Holy Chrysallis, Batman!

All my twitchiness has paid off.

Tonight I saw one of the caterpillars shed it's caterpillar skin to reveal it's lime green chrysallis underneath. I've been waiting days for this event. It's almost as if the sweet thing waited for me.

It had been a very long day which ended in a very long bedtime ritual. Sullivan was upset because he was both homesick for Brooklyn and wishing that he would never have to leave Vermont. He cried himself to sleep. I was exhausted when I reached the kitchen and sat down at the table to share a beer with our hosts. We were all sipping beverages while reading instructions on how to test their well water and discussing the various hazards of iron, copper and nitrates in water. I wasn't going to check on the jar. I thought I should just leave it alone for the night lest my friends think I was completely looney tunes for staring at this comotose caterpillar. I couldn't resist. I couldn't wait one more minute to see how their iron levels were. I had to go across the room. The caterpillars had to be watched.

As I walked over to the table I could see the one caterpillar that had positioned itself upside down on the glass was kind of jittery. The moment of truth had arrived. It was like my own private Natural Geographic special. Prov came over to watch it with me. The whole process took less than five minutes, I'd say. The skin split at the top of its head and the wet, green chrysallis wriggled like Houdini in a straight jacket dangling by his feet from some insane height. The caterpillar shrugged the skin off like a dirty sweater and let it drop to the leaves beneath. It wriggled a while more before is settled and the appearance of wetness gave way to an oblong, waxy green form with a single whitish ridge near the top. I couldn't believe that I saw it. It was so fast and I could just as easily have missed it. I could have just as easily woke up tomorrow morning disappointed. But I witnessed it live and in person. I actually feel quite blessed for the experience.

Everyone slapped me on the back and smiled. Those are definitely Bree's caterpillars! they said as if they had all been granted Solomon's wisdome for an evening. That's so Bree to be excited about caterpillars.

Is it?

Now there are three more caterpillars left. One other has attatched itself to the cheesecloth lid cutting the same "J" shaped figure in the mason jar's horizon. I have been awarded custody of the butterflies to be. They will accompany me back to Brooklyn where, if they are able to complete the process, Sullivan and I will send them on their journey to Mexico.

I guess my excitement and my interest in these creatures has been fairly transparent. Everyone in the house has caught me staring into the jar at one point or other and yet I stupidly wonder how they could be so certain that my behavior is somehow characteristic of me. What is "me" anyway? And how can they figure it out with such ease when I don't know which end is up anymore? How can they be so sure of what they are seeing?

There is a bat up here in the attic. It is kind of thrilling to see it swoop noiselessly through the rafters eating the mosquitos that would otherwise eat me. There's a dog barking incessantly and I can't help but think about the chickens out back. How is that new chicken coop we built this week holding up? I feel so much outside myself wondering how the hell I became this person? How did I end up with friends in Vermont who are so certain that they know me and, even more miraculous, that they like me enough to invite me into their home? How did I end up married with a kid? I've been wrapped in my own opaque shell for so long, I don't know if I'll recognize me when I come out. I'm not even sure if I'll come out at all. I hope I do.

And I hope I'm not a moth.

Pupa

I'll admit it. I can't stop watching the freaking caterpillars.

The kids plucked some monarch caterpillars from some milkweed a couple of days ago and I can't stop obsessing about them. I know that something ridiculously amazing is going to happen and I don't want to miss it. I had to tear myself away from the jar on the hall table so that I could get upstairs and go to bed. One of them has spun that little sticky web from its butt and is hanging upside down. So I know it is going to do something really, really cool and I want to say that I SAW it happen.

But I should really go to bed.

Monarch butterflies do not "spin" cocoons. They suspend themselves from something relatively sturdy and then their caterpillar skins SPLIT and the chrysallis is INSIDE. That is just funky. I can't even imagine what their little innerds are doing. I'm spellbound by the whole process. So I've been staring at this motionless thing hanging upside down in a mason jar covered with cheesecloth hoping to catch some kind of glimpse of the activity going on inside.

Of course there is also a horrible, negative part of me that watches this process and thinks "I just know I did this wrong and I am going to kill this thing if I haven't already." Maybe that's why I am not anywhere I want to be in life. I keep thinking that I've already fucked up just by virtue of it being me so all I can do is wait around to see the bad result. Intellectually, I know this just isn't so but I can't help but look to this metamorphic process as a sign of how my life will evolve. If these caterpillars become butterflies I might just be able to believe that I am not a total fuck up.

