A return to the beginning

This evening I had the chance to hang out with the Andy sisters.  We were neighbors up until T. and I were in the 6th grade.  Sophie came with me.  It was the oddest thing--spending time with people from the opposite ends of my spectrum.

We hadn't lived in our house on Lawman Ave. very long when they moved in.  It was early evening at the beginning of September, and my mother was allowing me to make my first practice run darting across all the neighbors' backyards to return home from my grandparents' house on the other side of the block ("Don't stop anywhere.  Don't talk to anyone.  Come straight home.").  I sincerely didn't MEAN to stop.  I was running home with my tangled hair flying behind me when I spotted the two girls who weren't there earlier.  I stopped in my tracks.

They were exploring their small fenced in backyard.  Girls to play with.  I was terribly shy and had absolutely no idea how to approach them, so I did the next best thing and stared openly at them from behind the trunk of a tree.  The tree in which we would eventually spend so much time.  They quickly spotted me and called out.  I froze in terror.  I felt silly continuing to hide at that point, but I had no idea what else to do.

Soon after I found my hiding spot, someone came home and brought the girls food from McDonald's.  Oh, surely these were the luckiest girls alive!  My stomach growled watching them eat their dinner.  One of them--I can't remember which--held out some french fries in my direction.  An invitation.  Food!  My shyness couldn't resist and I left the safety of the tree.  I completely forgot that I was supposed to be going home for dinner.

The good things

Things are pretty dire right now.  My unemployment has ended, and today I am placing my beloved bird Cricket in a new home.  If I let myself think about it all more than a couple seconds I melt into a puddle of fear and sadness.

So I need to focus on a good thing for at least a few moments.

I have a history of being a sad bastard on my birthday.  It's always been less about getting older  (though that is becoming more of a factor these days) and mTore about having way too many expectations and then being disappointed when no one lives up to them.  (The month is still young, however, and there is still time for me to catch up!)

There was, though, the year (2008?  I think it was?) my old book club and my friend D.P., in particular, had the sweetest and most thoughtful little surprise celebration for me at our monthly meeting.  I still have the origami cranes from that.  And the melted record album bowl.  And the cards.  Because it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

Anyway.

Ivan called me from work on Thursday, breathless with excitement.  I was surprised, because usually when he calls from work he sounds much more tired.  He started telling me what all errands he'd run during a couple hours he had off earlier in the afternoon, and then he burst in with, "and I got you something!"

He told me all about how he had wanted to find me something so special, something that could possibly convey the depth of his love ("That's a lot of expectations for one present," I pointed out as he shushed my skepticism.)

"I went to Haight Street," he said, "because there are so many weird goddamn shops close together that I figured if I was going to find something for you it would be there."  I rolled my eyes.  "Did you know there's a store there for Edwardian fashion?  Like, nice stuff.  I bet they only get customers one time a year..."

"Halloween," I broke in, just as he said, "Burning man."

"Anyway," he continued, "I went from store to store.  I even went into the Edwardian place.  Who knows?  Maybe they have something for you in there.  But I couldn't find anything.  I could find anything just right.  That said what I wanted to say.  I gave up.  Honey, I had given up!  And then I saw it.  Out of the corner of my eye.  There it was!"

"What, in a window?" I asked.

He went on to tell me about how the store clerk had been so helpful to him as they examined his options.  My curiosity grew and grew.

"You're going to love it!" he promised.  "You're going to know instantly why I got it for you and you're going to understand what you mean to me."

This was dramatic language even for Ivan.  I could barely disguise my doubt and disbelief, though I was completely intrigued by whatever item he thought could accomplish all this.

He wasn't done.

"Also I'm going to prove you wrong over what you said at Christmas.  How you said I didn't get you at all.  I do get you!  I get you and I love you so much!  You mean so much to me.  Do you want it now?  Yes!  Let me give it to you now!  I don't think I can wait."

I was completely blown away by the level of enthusiasm he was showing for this (and it doesn't even involve Warhammer!) but I said, "Look.  You would not believe the history I have for negotiating my presents early.  But I want to wait for this one.  Things have been so hard for so long for us and my birthdays usually feel so crappy to me that it would be really nice to have something to look forward to on my birthday."

He was doubtful and pointed out that he had to work on my birthday and I would be home alone with the baby.  I knew that, though.  And I don't even need the present.  The thought and effort that he put into really touched me, and this birthday, in one of the last days that I will be able to stay home with my girl before something--one way or another--changes.  This is enough. 

"Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do."

I see the things he posts and he is still the same. Still exactly the same. And it makes me  miss him. I read his rants and random declarations and imagine how I would respond. I generally imagine his retort and find myself laughing. Even though nothing actually happened.

I miss the long nights we sat and talked and drank for hours. And sometimes we just drank. He knew when to hug me, when to change the music, and when to make a giant farting sound with his mouth.

I am missing my friend terribly.

Ah, Scott. Fuck.

Be careful what you wish for.

On Monday, Ivan and I were having a bad day.  We've faced some pretty serious financial setbacks lately, and the stress of them added to having a new baby is really...hard.

I have been considering whether I should leave San Francisco and return to the east coast.  The toughest thing about it is that Sophia and I would be returning alone.  Ivan would not be joining us.  But other than him, there really is very little left for me here.  Most of my friends are gone.  I have been feeling terribly alone and lonely and isolated for quite some time.  And the cost of living that I managed to keep up with before is killing me.

When I look at how my life has changed in the last 3 1/2 years for the worse, it all leads back to Sept. 18, 2008 for me.  I still can't believe how one man could take so much from me in one night:  my power, my self-confidence and self-worth.  I just can't find them again.  And finding them again while struggling for basic survival at the moment is proving nearly impossible.

I read a Postsecret postcard awhile back that made me weep in sharp recognition:

Anyway, back to the bad day on Monday.  I was anxious and distraught and afraid.  I sat outside on the front steps while Ivan was inside with his sister and Sophia napped in the bedroom.  I closed my eyes and wished for something to happen to provide me with clarity.  I was trying to figure out how I could leave the person I love--and my baby's father--in order to try to make a new life somewhere else.  And to make it even worse, I would not be leaving from a place of strength.  I would be leaving because I am fucking broken.

In my irrationality, I imagined that a natural disaster like an earthquake would absolutely fucking shake things up--help me put them in perspective.  Despite feeling a little superstitious, I wished for it to happen.  I closed my eyes and wished it intensely.  I felt desperate for anything that might help me make this gut-wrenching decision.

Ten minutes later I was inside changing the baby and arguing with Ivan again when the oven caught on fire in the kitchen.  Ivan and Natasha tried to put it out, but it only got worse.  I heard Natasha say from the kitchen, "Get out.  Get out now!" and I grabbed my baby and we were the first ones out the door.  The smoke filled up the house so fast that we couldn't even get a baby blanket.  Natasha was on the phone with 911 while smoke billowed out of our windows.  Approaching sirens screamed while I curled myself around Sophia to keep her warm and covered her ears from the noise.

I felt guilty for the wish I'd made.

I sat on a nearby stoop while a crowd of neighbors and other passersby gathered and stared.  Three fire trucks blocked the intersection and the firemen rushed in.  I felt miserable and afraid as I held onto Sophia and crooned softly to her.  In my mind I was asking myself:  "Is this it? Is it time to go?"  I saw Ivan looking at me and knew that he knew what I was thinking.

We are now safe and back in our house.  There was minimal damage, but the damage we did have has only added to our financial burden.  I'm not sure that the fire provided the clarity I wished for, but it did sink me a little further.

I feel weak.  And terrified.  And terribly alone.  Where is the girl who arrived here in 2005 with such courage and hope and a 'fuck-it-I'll-make-it-work-somehow' attitude?  I need her now.

Baby shower

Yesterday, my friends Diana and Tamara hosted a baby shower for Sophie and me down in San Carlos.  I picked the guest list that consisted of my very favorite former coworkers from The Company That Shall Never Be Named.

(Too bad I didn't take this picture until later into the party.)

Because they are kind and pay attention to those kinds of details, two of my very favorite beverages were served:  sangria and lemonade.  I partook in multiple glasses of both, but I had to restrain myself from the sangria--I had to drive my baby home!  Sometimes being a grown-up is hard.

It felt nice to put on a little makeup and actual clothes without baby spit-up and talk to adults.  Plus, there were beautiful gifts (including a baby swing that I hear I will drop down to my knees and thank God for!), a lovely lunch, and delicious cupcakes.

The party girl pretty much slept through the entire thing.

(She has her mama's long toes!)

I was especially pleased to see my long-lost buddy Ruben.  We used to have lunch, take walks, and sneak off for sangria together at one of the Mexican restaurants in downtown Los Altos during workdays at The Company That Shall Never Be Named.  I would talk his ear off, sing songs, and re-enact dramatic conversations for him while he listened and occasionally gave me strange looks.  Once he sat with me in my car and quietly held my hand during a panic attack, and I will never forget that.

