I: The "international" shelf?
A: Yes. See? With the tahini and soy sauce and fish
sauce.
I: Organizing the refrigerator like this is…
A: ...lost on you?
I: Useless.
Showing posts with label My Serbian lovah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Serbian lovah. Show all posts
November 12, 2015
And Greek olives.
A (surveying the interior of the refrigerator with
dismay): Ivan, you're messing up my
refrigerator door organization. The Sriracha goes on the international shelf.
And--look--you have all of the salad dressing over here. This should be on the
American shelf with the mustard and ketchup and mayonnaise.
August 21, 2014
My Room 101 fear/A letter to Sophie
A friend once told me a story about how her father would prepare she and her younger sister for someone with a weapon to attack them unexpectedly. While sitting in a restaurant waiting for their order to arrive, he might say to them, "A man with a gun busts in through the front door of this restaurant. What do you do? Go!" She had an odd childhood, but she became adept at quickly spotting the closest exits and locating objects in her vicinity that could be used as makeshift weapons.
There's a great deal of evidence that mentally rehearsing the details of the way you want something to happen greatly increases the likelihood of the desired outcome. And I find myself doing this.
Every parent I've ever talked to knows the fear. THAT fear. You can take away anything and everyone else, lord, but don't take my baby. I can't be in a world in which she is not. I thought I was the only one whose thoughts and worries about it bordered on psychotic at times, but another friend recently admitted she was terrified to drive her daughter anywhere in the car because ..."what if I crash the car and hurt her? I worry so much that it makes me physically ill sometimes."
One of the things I fear the most is kidnapping. I am terrified of it in every single nook and cranny of the world--even in my own house. Someone could take you right out of your bedroom! We can be at the playground and you run off and play on the other side of a mammoth wooden play structure with 100 different places to climb and hide. We can be at the library and you walk around to the other side of the bookshelf that I am on.
My first thought: I can't see her.
My second thought: It's okay. She's just over there. Safe.
My third thought: Some pervert could be just on the other side of a bookshelf waiting for a chance. He might have been hanging around for hours. But if he succeeds just once it's worth it to him.
My fourth thought: This is the children's section of the Morgantown Public Library fer chrissakes. She's probably okay to wander around it for at least a couple of minutes.
I might position myself strategically between the two exits of the fenced-in playground and feel assured for a moment while you're playing out of sight. But just a heartbeat too long and I have to find you. I physically have to. I am incapable of letting down my guard. The moment I do, the worst will happen. I just know it.
Maybe I am overly protective; I honestly can't tell. What I do know is this: An old man tried to lure me into the trunk of his car once at Teter Lake while my stepdad was fishing. I hid inside a pine tree and watched him until he finally gave up and left. Even then I knew what men did to little girls; this was not my first rodeo.
That was around 1984. Things in 2014 are exponentially more fucked up. So I cope with my anxiety by mentally rehearsing. Kidnapping is what I practice for the most.
I remind myself of what my priorities should be across any potential setting: get license plate number; note physical description of suspect(s)--god forbid there's more than one; have current picture of Sophie immediately ready to show to anyone who will look at it; remember exactly what she's wearing--what kind of Band-Aids is she wearing today? Was that scrape on her left knee or right? Sometimes I mentally freeze the scenario in my mind and study all the people in my mental image's vicinity. What did they witness?
Once police action is under way, Who should I call first? Her father, of course. I remember that I can never remember his cell phone number. I can recall the phone numbers of my 1st and 2nd grade boyfriends, but I cannot remember the phone number of my partner. The father of my child. Then call my mom and dad. Does my mom have my dad's phone number? I have to be sure she does. That way I only have to make one call. Then they will let everyone else know. I have to practice it all in my head to increase my confidence of actually being able to react quickly and rationally if the real situation were to come true. There aren't very many days when I don't think about it at least a little.