If they die, I'll just have to blame the kids.

You Know I Could Never Leave You

So. Vermont.

It's gorgeous up here.

My friends have bought the coolest house. It is just perfect for them. I am happy to be here and I am happy to be with such good friends. I am happy that our kids are all snuggled together in their sleeping bags. I am happy to eat and hang out, but I can't figure out why, with all this happiness, I don't feel happy.

I am not really relaxed. I'm not really sure what it is I should be letting go. I was hoping for a little bit of clarity up here, but all I am really feeling is a haze. There's good food, beautiful scenery, and great company and I am enjoying all of that. But somewhere hanging around the periphery of my consciousness is this feeling that I am doing all the wrong things.

Why can't I just chuck everything and move to a fixer upper with great character like my friends? Why can't I commit to my life in New York? Why can't I be a better mom that isn't always so stressed out everytime her kid dissolves into nervous screaming? Why can't I go to sleep at 11:00 like everyone else? Why am I stuck?

So I am back to my favorite compulsion. I'm blogging on my vacation. How pathetic is that? I couldn't even hold out for longer than a day. I must be a total lunatic.

I should start writing a more private journal like I used to.

Except nobody ever read those and, clearly, nothing I do is valid unless there is an audience. I really wish that I didn't need so much attention. Frankly, I am embarrassed by this weakness of mine. I'm trying to stay low key on this vacation, but I haven't been able to look anyone in the eye since this trip started last night.

Maybe I'll get into the groove tomorrow. The men are going out to pick up a wood burning stove and do some bonding. You know, taking things apart, putting them back together and lifting heavy objects. The Chicks are going to be hanging out with the kids picking Swiss chard and making pie and quiche. Maybe I'll be able to step out of myself tomorrow.

I'm Off

I'll be gone for a good week or so. I'm off to Vermont to see what the Vermont lifestyle is like with some very good friends and their kids. It'll be like visiting family but without all the baggage.

See ya when school starts. Yippee!

Drinking the Kool Aid

I just think it is so funny how we can easily see in others what we refuse to see in ourselves. So heavily indoctrinated are we that, after a certain age, our beliefs are most definitely fixed and we spend a lifetime looking only for proof of what we already believe and ignoring all else. Those of us who attempt to lead a life of questioning are quick to point out to others when they have been "drinking the Kool Aid" but rarely able to recognize that which goes unquestioned in our own lives.

We are, all of us, hypocrites and liars.

Most of us just don't know it, that's all.

Bad Dreams

So, last night I dismembered some blonde chick and stuffed her in a garbage bag. Beyond the fact that I didn't even recognize this woman that I had so horribly and irreparably mutilated, what was most distressing was that she could still talk to me. Her head was resting on the remains of her body (she was double bagged in black lawn and garden bags) and we had a rather blase discussion. Her basic attitude was- well, I didn't WANT to be dismembered but since this is the way things are I'll just deal with it. I kept wondering why I had done it but all I could say was, "Oh, I'm so glad you like it!"

Something about that just ain't right.

Buyin' The Lingo

We all fall prey to it. Every last one of us has had our guard down for a minute or two and let certain shades of meaning slip into our brains that weren't there before someone decided to change it.

That was convuluted. Let me start over.

When I was 10, Feminism was a positive thing. Liberal was just a way of looking at the world, it wasn't a threat to morality or our childrens' health and well being. Cappucino was a little known coffee drink. Christianity was a fairly quiet religion of choice. Soccer was just a sport you were forced to play in P.E. and Mom was simply someone who was supposed to love you no matter what.

Somewhere along the line, Feminism became unpalatable and Liberal became synonymous with evil, stupid and whiny. Cappucino became a symbol of effete, liberal elitism and Christianity became something too overbearing and scary to even admit an interest in beyond "I think Jesus was an excellent philosopher but (insert complaint about organized religion here)". Then when Soccer was paired with Mom, a monolithic mini-van driving she-monster was born.