It was amazing and way overdue to spend an afternoon surrounded by friends.  I felt loved.  Now I'm going to curl up with that feeling and let it tie me over.

I can smell October on the east coast

October is my favorite month.

I suddenly had weird deja vu of reading T.S. Eliot. I digress. I have no particularly strong feelings about April.

Anyway, there is just nothing like fall from, say, the mid-Atlantic states up through New England. ("They are so a state! They have a football team!") October days--no matter where I am--make me think of leaves and wood smoke and homecoming parades and Monument Ave. and driving through the mountains. They make me think of still new school years and crisp sheets of notebook paper and fresh starts and good intentions.

While San Francisco has some pretty spectacular days in October, it will always belong to the east coast in my heart.

I can remember one October, in particular. 2003? 2004? I was so filled with joy and hope that I pledged to my friend Kelli that I would do something new and strange every day. Paint my nails blue! Shout sweeping proclamations off my balcony! Howl at the moon! Now that I think about it, my pledges involved mostly me being loud. But I wanted to share my ecstasy!

Actually, I am feeling that way now. But it is far too soon to spill any beans. I'm workin' on some changes. Comin' up with a plan. And I get more excited with each passing hour.

P.S. My friend Mary is far away and going through a rough time right now, and I want her to know I love her. 

What it's like

In September of 2008, I was raped on a date. I never told anyone. I mean I never told ANYONE. Not a doctor, or a therapist, or a best friend. No one. I was so embarrassed and ashamed this had happened to me, and I felt so stupid that I had not kept myself safe. I felt like all that money for all those fucking degrees ought to have been good for something, and here I couldn't even take care of myself. Normally so forthcoming and expansive, I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to be told what to do or who to talk to. I didn't want to be asked any questions. I didn't want to explain. I just wanted to forget. Up until that point I felt like I'd been a fairly healthy woman with a fairly healthy sex life, and I was convinced I could maintain that through sheer will.

By the end of the same month, I had started to completely fall apart.

Anxiety seemed to ooze from my pores. I couldn't relax. I had recently started my first job and bought a car and suddenly I felt like I was losing control of everything. I couldn't sleep. I would be awake for three days straight. Not just awake, really, but AWAKE! I needed to talk, I needed to write, I needed to make things. Things to say were erupting out of me and I was unable to control them. I made greeting cards and little boxes. I started writing. I wrote all over my walls, in fact, and pounded out long missives on my computer in ALL CAPS because I WAS RUNNING OUT OF SPACE INSIDE TO PUT ALL OF THIS SHIT.

The lack of sleep made me wild-eyed and crazed, and the long commute to work (not to mention actual work) because impossible. The panic attacks started in earnest around this time, and they made me feel desperate and doomed and frantic. I had them everywhere--in my office, in my car, alone in my bed, in the shower. No place was safe.

I can remember driving home from work, my fingers clutching the steering wheel for dear life. I rocked back and forth furiously chanting:

"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."

One day on the drive home I felt so terrified to go home and be alone that I phoned ahead to Nannette and pleaded for her to let me come over as soon as I was back in the city. She told me I was welcome to come, and I fiercely held onto that as I drove. But by the time I got back to San Francisco, I was frantic again and couldn't bear to be around anyone. To her confusion, I told her I couldn't come.

Some nights she let me sleep on her couch because I didn't want to be alone.

I became obsessed with the Golden Gate Bridge. I needed to look at that bridge! I needed to see it, to drive on it, to read about it, and watch videos of people jumping off of it. I needed to know just how deep it was in the bay underneath. It felt important to know just how far down there was to go. I read, "San Francisco Bay is relatively shallow but reaches depths of 100 feet in some places." I had dreams about it. I dreamed of what it felt like when my feet left the side, and I dreamed of what I saw on the way down. I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke upon hitting the water, and I dreamed of the light disappearing above me. I decided that the exact point at which I would jump off would be 98 feet deep, and I needed to keep that number in my head constantly. I wrote the number 98. I cut the corners out of books that showed page 98. I made a box I called "98 feet deep."

The awful part about it was that I didn't WANT to jump off. I didn't want to! It terrified and horrified me to think about it. But I was obsessed with it. My brain wouldn't leave it alone.