Yesterday evening in my hometown--40 miles away and in a town with less crime than my current one--two young men were spotted in multiple places trying to lure little girls to their car. I practice how I will teach you to protect yourself. Maybe it would be a good idea to test you--get a friend who is unknown to you try to pick you up. Maybe around age 6 or 7? I can't tell if that's totally messed up or not. I don't want you to be fearful and timid in the world; just savvy and alert. If the ability to spot a sticker of any kind from a mile away is any indication, you don't miss much.
Worrying about protecting you has become an outlet for my previously free-floating hypervigilance. I always think that when you are a little older I will worry less. But I know that's not true. I may worry about a different variety of things, but the worries themselves will only wear ruts deeper into my psyche. It is a constant effort to keep them in check.
July 29, 2014
Through rose-colored glasses
I rounded the corner from the produce section to the meat department by way of the deli counter. I remember because I made a conscious effort not to buy any pimento cheese spread and 99 times out of 100 I manage not to. Anyway, I spotted the bag full of tiny plastic cups--marked "Party Cups"--on display at the end of a rack next to the booze room. I immediately thought, "Sophie would love these!" since she is partial to all tiny and/or colorful things, particularly things capable of pouring. I often bring her some small item from the grocery store (a sheet of stickers, a ripe avocado, a fruit she's never tried--and here it is more like 1 time out of 3 in the managing not to), and after doing a quick mental calculation of the ratio between the odds of injury and/or mess and the odds of fun and possibly educational in some fashion, I grabbed them.
They thrilled her, of course, and she immediately began stacking and unstacking them and admiring them in the sunlight.
Ivan walked into the living room drying his hands on a little green towel and observed, "Shot glasses."
"What?" I was confused.
"Shot glasses," he said again. "You bought our daughter shot glasses. I mean, Party Cups? Come on!"
I hadn't really thought of them that way, but, truly, I'm not sure I can recall having any OTHER kind of party with cups this size. Though there are no doubt an infinite number of ways to do so.
July 9, 2014
Something in the universe wants me to buy pasta.
Yesterday when Ivan came home from work, he said, "I have to show you what Monica gave me."
"Who is Monica?" I asked.
"A co-worker," he responded, "and a--what do you call it?--'couponer.'"
He proudly brought over five coupons for Barilla brand pasta and warned, "They're only good for a couple more days. At Giant Eagle." Apparently if we were to buy any two boxes of Barilla pasta, we could save $0.55. Five times.
I didn't really take him that seriously. I vaguely wondered how this had come about (Did she bring them specifically thinking he would want them? Did she have them and he expressed interest?), but truthfully was tired from a long day and it didn't seem important.
"So should I go to the store and get them?" he asked hopefully.
"What? No. Ten boxes of pasta? Are you insane?"
He seemed surprised. I continued, "Besides, I guarantee the store brand we buy for a dollar and like just fine is cheaper at full price than Barilla pasta is with these coupons. In fact, I would put money on it. Which seems ironic."
"Oh, okay," he said with a hint of disappointment. "I just thought it would save us some money."
Looking back, I think I was not very charitable in that conversation. His financial habits have often been a point of contention in our relationship. I'm the one always suggesting ways to save money. I'm the one giving lectures about cutting back, doing without. And while it seemed strange to want to buy ten boxes of pasta when we only eat it on occasion and out-of-the blue to bring home coupons, this was a genuine attempt on his part to please me in that way. I should have been kinder.
Sophia, however, was excited to come across the little stack of colorful papers that were now on the end table. She carried them around the rest of the evening, and added them to her collection of colorful paint swatches that she like likes to pull in and out of the little drawer of her table and the microwave of her play kitchen. At bedtime, she grabbed her favorite two blankets and two stuffed rabbits, and then rushed over to scoop up the coupons. She often takes random things to bed with her. Since she's so good about her bedtime and can chatter to herself and play happily for as much as an hour if she's not yet tired, I didn't think anything of it.
This morning she brought all the coupons back down to the living room with her, and when it was time to go she grabbed those, too. "Honey, why don't you put the coupons on the table and then you can play with them again when we get home?" I suggested. She smiled at me and carried them over and tucked them into the little side pocket of the bag I was carrying. I laughed.