In and of themselves, there is nothing wrong with any of these things. They have simply become (in some circles more than others, but for the sake of argument let's agree that we are talking about MY circle here) rudely unfashionable. And what gets me is how a lot of thinking people will easily buy in to the simplistic notion of "If one is like so then ALL must be similar to the one!" It just isn't true. And, I'd like to argue, that just because a bunch of people have sullied the word with bad behavior it doesn't mean that the concept is, in and of itself, faulty or bad.

I'm getting convuluted again.

Let's be a bit more specific. Feminism started out as a bunch of ladies who did not want to be bound by convention and wanted opportunity. As a stay at home mom I can relate. I have a brain, too and I should be supported and encouraged to use it. But somewhere along the line Feminist thought was coopted by women who believed that all men are rapists. I'm not going to argue this one here, that's a whole other post, but I have experiences to the contrary and I refuse to promote any thought that would doom my beautiful boy to such a dark destiny. But do you see what just happened? I felt the need to justify my defense of feminism by distancing myself from what has become a popular view of what feminism actually is. But does it matter? I mean, that view is what killed feminism.

I could go on, and at some point I probably will, but I think it is funny how quick we all are to spit out words with no inherent negative value as insults.

I remember during the first Gulf War that some kid at school spat at me as I walked down the hallway.

"PEACE LOVER!" he screamed.

Is this bad?

I'm not stupid. I know what he meant. He meant to strip me down and hurt me with the foul accusation that I am soft on despots. What he didn't have then was the proper vocabulary to really rip into my soul. He should have just called me a liberal.

I could just as easily have yelled back.

"CHRISTIAN!"

Funny. There once was a time when the two meant the same thing.

By The Way...

The plum nectarine crisp...fan-freaking-tastic.

Vermin

Okay. I've had it. The bedbugs have been gone for several weeks and now my neighbor tells me she woke up with tons of them in her bed (they usually run before you will ever see them) so I know they'll be back. I'm bracing myself for the onslaught. Yesterday I swear something tiny with claws scurried over my foot in the bathroom. Tom thinks I'm nuts, but I know those little bastards are out there. And just now, while I was baking my plum and nectarine crisp I saw a roach.

How much more can a girl take?

I have everything encased in plastic. I vacuum at least every other day if not every day. I wash. I dust. I can't keep this house any cleaner than it already is without forsaking the love and affection of those I am struggling to protect! I am afraid to walk around barefoot. I would not be one bit surprised if I had mother fucking snakes in my mother fucking bedroom!

Maybe I should stock up on pets that hunt vermin. I'll get a rat terrier a mongoose and...what eats bedbugs? Maybe a monkey?

I think I am going to lose my mind.

Arrogant Not Snobby

I must admit that it bothers me when my sister calls me a snob. I guess my family has been trying to drill that into my head for a couple of decades, at least. But I don't think it is quite accurate.

I'll freely admit that I am an arrogant ass. It comes with the insecurity and raging sense of perfectionism that is part of my personality cocktail. I hold myself to a very high standard and I punish myself severely when I fail. I get upset when I see people around me not caring enough to set higher standards for themselves and I can and do get judgemental. I honestly try not to. I try very hard to see how people struggle and are working with circumstances of which I know nothing about. I do slip from time to time and believe me, I flog myself once I get home. But this behavior does not stop me from socializing or being kind to people. I'll talk to anyone who will talk to me and, with the rare exception of the five people I'd like to punch in the neck, my arrogance does not stop me from being friendly. Hell, even those five people would probably describe me as polite.

I know I shoot my mouth off a lot about movies and so on. My standards for good entertainment are decidedly higher that most. I'm passionate about it. People often mistake my passion for absolutism but what they don't grasp is that these are standards that apply to what I like, not to what you like. There's a difference. Just know that if you ask my opinon, you're going to get it.

But that is totally a midwestern thing. This is where Pamela will roll her eyes and point saying, "I told you! You are totally a snob!" Just because something bothers me does not mean that it is entirely in my head. This might have a kernel of truth to it, so hear me out.