The days without sleep were punctuated by complete crashes. Depression and sobbing and apathy, days I called off work because I just could not function. After Nannette pleaded with me to see someone, I sent my doctor an email. All I could think to say was, "I'm going down fast." On my 32nd birthday, she had me come in for an appointment.

My doctor is wonderful, and she urged me to apply for disability and to see a psychiatrist as well as a therapist. I was getting in deeper and deeper shit at work, but I insisted to her that I could still work--didn't need the time off. I regret deeply that I didn't take her advice, but I was determined to hold on to the balls I was trying to juggle by the skin of my teeth.

Eventually, I got fired. I lost a lot of friends when they didn't understand what was going on or the decisions I made. I made a mess of relationships. I lost my baby.

These days I struggle with leaving the house, with seeing people. It feels like the only place I can be remotely safe is in my apartment, because the outside world is much too scary and unpredictable. The last time I tried to have brunch with a friend, I had to force myself to go. I threatened and begged and cajoled myself to go, and when I got home, my beloved bird was dead. A voice inside of me whispered, "I knew this would happen." It is a lonely existence.

I am taking medication now--slowly--and I have told exactly four people what happened to me. It honestly didn't occur to me until a couple months ago how all these things might be tied together. I'm sure I've told portions of my story in this venue before as I recounted my struggles with mental illness, but it has never been told in this complete fashion. I feel somewhat horrified as I type these words that now it will be OUT THERE and PEOPLE WILL KNOW and I CAN'T TAKE IT BACK.

But I needed to tell my story.

Relish

My dear friend Judith--on her spur of the moment trip to San Francisco--is asleep in my living room. We spent the day talking and laughing and eating and drinking, and I needed this in the worst way.

Our new little kitty Freddy is curled up fast asleep next to me. He's the sweetest little guy, and when he purrs loudly in my arms or bats at my lips when I'm trying to talk or nestles between Ivan and I in bed, my heart just melts.

More soon. For now I am soaking it all up like a sponge.

Weird confidence-building exercises

Anxiety and finances greatly limit my ability to socialize at present, and today is unfortunately a perfect example of the latter. I don't feel too great at many things lately, but there is one tiny area of my life in which I am improving leaps and bounds.

Not so long ago, I mentioned my recent forays into an online game called Dark Age of Camelot (DAoC). It all started when I would watch Ivan play. I was curious, so I always asked him tons of questions. He patiently answered them all, even when he was in the middle of RvR ("realm versus realm" or player versus player action in which you seek out other players' characters and try to kill them). Admittedly I made fun of him. A lot.

Little cartoon people! Fighting each other! How silly.

At first he let me try my hand with some of his characters. Then I developed a couple of my own. My playing has been irregular over several months, with some during which I never played at all because it felt too stressful. In the last month this has been changing.

I've tried my hand at several characters (or "toons"). I have a bonedancer (Boniemaronie), a shadowblade (Laesette), a warlock (Baettina), a spiritmaster (Lyddiaa), two valkyries (Sarahfinn and Serrafina), a healer (Egiesel), four shaman (Laecuna, Madelyn, Rozzie, and Ivancito), and--my current favorite--a runemaster (Runehillda).

Ridiculous, right?

There is a particular battlegound that I really enjoy for level 20-24 toons (out of 50 possible levels) called Thidranki. And I have started making "friends."

Oh, god. Am I a [*gulp*] gamer?

One evening I was running Runehillda around Thidranki with a group of folks. She is specced (or specializes in) runecarving, so she has some kick-ass purple fiery bolts that she shoots at others from great distances. I have come to really love those things. I bolt sorcerers, friars, vampires, and theurgists with a surprising amount of satisfaction.

Anyway, on this particular evening another player asked me to join his guild, the Knights of Thidranki. I gratefully accepted. Soon I was getting regular invitations to join their RvR groups. Other characters both in my guild and out would wave at me and cheer for me and hug me. We'd make plans to meet up online to play; we'd share tips and resources and character-leveling; we'd ask each other about our progress with various trade skills like spell-crafting and alchemy (I make potions!). We'd talk about where we were from, ask how each others' days had gone, and get advice about our characters and abilities. Quickly I discovered how good it felt.

Other people like me! They seek me out! They ask for my opinion! So what if it's not real!

Plus, I have something to do when I can't sleep. Which is often.