So. Here I am. With the capacity to purchase 10 boxes of discounted pasta, sitting at my desk.
"Who is Monica?" I asked.
"A co-worker," he responded, "and a--what do you call it?--'couponer.'"
He proudly brought over five coupons for Barilla brand pasta and warned, "They're only good for a couple more days. At Giant Eagle." Apparently if we were to buy any two boxes of Barilla pasta, we could save $0.55. Five times.
I didn't really take him that seriously. I vaguely wondered how this had come about (Did she bring them specifically thinking he would want them? Did she have them and he expressed interest?), but truthfully was tired from a long day and it didn't seem important.
"So should I go to the store and get them?" he asked hopefully.
"What? No. Ten boxes of pasta? Are you insane?"
He seemed surprised. I continued, "Besides, I guarantee the store brand we buy for a dollar and like just fine is cheaper at full price than Barilla pasta is with these coupons. In fact, I would put money on it. Which seems ironic."
"Oh, okay," he said with a hint of disappointment. "I just thought it would save us some money."
Looking back, I think I was not very charitable in that conversation. His financial habits have often been a point of contention in our relationship. I'm the one always suggesting ways to save money. I'm the one giving lectures about cutting back, doing without. And while it seemed strange to want to buy ten boxes of pasta when we only eat it on occasion and out-of-the blue to bring home coupons, this was a genuine attempt on his part to please me in that way. I should have been kinder.
Sophia, however, was excited to come across the little stack of colorful papers that were now on the end table. She carried them around the rest of the evening, and added them to her collection of colorful paint swatches that she like likes to pull in and out of the little drawer of her table and the microwave of her play kitchen. At bedtime, she grabbed her favorite two blankets and two stuffed rabbits, and then rushed over to scoop up the coupons. She often takes random things to bed with her. Since she's so good about her bedtime and can chatter to herself and play happily for as much as an hour if she's not yet tired, I didn't think anything of it.
This morning she brought all the coupons back down to the living room with her, and when it was time to go she grabbed those, too. "Honey, why don't you put the coupons on the table and then you can play with them again when we get home?" I suggested. She smiled at me and carried them over and tucked them into the little side pocket of the bag I was carrying. I laughed.
So. Here I am. With the capacity to purchase 10 boxes of discounted pasta, sitting at my desk.
March 9, 2013
Mine and yours
"...and all this was happening around 500 B.C. You know, when the Greeks were doing their thing. In my region--not your region. I don't know what yours were doing at that time. Fucking sheep, probably."
A portion of Ivan's account of a chapter on Buddhism he'd recently enjoyed in a book on world religion, and one of many reminders that his Balkan ancestors are superior to my Northern European ones.
January 19, 2013
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.
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.
October 27, 2012
October 23, 2012
A tube is a tube is a tube
A: Can you run out and get me a tube of Orajel? We're almost out and I'm starting to freak out.
I: (picks up a tube of Desitin diaper cream) Can't you just use this?
A: That's for her butt.
I: (Looks at tube again, shrugs) Okay.
I: (picks up a tube of Desitin diaper cream) Can't you just use this?
A: That's for her butt.
I: (Looks at tube again, shrugs) Okay.
October 18, 2012
By way of explanation
I: What's wrong with that girl? Is she right in the head?
A: She's from Indiana.
I: Ah, okay. That explains it.
A: She's from Indiana.
I: Ah, okay. That explains it.
October 17, 2012
Cut short
Ivan and Sophia drove to San Jose to spend two nights at his mother's house. Sophie's "nana." I stayed behind. The prospect of a couple nights to myself to sleep and do nothing were nearly too much to contemplate, and I looked forward to it for days.
I cried when they left yesterday. As Ivan was loading the car I sat and talked to Sophie. As I told her how much mama would miss her, the images flashed through my mind. The wrecked cars, the flashing lights and sirens. The passersby who stare at the wreckage in the median as they pass, eager to get where they're going. The phone call that would take them both away from me.