Back home I felt uncomfortable talking about film, television, theater or literature in unfamiliar group surroundings (i.e. business events, gatherings of extended family, parties and the like) the way most people feel about religion or politics. You see, in Minnesota, if you didn't like something everyone else liked (say, "Titanic") then it is received as a personal assault. If it weren't then maybe people would just be able to wave their hands and say 'Oh, that's just Bree. She likes different stuff than we do. Whatever. I liked it.' But instead they would argue with me and call me names (like snob, elitist, latte liberal, yadda yadda yadda) and completely shut down. I know I tend to present these things badly because if you get me going I go on and on and on. Not because I think you're stupid, but because story and character are really the two most important things in my life. I shit you not. I cannot overstate this. It is important to me the way the birth of my son is important to me. But the equation in MN, in my experience, is this:

(You like Movie A - I hate Movie A) + I love Movie B x You've never heard of Movie B = I think you are a total moron

I must assure you, that is not true. The equation does not work out that way. It really is no skin off my ass if you like Movie A, but I think if you sat down to watch Movie B that you'd really be blown away. I don't think you're an idiot for never having seen Movie B because there was once a time when I'd never heard of it either. Someone had to turn me on to it.

It's the same way with food. I didn't try asparagus until I was almost 23 years old. I barely knew the stuff existed. Someone had to put it in front of me. I've had some pretty mind blowing culinary experiences and I feel I would be remiss if I didn't share them with others. Same thing with entertainment.

This is just one example, but it explains a little about why I just don't feel comfortable in MN. Culturally speaking, people are quite deferential and are constantly feeling out where others are before speaking because we would never want to step out of line or offend anyone unless they were fully prepared for it. That means that a Minnesotan can really enjoy mean spirited comedy or satire because they went with the expectation that someone was going to do or say something outrageous. I find that open minded Minnesotans can really find a release in this activity, including myself. There is something so satisfying about watching someone say or do something so raunchy or politically biting that it is almost as if we were temporarily relieved of the responsibility of biting our tongues. If it comes up in everyday conversation, however, Minnesotans are very uncomfortable with it. I'm uncomfortable with it.

You see, I get called out for making observations about my home and upbringing. But, it must be noted that all of these things that I point out about Minnesotans are so much a part of my own psyche. These are things I question inside myself. Is it totally necessary for me to leave the last piece of anything on a buffet platter for someone else even though I am very, very hungry? So often I find myself holding a fucking bank door open for several minutes because I believe it is rude not to hold it open. I wouldn't want to be rude. As a customer service person, I am friendly and talkative not because I am actually nice but because I really, really want people to see me that way. There's a big difference between showing and doing. Showing is going through the motions and using my polite voice (which is an annoyingly insecure octave above my regular register) and doing is just doing it without all the smoke and mirrors.

I love people. I find them fascinating. Clearly, I find myself fascinating. Of course, I am considering deleting that last sentence because it is a rude sin to admit such a thing. But it is true. I still don't fully understand why I do or say the things I do but I try to figure it out by watching others. I watch my fellow Brooklynites with just as hard a gaze. But I don't see my own behavior reflected in them the way I see it in Minnesotans.

I don't hate anybody. Most people I really and truly like. Snobby would mean that I pick and choose who I hang out with by certain arbitrary criteria. I'll admit that I used to pick and choose depending upon some crazy set of "rules" that not even I understood. Things are different now. The truth is that the only criteria I really have is that you should like me and be kind to me. I don't care if you like "Duece Bigelow". Fine by me. You just have to accept my arrogance and maybe poke me a little bit about it. I need it. I need to be reminded that I'm not perfect and that that is okay.

Just don't call me a snob.

Random And Incoherent

Can't really string a decent thought. Too tired. Up all night riding buses in my all too brief sleep. Riding buses and waving good bye to friends crouched in alleyways crying, but I've got to get somewhere. Can't stop. Gotta ride the bus. Have to get to that weird building that has no walls or roof, but there are trees growing in it. Beautiful cherry blossoms falling on white iron garden furniture. Hanging out with some large, loud man in a pinstriped suit. I am supposed to impress him. My friend set this up. Remember, don't be an arrogant ass like you usually are. He asks for my card and I can't find one. He has one of those headsets for his mobile phone. I can't tell if he is talking to me or to someone on his phone. He says, "Don't be surprised if we call you! We like you! We like your work!" He nods. The bus pulls up again and I get on without giving him my card. We pull away and drive into a dingy living room. There's a big, ugly chair there. There are hipsters everywhere. They are smoking and throwing their butts into the chair. They invite me to sit in it. They are offended when I don't want to sit in ashes. Plus the chair smells like cat piss. They kick me out of the party. They laugh. I'm mad that they kicked me out even though I hated it in there. Outside is the subway station. Tracks switching back and forth. I have to stand on the rail and get hit by the train in order to catch it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Maybe if I walk this way it will come faster? Don't fall off the track. I hear it. It is definitely the F train. I can see it's orange circle, but it isn't getting any closer. We're just staring at each other. I wish I had given that man my card. Even though I think he was asking someone on the phone. Come to think of it, I couldn't be sure that he had seen me at all.