Even if you don't play games yourself, it can be very interesting to learn about the dynamics involved in them. There is a whole new language to learn. There are customs and social norms by which you need to abide (and those that don't are quickly called out). There are stereotypes about other classes and realms. I had to laugh the first time I, as a player for the realm of Midguard, found myself agreeing with statements about "dirty Albs" (players for Albion) and "tree-hugging Hibs" (players for Hibernia).

I play with teenagers, moms, and thirty-something dudes. I play with French people and German people. One lady that I play with was inspired to create her own runemaster after watching Runehillda bolt some fools down mercilessly. Early this morning we were running around together in Thidranki, and she asked me to "drive" (decide where to roam to look for enemy players and to pick and choose our battles). I normally rely on others to do this, so I felt a little apprehensive. I warned her that I hoped she wouldn't regret asking me, and she typed back, "nah...i've seen you play."

I've seen you play.

I got ridiculously emotional at the compliment and by the notion that I can still be good at something. Even if it only involves little cartoons fighting one another.

Maybe I need to get out more. Maybe I'm turning into a complete dork. But I'll take my confidence where I can get it.

Missing

Let me begin by saying that if I owe you an email, phone call, visit, book, or anything else, please forgive me. I have been rather under the weather and everything has suffered.

On a related note: I have a lot of shit to do. The list is long and many of the tasks are daunting. But I am working on them.

First and foremost on the list is my mental health. I don't really know what or how much to say at this point. I will say that I have been considering and making phone calls to investigate a variety of options along the continuum, everything from a different psychiatrist to partial hospitalization to *gulp* possible full hospitalization for a period.

It is scary.

It is often overwhelming.

There is so much red tape and bureaucracy to get through, and it is so easy to feel frustrated and discouraged and hopeless.

Since I--for better or worse--am fairly open through this venue, in particular, many issues you may already be aware of: struggles with bipolar disorder (although there is some recent disagreement on this particular label), depression, anxiety, a job loss, a miscarriage, and some significant relationship challenges. There have been other events of which I've never spoken until the last couple of days. Not even to best friends or therapists or physicians.

I know now how fucking stupid my silence has been. And it has cost me a great deal.

I don't know at what point I crossed over from being the girl who took on things that scared her just to prove that she could do it to being this little, fearful person who is terrified of everything and everyone.

But I hate her.

I miss the little girl who was a scrapper. I miss the little girl who had holes in the knees of her jeans that she patched with scotch tape and wore them to school anyway. I miss the little girl who preferred to pee in the snow rather than going inside to use the bathroom so as not to miss a minute of sled-riding. I miss the little girl who chewed on the plastic handle fringes of her Big Wheel as she skidded around corners, dangerously close to traffic, and would race anyone who cared to challenger her.

I am trying to find her again.

Out of sorts

**Warning: If you are one of those people who finds others' dreams boring, you might want to skip this entry.**

I feel incredibly bizarre today. I didn't sleep much last night and--while that is nothing terribly unique--today I felt like I just couldn't recover. My head is in a fog and I am moving in slow motion. I had all these things to accomplish today but by noon I was so exhausted that I knew nothing would ever get done if I didn't lay down and take a nap.

I dreamed I had invited Nannette, Amber, and Suzie over for dinner. I was making a beef stew, even though 2/3 of that crowd is vegetarian. Bob G. texted me and asked why he wasn't invited, and I texted back, "Come on over!"

As I started to chop vegetables, I was suddenly transported to my mother's kitchen. I looked around in confusion. The clock said they were supposed to arrive in an hour and I was already way behind schedule. I figured I'd just better get going and not worry about why I'd suddenly arrived at my mother's.

I quickly realized I didn't have half the ingredients I needed. Plus, I had no wine and nothing for dessert. What kind of hostess was I? I begged my mother to let me borrow her car to run to the store. She was doubtful. "I'm 34 years old!" I cried. "I can be trusted with the car to go to the grocery store!" She reluctantly handed over my keys and said that I could go if I took my brother Keith with me.

We ran to the car. I gave Keith--in childhood form--my grocery list. We hauled ass to the store, but the car would not park. "You have to leave it somewhere flat," my brother informed me, "or else it will roll away."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snapped. "Why does she have this damn car?" But it was urgent. My friends were coming and I had nothing done. We dashed into the store and raced back home. When I arrived, I realized I'd only bought a potato and nothing else. I moaned in desperation. Everything felt so urgent. And nothing was going right.