But I gritted my teeth and persevered! I had packed her bags. I had packed her meals. I knew she was in good hands.
And the first night was blissful. After several hours in the company of a friend and a plethora of champagne. I drifted in and out of sleep at will for hours and hours. I haven't gotten dressed. Haven't cleaned or put anything away. Hell, I'm drinking the rest of last night's champagne out of the bottle next to my cup of coffee.
What?
Anyway, Sophia's father, whom I'm too peeved at to call by name this very second, called. "Do you miss me?" he asked.
"I miss you both," I replied, because she is really the one I miss and I was trying to be diplomatic.
"Well, great! Because we are coming home tonight!" he exclaimed, waiting for my display of enthusiasm.
I felt tricked. My voice was flat. "You're what?"
"Tonight. We're coming back tonight. We should be there by 8:00."
"Don't come back tonight." My voice was quiet and near pleading.
"Well, now I'm DEFINITELY coming back tonight," he said grouchily.
Turns out that they are having a lovely visit and Sophia is being a model child, but she woke him up at 4:30 am. He changed and fed her, but then she WANTED TO PLAY. Why would a baby want to play at 4:30 in the morning? Ivan asked himself. And if I have to stay up with her, how am I going to get any sleep? His poor sleep deprived brain wondered. When she woke him up again at 7 am, he suddenly realized the answer. Take her home to her mother! Ivan can't possibly risk not getting 8 hours of sleep a second night in a row--and besides, that lazy bitch already had her night off!--so we drive back home to Concord so mama can take over and papa can go to bed.
Voila! Problem solved.
May 23, 2012
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.
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.
May 11, 2012
The nature of the universe
Me: I have a question for you.
Ivan (with his back to me at the computer): Okay.
Me: It's just something I was thinking about last night and it occurred to me that I didn't know how you would answer the question.
Ivan: Okay.
Me: And all you need to give is a yes/no answer. I'm not trying to force you into a conversation about this. I just want to know fundamentally what you believe.
Ivan: Okay...
Me: Do you believe in predestination?
Ivan (turns around): What the fuck...?
Me: You know, fate. That we're all traveling down the road we were meant to travel. Everything's laid out for us. Can you boil down 'yes' or 'no' whether you believe in that or not?
(What followed was his half hour long thoughtful, off-the-cuff articulation of his views on predestination, the existence of God, and the nature of the universe while I listened.)
Me: (pauses) You know, I forgot that about you.
Ivan: (raises his eyebrows inquisitively)
Me: I forgot how you can TALK like that. You explain yourself so well and you're so thoughtful. I fell in love with you while you were doing that. I forget that you can do it because we get bogged down in these mundane conversations about going to work and the baby and what's going on today. I just forgot how much I love to listen to you.
Ivan: (ducks his head shyly and laughs)
Ivan (with his back to me at the computer): Okay.
Me: It's just something I was thinking about last night and it occurred to me that I didn't know how you would answer the question.
Ivan: Okay.
Me: And all you need to give is a yes/no answer. I'm not trying to force you into a conversation about this. I just want to know fundamentally what you believe.
Ivan: Okay...
Me: Do you believe in predestination?
Ivan (turns around): What the fuck...?
Me: You know, fate. That we're all traveling down the road we were meant to travel. Everything's laid out for us. Can you boil down 'yes' or 'no' whether you believe in that or not?
(What followed was his half hour long thoughtful, off-the-cuff articulation of his views on predestination, the existence of God, and the nature of the universe while I listened.)
Me: (pauses) You know, I forgot that about you.
Ivan: (raises his eyebrows inquisitively)
Me: I forgot how you can TALK like that. You explain yourself so well and you're so thoughtful. I fell in love with you while you were doing that. I forget that you can do it because we get bogged down in these mundane conversations about going to work and the baby and what's going on today. I just forgot how much I love to listen to you.