Dream loops back to the begining. Riding buses. Riding buses all night long, away from friends crying in alleyways...

Sleep should be better tonight.

Can't Sleep

I was completely exhausted and had felt like I had had a good day. So why am I up right now feeling like I've done something horribly wrong for which I will be soundly punished?

What the hell is up with that?

Baby Book

If I am to believe my Baby Book the first movie I ever saw in the theater was "The Empire Strikes Back". Whether it was my first or not it is the one I remember.

It was 1980 and I would have been five years old- a few months older than my boy is now. I remember the rather foreign feel of the flip down seats, the weird curvy staircase down to the ladies' bathroom and the enormous size of Darth Vader's head. I also remember being awestruck by the ritual of seeing a movie. All these people, in the dark munching on popcorn and getting their shoes stuck in spilled fountain drinks. It was awesome. It was also scary. For a child with little movie viewing experience perhaps the explosions and ton-ton innerds were a bit much. But I handled it. I handled it and fell in love with a whiny little brat named Luke Skywalker. Yeah, we were going to get married. Once he met me, that is.

At the time, I had no idea he was such a whiny little shit. Plus, I hadn't had the benefit of seeing "Star Wars" until we got it on laser disk some time later. (Yeah, baby, I said Laser Disk!) Regardless, I was hooked on entertainment.

This should really come as no surprise. After all, I was named after a character in a movie. Not just any movie and not just any character. I was named after Jane Fonda's character, Bree Daniels, in the 1971 thriller "Klute" co-starring the lovely Donald Sutherland. She played a high priced call girl who also had acting ambitions. (Hmmm...) Jane won the best actress Oscar that year. It's a good movie. The score is really creepy. During very sad and lonely times in my life I've watched that movie just to hear Donald Sutherland say my name over and over and over again. I have to admit, it still gives me chills to look at the cover of our VHS copy and see my name in print. It reads "Bree really knows how to swing...". What ego maniac can resist that? Certainly not me!

There were signs throughout my childhood that I would grow up to be who I am. I used to imitate Tim Conway and I have memories of imitating this charcter from some sketch show on tv with an exaggerated pompadour who's catch phrase was, "My name is...RAMON!" (said with a heavily rolled 'r' and a head snap). Apparently I came out speaking because the entry in my Baby Book filled out by my mother insists that I never babbled and that she "can't remember" my first word "but she hasn't stopped since". I suppose she thought that was funny. Clearly, as evidenced by the length of an average UFH post, this is as true as it is funny.

I bring this up because my kid is doomed. I took him to see the first Harry Potter movie when he was about 4 weeks old. He's been going to movies ever since. He has sat through "Captain Blood" and "To Kill A Mockingbird" both before the age of 3 and even asked to see them again. He plays dress up and loves to imitate people- but he is often too shy to imitate people in the actual presence of others. He does it when he thinks he's alone or if he's with some good friends. My kid has gathered a collection of moustaches, beards, scarves, hats, eye patches, witch hats, brooms, swords, walking sticks, watches, vampire teeth, capes, gold and jewels to make any small theater company green with envy. Of course I encourage it because it is a game I know how to play. Although he usually discourages me from joining in unless there is a sword fight.

I'm stepping back on this one, because I need to see where he takes this on his own. It isn't my place to put him in this business. In fact, I'd much rather he didn't. Hey, he could just as easily discover that his passion for killing ants is a satisfying and profitable one. Who am I to stand in the way of that just because it is not something that I would have chosen for myself? But really, he can't help leaning in this direction because our home is built that way. It is who his parents are.

The poor kid. I had hoped his name would give him athletic (named for a bare-knuckled boxer) or literary aspirations. He could become the next Hemingway, you know. Or he could also be a mad drunk. If I have another boy, I want to name him after Dashiell Hammett. Sullivan and Dashiell- thems is two hard drinkin' names. Hell, I'm drunk just typing them.

