that is weird and unhealthy. I do great up until about 20 people in the room and then I’m toast. Unless I’m working. I know. It makes no sense. But if I’m shooting photos of a large group, no problem. But if I’m in a large group and anyone wants to talk to me or relate to me as a person, then holy crap I have a hard time and have to spend the next 7 days recuperating as if I was just in a battle field or went through a hurricane or something. Which I didn’t. It’s dumb. Or, it could be something else.

For the past few years I’ve told people that are close to me and love me that if I have more than 2 bad days in a row a month, I would seriously look at it. Especially if it went on for a few months. A few bad days a month I expect and can handle. Five days or a week or more: no. I’m not prepared to lose that much time out of every 30 days of my life and the past two months I’ve been a mess for at least a week each. And so I’m looking at this carefully but with much speculation. Because getting back on medication is not something I want to do. But if it’s something I need to do, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. Playing around with my mental health is something I will never do. More than anything, I want and need to be a mentally strong mother for my kids. And I’m guessing Joe would like it if I could make it through a month without falling apart. Just a guess.

My birthday is in a few days. I don’t think that turning 36 has anything to do with this, but you just never know. Maybe I’m crying all day for a week because I’m so damn old.

For a glimpse of what I look like lately, you can go here. (via Mimi Smartypants)

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New Interview: JenB

Very rarely in life do you meet someone that you instantly know will be your friend. It’s only happened to me a couple of times during my adult life, so when I met JenB and got that tingle in my toes, I wanted to giggle and do a little jig. And here’s the thing about JenB: everyone feels that way when they meet her. She is genuine and authentic and sweet and full of love. She’s also strong and opinionated and not afraid to hold her ground or go after injustice on behalf of herself and her friends.

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Candle Making

I’ve been making candles for at least 10 years and it’s still one of my favorite things to do. It wasn’t until Joe and I were completely done last night and we were wiping off the last counter that I wished I would have taken some step by step photos this time and created a post out of it. Dang. Next time. But if you have some questions (Michelle), ask away. I’ll do my best to answer with no photographic evidence of any kind.

candles_stripetowers