Ivan: (ducks his head shyly and laughs)
February 11, 2012
Praise you
You have no idea I'm writing this. In fact, it's entirely possible you'll never read it unless I purposefully send you to this blog entry. We have been together nearly 1 3/4 years, and god knows we have had some turbulent times when I didn't think we could or would make it. We are working so hard on our relationship because we love each other and we want to make it. I try to make a point of telling you the things I appreciate about you, and here are some things that I am incredibly grateful for that you deserve to hear. I probably couldn't say them aloud without my voice breaking.
1. When I make something for you to eat, be it a can of soup or a stew I worked on for hours, you never fail to earnestly thank me for it.
2. Every single day you are at work you call me to hear my voice, even just for a minute.
3. You love my birdies and are good to them.
4. Nearly every day you tell me that I am beautiful, even if I just woke up and I know perfectly well my hair is sticking out in all directions.
5. After we lost our first baby and I was devastated, I was angry at everything. Even when I was irrationally furious with you for having a healthy child when I did not, you didn't get mad at me. You held me.
6. You pour me a cup of coffee every morning even though I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.
7. When you taste something delicious, your first reaction is to share it with me.
8. You tell me your dreams when you wake up, and you listen to mine.
9. Sometimes you fall asleep holding my hand.
10. You never make me feel bad for the seemingly endless things I feel unable to do at the moment. Instead, you reassure me and walk around all the things left undone. This is a constant source of relief.
- end of sap -
1. When I make something for you to eat, be it a can of soup or a stew I worked on for hours, you never fail to earnestly thank me for it.
2. Every single day you are at work you call me to hear my voice, even just for a minute.
3. You love my birdies and are good to them.
4. Nearly every day you tell me that I am beautiful, even if I just woke up and I know perfectly well my hair is sticking out in all directions.
5. After we lost our first baby and I was devastated, I was angry at everything. Even when I was irrationally furious with you for having a healthy child when I did not, you didn't get mad at me. You held me.
6. You pour me a cup of coffee every morning even though I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.
7. When you taste something delicious, your first reaction is to share it with me.
8. You tell me your dreams when you wake up, and you listen to mine.
9. Sometimes you fall asleep holding my hand.
10. You never make me feel bad for the seemingly endless things I feel unable to do at the moment. Instead, you reassure me and walk around all the things left undone. This is a constant source of relief.
- end of sap -
August 2, 2011
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.
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.
July 2, 2011
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.
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.
June 9, 2011
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.
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.
May 23, 2011
Maybe only appreciated by gamers (thus, 0.0001% of my readers)
Ivan plays an online, fantasy, player-versus-player game (a MMORPG, to be more precise) called Dark Age of Camelot (DAoC). Admittedly and embarrasingly (because of my stereotypes about gamers) I've gotten into playing it in recent months, too.
Last night in the shower I was so furious with him for what he has done as I washed my still sore places that I was screaming at him in my mind. When I got out and dried off, I needed to do something.
I logged into his main character in DAoC, a known, templated, high realm-rank healer, Atreri, and went to the frontiers where other characters (or "toons") were getting ready to go off into the battlegrounds. I started going up to other people's toons and using the game's emoticons to make rude gestures at them, wave away their stench, and roll on the floor laghing at them. People started making rude gestures back and lots of them asked, "Dude, who the hell are you?" and "What the fuck is your problem?"
I finally announced in region chat that I was pissed off at my boyfriend and this was his toon so I was doing weird things with him. People found that amusing and one dude asked, "Hey, can I have his gear?" After that, all the toons around me started hugging me.
It was a weirdly touching moment.
Last night in the shower I was so furious with him for what he has done as I washed my still sore places that I was screaming at him in my mind. When I got out and dried off, I needed to do something.
I logged into his main character in DAoC, a known, templated, high realm-rank healer, Atreri, and went to the frontiers where other characters (or "toons") were getting ready to go off into the battlegrounds. I started going up to other people's toons and using the game's emoticons to make rude gestures at them, wave away their stench, and roll on the floor laghing at them. People started making rude gestures back and lots of them asked, "Dude, who the hell are you?" and "What the fuck is your problem?"