Meanwhile my mom, who is not the most tech-oriented person in the world, was marveling at my smart phone and playing around with it. As I looked in the refrigerator for more ingredients, an Atlanta number called my phone. My mother handed it to me. A woman's voice said, "Amie? This is Jack-in-the-Box from Atlanta, Georgia. YOU HAVE JUST WON A $5,000 TRIP FOR TWO TO BAJA, MEXICO!"

I started laughing with glee! Holy hell, I could USE a fucking vacation! Then I realized that I don't even go to Jack-in-the-Box. And I hadn't been to Atlanta for years. I don't even think they have the damn things in Atlanta. Christ on a crutch! I thought. This is a dream! I haven't won anything.

With annoyance I slammed the phone shut and then realized: Everyone is coming to my house for dinner in SAN FRANCISCO. I am in WEST VIRGINIA. This will never work!

I tried to text them all that dinner was cancelled as the pot in which I was cooking my stew broke and everything started running down the stove. But my phone would not work right. My mom had messed it up. Every button I pushed led to the wrong function. I looked at that clock, and it was past time for them to arrive. I knew that Suzie and Amber were always late, but Nannette was probably there, waiting outside my door, wondering where I was. I had forgotten about Bob. (Sorry, Bob.)

I stood forlornly watching the sauce drip to the floor in long streaks down the oven, feeling like a failure and an unreliable friend. A text message from my mom woke me up: "What r u doing?" she asked.

Hell's bells.

Future tense

A: "Voy a preparar su ensalada en diez minutos."

(P.S. My Spanish RAWKS!)

(P.P.S. Is that right, Cindy?)

Without beginning or end

Sometimes it hits me unexpectedly. Like the other night when we were watching "The Office." We were laughing and I glanced over at Ivan's profile and thought, "We made a baby. We were going to have a baby." And then I crumple.

I really have to psych myself up to be around groups of people; sometimes I fail. I live in mortal fear of someone asking me about the miscarriage when I am not expecting it--when I am talking or smiling. It happened this weekend and, though I felt like I handled it okay, my anxiety returned full-force and I was on guard the rest of the afternoon.

I also have a great deal of trouble when friends write to ask how I am. I appreciate their concern. I have every intention of responding. I sit for long periods of time and try to think of how to answer. All I can come up with is, "Well, my baby's still dead and somewhere in my head I am constantly screaming. How are you?" I just don't know what else to say. I really don't.

A couple of folks have used this opportunity to deliver a little speech about what should be happening in my life when and if we decide to try to conceive again. Please spare me your lectures. I will try again when I am good and ready regardless of whether you think it is the right time for me.

For Beth R-C

I had just read your message on my phone while sitting outside. I sat back to think about how I would respond to you when I heard a flute being practiced from a nearby open window. This was an extreme beginner--his or her embouchure has a long way to go. I could hear the breathy shrills forced out of the instrument as the player strove for those upper register notes. I wondered wistfully what happened to my flute and thought vaguely about looking for a second-hand one to play around with. Then I had a random memory that I thought you would appreciate.

It was summer 1991--my freshman year of band camp. I was excited to be there, eager to please, and immensely terrified around everyone older than me. (And so titillated by the drumline! Mark A., Eli, Jeff P., Jeff B....) Mr. Christian assigned everyone to have "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" memorized by a specific date, and asked the section leaders to make sure this happened.

The afternoon before the memorization was supposed to occur, Jodie R. (with you as her assistant, I believe!) let us slide by having us flutes and piccolos play it together as a group rather than to go through the mortifying experience of playing it solo, one-by-one. I was so relieved, but somehow not moved to go home and practice.

The next afternoon while practicing our half-time show, Mr. Christian decided to test out the new, allegedly memorized "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." We stood in formation at the end of "El Tigre" and Christelle start counted us off. Andy W.'s trumpet solo was excellent and the drummers played well; most everyone else in the band faked the song and snuck covert looks at one another. I felt so guilty for not learning it, and prayed no one would notice ME above everyone else. Above the noise of the drumline directly behind me at the 50 yard line, the captain Stephen H. screamed at the other drummers, "CAN ANYBODY HEAR THE GODDAMNED BAND!?"

I froze in terror, my fingers still arched in position to play a random b-flat. They knew I didn't know the song! The entire drumline, 75% of whom I had a crush on, KNEW I WAS FAKING "BOOGIE WOOGIE BUGLE BOY"! FROM COMPANY C!

That night, I took home my sheet music and piccolo and learned the entire song. By bedtime I was playing it with gusto and relishing the trills. Mr. Christian cast the song aside in frustration, but I knew the song! Sometimes when I am anxious, I still flex through the fingerings in my mind.