I suppose I should take some time to update Sullivan's own baby book so that one night he can blog about how he was doomed by his parents' choice of name.

In Praise Of John C. Reilly

I just think that guy deserves more attention. He can sing, dance, be funny, and be disarmingly vulnerable while being a real man. He's a gem.

More John C. Reilly please.

Beer Food Food Beer

I need some beer in the house. I will go out and get some momentarily, along with something chocolate, or maybe something salty. I know I probably shouldn't. I should let this compulsion go because I am neither hungry nor stressed- for once. But what would my evening be without a beer and something I would not let my own child eat?

Although, I did make a killer pesto with kale this evening. Dinner was kale-tastic featuring broiled crostini with the aforementioned pesto, fresh parmesan and tomato paired with whole wheat spaghetti tossed with pesto and some leftover lemon pepper turkey breast. It was light and delightful. Tomorrow I am thinking about making steamed chard rolls with ginger and brown rice. I'm not sure what I would pair that with, though. Or perhaps I will saute the chard and top it with some poached eggs? Actually, the pesto crostini would be a better complement for poached eggs. Would it not? It's just that I've got fucking chard coming out my ass and I have to figure out something to do with it and we already ate all the pesto. Maybe I'll do the gnocchi wrapped in chard again. But do I really want to spend my afternoon making gnocchi? I know. I know I can buy the gnocchi but then I'd have to do something with these potatoes. Maybe roasted potato and chard quiche? Or maybe I could make some savory muffins with the chard and just got to fucking McDonalds because the boy doesn't appreciate my cooking anyway!

I wish we had some asparagus. I'm dying to make this asparagus flan but I'd have to have some uninterupted kitchen time in order to do so. Asparagus flan. Doesn't that just make you curious?

I love food. I love eating. I love eating good food. I love making food. I love it when people love eating the food I make. My theme song is fast becoming Cab Calloway's "Everybody Eats When They Come To My House".

I love it when people come to my house and feel comfortable. I want them to be able to look around them and feel lightened a bit and ready to eat. I love to make them food and have them leave feeling like they've been cared for. I want visitors to my home feel like they have entered a creative, whimsical sanctuary full of warmth and humor and yet somehow still very clean. It doesn't always feel like that, but I try. Most of the time, I try way too hard.

So the question for this evening remains...which beer do I purchase? Do I go dark and heavy (probably not) or super light and crisp (pussy) or somewhere in between?

Or do I just say fuck it and bust out the tequila?

Touched Out

When I first heard the term "touched out" I thought it was total bullshit. I figured that even if it wasn't bullshit, it would never ever happen to me.

"Touched out" is something that happens to moms after a long day of being pawed by little ones and they just can't stand to be touched anymore. I love to be touched. I revel in human contact. I love hugs, smooches, pats, rubs...bring it on! Since I have made it 5 years without stretching me passed my tactile limit I thought I would be safe from this phenomenon.

HA!

The touching has intensified and gotten so desperate that I don't want to be anywhere near it. By the end of the day I feel so irritable I can't let anyone within 3 feet of me. Don't even THINK about touching me or I'll rip your fucking arm off!

It probably isn't the touch in and of itself, but the lack of regard that makes me so cranky. I get pulled, yanked, poked, tickled, snuggled, and twiddled. The touch lacks finesse and any rubbin' is most definitely NOT good rubbin'. It's so bad that I can't even accept good touch after a while. Which is a bit of a tragedy. I remember begging my mom for hugs as a little kid and she just couldn't give them. AW c'mon, Mom, a hug would feel so good right now, wouldn't it?

No. It really wouldn't.

I'm Not Listening! La La La!

I've been reading quite a few things on other peoples' blogs that I would normally comment on. I've decided not to.

I'm going to try to not open that can of worms because I will not convince anyone of anything. There will be no epiphanies, no changed minds or hearts so I'm going to try letting it go. This is new to me so you'll bear with me while I resist the urge to shoot my damn fool mouth off. I know that many of you enjoy watching me get all riled up, and others enjoy poking fun at me behind my back. Oh yes, I know you're out there. What's that saying? I may be stupid but I'm not dumb. Damn. Haven't heard that one in a while.