I finally announced in region chat that I was pissed off at my boyfriend and this was his toon so I was doing weird things with him. People found that amusing and one dude asked, "Hey, can I have his gear?" After that, all the toons around me started hugging me.
It was a weirdly touching moment.
May 21, 2011
It's amazing...
...the things that go through your mind when someone has their hands around your neck and is squeezing. For me, it was, "I do not want this television to be the last thing I see."
May 8, 2011
On Mothers' Day
And so it is Mothers' Day.
A couple of sweet and thoughtful friends have written in the last couple of days to check on me and to pre-emptively say they knew this day would be really hard for me. Strangely, it is no worse than any other. Maybe it's because I have never really gotten too excited about this "holiday." Maybe it's because I was still so new to the idea of thinking of myself as a mother. I don't know.
Today I will wake up with Ivan and Darius.
We will wipe away the crust from our eyes and brush our teeth.
We will drink coffee and milk, respectively, and I will make sure Darius ingests some sort of fruit along with his breakfast cereal.
Today we will admire yesterday's sidewalk chalk drawings (A volcano! That is erupting! Onto the playground! Next to the rainbow!) and re-visit the lopsided hopscotch board I created for surprisingly endless hours of entertainment on the part of Darius.
We will toast bread and eat the egg salad I prepared last night, and I will attempt to convince Darius that eggs are neither yucky nor smelly (even though I kind of think they are myself).
We will paint pictures and pick flowers, and we will send him home with gifts for his own mother for Mothers' Day.
Today I will open my bedroom drawer and check on my child's ashes in the terrible little white plastic box the funeral home returned her in.
And I will go on.
A couple of sweet and thoughtful friends have written in the last couple of days to check on me and to pre-emptively say they knew this day would be really hard for me. Strangely, it is no worse than any other. Maybe it's because I have never really gotten too excited about this "holiday." Maybe it's because I was still so new to the idea of thinking of myself as a mother. I don't know.
Today I will wake up with Ivan and Darius.
We will wipe away the crust from our eyes and brush our teeth.
We will drink coffee and milk, respectively, and I will make sure Darius ingests some sort of fruit along with his breakfast cereal.
Today we will admire yesterday's sidewalk chalk drawings (A volcano! That is erupting! Onto the playground! Next to the rainbow!) and re-visit the lopsided hopscotch board I created for surprisingly endless hours of entertainment on the part of Darius.
We will toast bread and eat the egg salad I prepared last night, and I will attempt to convince Darius that eggs are neither yucky nor smelly (even though I kind of think they are myself).
We will paint pictures and pick flowers, and we will send him home with gifts for his own mother for Mothers' Day.
Today I will open my bedroom drawer and check on my child's ashes in the terrible little white plastic box the funeral home returned her in.
And I will go on.
My house. Where difficult silverware goes to die.
When I was growing up, one of my main household duties was the nightly task of washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. God, I hated it.
My mother's silverware drawer was a constant annoyance to me. On one side, our spoons, forks, and knives sat neatly in their little trays. The rest of the drawer was a chaotic mess of other, less frequently used cooking- and eating-related utensils: vegetable peelers, spatulas, corn on the cob holders, and so on. I quickly termed this the "difficult silverware" because these items were hard to organize, often oversized, and seemed to require endless rooting through the drawer to find.
In my adulthood, I have tried to alleviate this problem by having a large ceramic container sitting on the counter that holds and provides easy access to all the larger items. I, too, have a mass of garlic presses, measuring spoons, fondue forks, and shish kebab sticks messily taking up space in the other half of my silverware drawer. But at least I have made some progress on the organization front. My mama didn't raise no dummy.
I have noticed that Ivan has very little interest in my personal system of silverware organization. (The same could be said for his position regarding my systems for washing dishes, arranging the medicine cabinet, cleaning the bathroom sink, and putting away groceries, but I suppose at the moment that is neither here nor there.) We share the task of washing dishes, but in recent weeks and months when I have not felt well he has cheerfully born the brunt of it (unless we played cards and placed bets on who had to wash the dishes and I lost--also neither here nor there).