I swear I could still play it if I picked up a flute.

Me, I'm the cranky one.

Warning: Complaining and ranting below

I read a tweet awhile back that was something along the lines of "Facebook has made me hate all the people I know, and Twitter has made me like a lot of people I don't know." I can really relate to this. Some days I can't stand Facebook.

It's hard enough right now to log in and read other people's pregnancy news and see their pictures, but I suppose that comes with the territory as I want to keep up with my friends' lives. However, I am so fed up with the touchy-feely, pre-fabricated messages that people post and want me to post. I have two deceased grandmothers that I love dearly and think about all the time. If there is indeed a heaven, these two ladies are in it. But this status update that has been recently appearing was so annoying to me:

Repost this if you have a Grandma in Heaven...If roses grow in heaven, Lord, then pick a bunch for me. Place them in my Grandma's arms and tell her they're from me. Tell her that I love and miss her, and when she turns to smile, place a kiss on her cheek and hold her for awhile! ♥

Barf, barf, barf.

Recently, and for reasons I will not go into, I came into possession of a pair of white leggings. They're hideous. At first I vowed to throw them in the trash. Then I decided that they are comfortable and that I will only wear them in the house and make Ivan look at them. I posted something about it on a status update:

If white leggings with lace-trimmed ankle cuffs aren't white trash, I don't know what is. I'm only an airbrushed kitten sweatshirt and a side ponytail away from my 12 year old self.

A few people commented on the white trash outfit theme, but a relative of mine took this opportunity to say some pretty hideous things about fat people and how they "burn [her] eyes." I was annoyed. I ignored it the first time she posted it, but a few hours later she followed up with an even worse comment that made me angry and I deleted them both. I appreciate snark and bitchiness as much as the next girl, but those comments to me were just hateful. I don't want to read it, and I certainly don't want it on my page.

And then there is the God stuff.

I consider myself to be somewhere in the realm of Agnostic. People can believe whatever they choose and that is fine with me. Some days I think maybe there's something to all this, and some days I don't. But every single day folks on Facebook command me to pray for something or someone. I wish they would not assume that I deal with the uncertain, unknown, and unpredictable in the same ways that they do. What irritates me even worse is those (including members of my own family) who put God in every. single. status. update. One relative wrote, "Going to take a walk. I hope He is with me to keep me safe!" I want to reassure them that He is indeed with them while taking that walk. I'm sure he is also with them while they wipe their ass, jerk off, and pick their nose, and I hope they take comfort in that companionship as well.

I really love the folks who use their status updates passive aggressively. To teach others a lesson. To show others how stoic they are in the face of all the indignities that other people put upon them. One girl I know from high school specializes in this status update art form, in particular. Here are some examples:

Why do I even bother?!? Some people are just gonna be "jerk offs" b/c they can!! :) I hope I'm still around to see them get theirs - just sayin'....

brought out her spoon and gave it a quick polish before starting the stirring process! Let the games begin!! :)

My Heart is broken (surprise)! I'm having trouble sleeping for the conversation that My Daughter and I had before she went to bed this evening! NO child at ANY age should have to feel the way she does, but especially NOT at 5!! My Heart bleeds for her!! :(

Ding - Ding, round 2! Gettin' in the shower to get ready to hit up the town again!! Who says what's Good for the Goose isn't Good for the Gander?!? Hmmm..... :)

I read these out loud to Ivan and we laugh and laugh.

-end of rant-

You

I haven't been feeling too gracious about anything lately, so I thought I would grab this fleeting moment while it lasted. My bottle of Nyquil and my box of tissues are here to support me.

I have heard from so many people in the last 8 days. People from all the different parts of my life have written me the kindest and most loving words. You've sent phone numbers and addresses and cards and invitations to do everything from sit and cry to stay in your homes. I have been humbled repeatedly by the private pain and brutal, gut-wrenching experiences that so many have confided in me to let me know I am not alone. Some people have said some stupid things, too, but in my more charitable moments I try really hard to remember that they are just clumsy attempts to comfort me.

Thank you.

I haven't actually managed to call anyone on the phone--not even my own parents--and have thus far responded to very few emails. Please forgive me for this and know that it's not because I didn't appreciate them. I am really feeling my way around in the dark here.