What I WILL discuss is school shopping.

I took the little man out to get new school clothes. It's a yearly ritual that I've been waiting for since the day I found out I was pregnant. I remember how I used to love school shopping with my Mom. We'd always go to some special, far away mall which made the whole endeavor feel more cosmopolitan than getting the latest sweater set from the sale rack at Maurice's or Vanity. Never heard of those stores? Well, you're not alone. Perhaps you've heard of DEB? If you're from extreme southern Minnesota, odds are your crimped up-do was sporting a sateen ho-tastic 80's prom dress from DEB. Hey, that's no judgement. If I hadn't found out that the Salvation Army had a bag sale every Wednesday (Fill up a shopping bag with anything you like, just $5.00 a bag!) I would have tooled around town in a flashy red thing that looked like it escaped from a classic RATT video.

Anyway, like I said, school shopping was always the best. We'd go to Burnsville or to LaCross or Rochester and stock up on the latest mall fads- until I had discovered the bag sale, that is. One year my Mom and I ran into Tammy Faye Baker at Apache Mall in Rochester. Yeah. Those were good times, as was the post shopping trip to Pannekoekken. (Can't quite remember how to spell it) Oh baby!

Now, I wasn't expecting to bond with Sullivan in that way today. He's a boy and he cares little for fashion. Only comfort and function are important. But I was hoping he would appreciate the fact that I wasn't about to do his shopping for him and dress him like my own little Ken Doll. That's about as much as I could hope for. But then, oh the mommy waterworks started to rage.

Why?

Because the very first thing he picked out was this three button brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows and a sweet red lining. Then he picked out a short sleeve, skater cut, red plaid shirt, a pair of loose fitting jeans and a navy blue baseball cap (on sale!). He ran to the fitting room to try them on. Well. I just about fell over. It was like looking into the future. He looked so mature, so easy going -almost elastic- and so handsome. Mostly, he just looked like his Dad. I couldn't quite contain myself and I gasped in surprise.

You look so dashing and grown up. You look like your Daddy.

From that moment on, he couldn't stop looking at himself. He insisted on changing into that outfit (with a new brown leather belt) as soon as we got home and just stared at himself in the mirror.

I'm a grown up now. See? I've got a belt.

I couldn't stop looking at him either. Tall, muscular and lean, he stood there like a picture of his future self. It's tantalizing, just staring through this pinhole at the man he may eventually become. I've seen little glimpses of it before, but never so strongly. What was most notable about this episode is that he clearly saw it, too. He talked all through dinner about what things will be like when he's a Dad.

Slow down, buckaroo. It's only Kindergarten.

Television Dreams

My sister, Kristen, harbors half facetious fantasies of getting her lovely, young daughter on a reality tv show and making upstaging guest appearances that would ultimately lead to her getting her own show. I would watch that. My sister is funny. (All of my sibs are funny, actually.)

I, of course, pretend not to stoop so low.

But, in reality, don't you think Jon Stewart needs me? I mean, the only chick he's got is Samantha Bee and she's totally got the sarcastic Canadian girl thing down. But he's got no redheaded, doe eyed, news siren aside from Rob Corrdry who WOULD be a redhead if it weren't for, well, you know. I could totally fit that bill.

And Stephen Colbert totally wants to smooch me. I can tell. I can tell by the way he makes himself laugh like he's Tim Conway and Harvey Korman all in one. I can tell by the way he slips me a sly giggle during 'Formidable Opponent'. But you can't have me, Stephen. I'm a married woman. We'll have to keep on pretending that we've never met and you're stalking a girl named Charlene. You and I both know that I'm the real Charlene.

Charlie Rose keeps calling to chat. Morgan Spurlock wants to send single women with baby lust to live with me for 30 Days. And they're just dying to Roast me on Comedy Central. I would love it if people knew enough about me to poke at my foibles. Dude, I'll show my foibles to anyone. All you have to do is ask. Hell, I've flashed my foibles all over town.

Guilty, I just wanted to play with my foibles. I can't stop, it just sounds so dirty and wrong! Foibles! Foibles! Foibles!

I think I'm done now.

Not A Thought In This Pretty Little Head Of Mine

It's true. I've been walking around in a haze just waiting for school to start. It is absolute toture to have something good pecking at your brain and no time in the forseeable future to follow through on your own genius.