Ivan's kryptonite is putting the clean dishes away. He hates it. He is brought to his knees. He will beg and plead and cajole me that he will wash the dishes if only I will put the clean dishes away. Some days this sounds like a reasonable request. Other days it does not. If left to his own devices, he will put away simple items like plates and bowls and cups. The rest he stacks randomly around the kitchen or else takes a wild guess as to where it might belong and stashes it there. On some level I find this amusing, but when I am in the middle of cooking and politely looking for an item ("Where in the hell is the mixing bowl?") it makes me crazy.
This is how the ladle and the whisk have disappeared.
Really, it could be so easy! They could be proudly sitting in the container on the counter, ready to be called to duty again. Instead, I root through drawers and cabinets complaining, "How far could the goddamned whisk have gotten?"
To which he replies, "Which one is the whisk again?"
They have both been missing for weeks, and to his annoyance I never miss an educational opportunity to remind him of their usefulness and to bemoan their unknown whereabouts whenever I can.
I think about them sometimes even when I am not cooking. I like to imagine they are now free from servitude and pursuing other, non-functional interests and talents they might have. I suppose they will turn up eventually. Maybe when I move out of this apartment. Or, sure as shit, as soon as I decide to replace them and buy new ones.
I call this one "Sans Ladle and Whisk."
My mother's silverware drawer was a constant annoyance to me. On one side, our spoons, forks, and knives sat neatly in their little trays. The rest of the drawer was a chaotic mess of other, less frequently used cooking- and eating-related utensils: vegetable peelers, spatulas, corn on the cob holders, and so on. I quickly termed this the "difficult silverware" because these items were hard to organize, often oversized, and seemed to require endless rooting through the drawer to find.
In my adulthood, I have tried to alleviate this problem by having a large ceramic container sitting on the counter that holds and provides easy access to all the larger items. I, too, have a mass of garlic presses, measuring spoons, fondue forks, and shish kebab sticks messily taking up space in the other half of my silverware drawer. But at least I have made some progress on the organization front. My mama didn't raise no dummy.
I have noticed that Ivan has very little interest in my personal system of silverware organization. (The same could be said for his position regarding my systems for washing dishes, arranging the medicine cabinet, cleaning the bathroom sink, and putting away groceries, but I suppose at the moment that is neither here nor there.) We share the task of washing dishes, but in recent weeks and months when I have not felt well he has cheerfully born the brunt of it (unless we played cards and placed bets on who had to wash the dishes and I lost--also neither here nor there).
Ivan's kryptonite is putting the clean dishes away. He hates it. He is brought to his knees. He will beg and plead and cajole me that he will wash the dishes if only I will put the clean dishes away. Some days this sounds like a reasonable request. Other days it does not. If left to his own devices, he will put away simple items like plates and bowls and cups. The rest he stacks randomly around the kitchen or else takes a wild guess as to where it might belong and stashes it there. On some level I find this amusing, but when I am in the middle of cooking and politely looking for an item ("Where in the hell is the mixing bowl?") it makes me crazy.
This is how the ladle and the whisk have disappeared.
Really, it could be so easy! They could be proudly sitting in the container on the counter, ready to be called to duty again. Instead, I root through drawers and cabinets complaining, "How far could the goddamned whisk have gotten?"
To which he replies, "Which one is the whisk again?"
They have both been missing for weeks, and to his annoyance I never miss an educational opportunity to remind him of their usefulness and to bemoan their unknown whereabouts whenever I can.
I think about them sometimes even when I am not cooking. I like to imagine they are now free from servitude and pursuing other, non-functional interests and talents they might have. I suppose they will turn up eventually. Maybe when I move out of this apartment. Or, sure as shit, as soon as I decide to replace them and buy new ones.
I call this one "Sans Ladle and Whisk."
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