I'd also like to ask in advance for your patience as I continue to grieve through my blog. I realize that if you're looking for light and lovely reading my blog has rarely been the place, but it's even less so at present. It's just that I need somewhere to put these words, and somehow in the last 5 years of using this little corner of the internet as a repository for them I have come to rely on it heavily.

Now back to our regularly scheduled angst and intensity to express my deep and complex nature.

A few things in no particular order

1. Brooklyn. Huh. I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

2. Lately I have been worrying that I am going to have twins. This is followed by worries that I will have no baby at all. I'd really like to relax about this stuff. I'll be happy with just one healthy one.

3. My friend and her boyfriend are moving to Portland, and I am sad. I haven't gotten to hang out with them for a couple of months, but they're a lot of fun and they live in my neighborhood and I will really miss knowing they're nearby. I was so eager to see them off, apparently, that I showed up for their going away party tonight a total of 10 days early. (Idiot.) Since I was all made up and at the bar, I pulled up a barstool, ordered a cranberry juice, and chatted with a few folks before turning around and going home.

4. At about 1am, I lay in bed thinking about my grandparents. This actually happens quite a lot. I was the first grandchild, and I was remembering how my grandmother always told me that after I'd spent the night with them as a baby, my grandpa would keep my tiny undershirts under his pillow so he could smell me when I was away. I'm not sure anyone has ever loved me so much before or since. I miss my grandparents so intensely that at least once a week I cry for them. I think I might always.

5. On Thursday, I am most likely going to meet Ivan's mother for the first time. I am nervous about this. She was incredibly kind to me when I wrote to her a couple of weeks ago.

6. My erratic sleep habits are really starting to become a problem. I have a doctor appointment later in the week that I really think may help me with that.

From soup to nuts

So I was screwing around on Facebook this evening, putting off cleaning the bathroom, when something very interesting caught my attention. My friend Nicole was looking for help getting her next cookbook ready and put out an informal job advertisement for some assistance. She has about 200 recipes that she needs edited, organized, and uploaded into a print-on-demand website. I was excited by the opportunity and expressed interest, and she responded, "Amie, I was secretly hoping you would be interested in this." I was incredibly flattered.

I met Nicole a couple of years ago via our mutual friend Bree. At the time she was designing a survey for parents regarding the local school lunch program and needed some help. Designing surveys was a component of what I used to do in my research life, so it was very easy for me to offer my services. She liked the work I did for her, we hit it off, and for the next couple of years I followed her chef blog and we traded Facebook comments.

I am terribly excited because I enjoy cooking, but even more than cooking I love cookbooks! I have a pretty decent collection, and I spend a lot of time looking up recipes and ingredients online. Plus, I have plenty of time on my hands and this sounds incredibly fun. We just got off the phone and are currently nailing down the specifics, but expect to begin work together very soon.

I would like to personally thank the universe for throwing me a bone.

Kindnesses

For someone who ostensibly knows a thing or two about human behavior, I feel like I've never understood less. As I've moaned and cried about considerably, it was shocking to me how many people were not happy about my pregnancy.

But there have been some pleasant surprises, too.

My lovely and very much missed friend T.K. surprised me with a gift certificate for a natal massage ("to meet all the needs of the mother-to-be") a couple of nights ago when I was feeling incredibly low. I am so tempted to use it now, but I have a feeling I will appreciate it even more when I am huge and ungainly.

A girl from high school that I really never got to know very well surprised me by asking if she could make something for the baby. She has four children of her own, and assured me that she wouldn't be giving me any unsolicited advice because she knew everyone was probably busy doing that already. I really appreciated that--hell, THAT could be my gift.

Another girl with whom I never really got along heard about my pregnancy and contacted me to ask for my address so she could send me a gift. I was so touched.

I love to go to the doctor. All the ladies in the office are so genuinely kind to me. They smile and answer my questions and pat my arm reassuringly and congratulate me. I beam and beam.

Oh! And as my friend Lael said it would, my hair is getting fuller and thicker. This fucking ROCKS.

God. I hope that only happens to the hair on my head.

She said, "I'm ok. I'm alright though you have gone from my life."

My list of friends continues to stream-line.

Today a former friend deleted me from Facebook and dropped the spare keys of mine she'd had for years through my mail slot.

It seems I have been taken off the member list of one of my book clubs, as I've not been invited to the next meeting.

I felt like I had to drop out of my other book club after a member urged me to "consider all [my] options" regarding the baby. It hurt me so deeply and offended me so much that I don't feel like I can sit and smile through another meeting in this person's presence.

I didn't need all that social support anyway.