But not thinking is making me so cranky.

I am the most irritable person alive when I'm not working on something. Sure I have my play, but last night (from 11:30PM until about 1:30 AM) was the only time I had to work on it. Now there is just an endless summer battling crying jags and pleas for new pets. My sitters are already booked. There's no way we can do anymore camp. Our friends are all out of town. So. I'm not thinking of anything.

Since I can't really get anything done, I'd much rather curl up with my heating pad and nap.

Maybe I ought to call Doogie my chiropractor? He sent me a postcard. He totally misses me. I think that would whip me into shape in a hurry- a chiropractic adjustment, my heating pad, some cupcakes, iced lattes and the first full day of school. Oh baby, that would do it.

Poison

The boy's latest obsession is killing ants.

He hates those little fuckers. He tells me that this is because they bite and he hates things that bite. He just won't listen to my protests that most ants are pretty harmless. No. He has been concocting ant poisons made of glue, crayons, food coloring and frozen honey.

I have to get this kid an ant farm.

There Is No Title For This Post

As usual, I am blogging to avoid work that needs to be done. It's not that I don't want to work, I am just a habitual procrastinator.

My plan is to sit down and slog through my troubled 2nd act for a fifth time. Fifth draft, fifth concept. One of these days it will work out. Right?

Well. I guess.

Sigh.

Maybe you'll be seeing this damn play someday.

If I can write the fucking thing first.

Girls, Girls, Girls

I'm pretty excited.

See, I was up late a couple of nights ago and it occured to me that, for the first time in many years, I had my choice of girlfriends to call at 10PM. It used to be that I had one, maybe two ladies that I could call after 10:00 and even fewer if it gets after 11:00. Now, I have some 24 hour gal pals. I don't HAVE to call them, but it is so good to know they are there if I ever freaked out.

Speaking of Gal Pals, I had an impromptu movie outing with Britt tonight and I don't get to do much without days of planning. Just being able to say 'hey, I want to see a movie and maybe Britt could come too' and know that I could make that happen without too much effort was awesome.

By the way, "Telledega Nights" was whoop ass fun. I laughed so hard I screamed, although it would not have been half as funny if I would have gone to see it by myself. Movies are just like that sometimes. And movies are always better when they are followed by earnest conversations outside the subway station regarding the mechanics involved in getting gerbils up your ass. The only thing we really figured out is that you shouldn't ever try to do that alone. You gotta have a friend with you. A really close, amoral friend who knows some good relaxation techniques.

It is late and I am so full of popcorn and my back is killing me from that stupid stool at work. I need some solid sack time with my heating pad and some flannel jams. Damn, sleep is going to rock tonight.

August 12, 2000

6 years ago today Tom and I tied the knot. After 7 years together without the "I Do's" no one really expected that we would ever get around to the whole marriage thing. Well, we did. A total of 13 years together and we still like each other- even after marriage and kids!

So, if you're in a drunken stupor this evening celebrating the passage of Saturday night into Sunday morning- tip a glass to Tommer and me.

Happy Anniversary, Tom.

Itching

There is someone I know who is just a raging jackass.

I'm sure anyone who has ever met this person knows that this person is a stinky flaming asshole. Really, if you've spent more than 5 minutes in a conversation with this sick, sick person you'd know that this person is a mean, self absorbed mother fucker. It is painfully obvious. I'd love to be able to tell all the people who come in contact with this person that I know they know this person is an asshole. I also want them to know that I know this person is an asshole too. I'm not happy to be associated in any way with this person. However, for various reasons which I cannot go into lest those of you who don't yet know who this person is figure it out, I can't come out and say so publicly. But I am so mad that I really, really want to.

I have a short list of people who piss me off so much that if I was left alone in a room with them I would not be able to restrain myself from punching them in the neck. Yeah, totally not an easy place to punch but that would seriously hurt if you could pull it off. Currently this list has five names on it. This person tops the list. And you know the list is dangerous because it isn't a fantasy threat like if I had a list of people who I would like to impale on my front lawn. Because I live in Brooklyn and won't be getting a front lawn anytime soon. But I could, conceivably be in a room somewhere punching people in the neck. That's a totally attainable goal.

I'm not going to do it. I'm just a big enough wuss that I could be easily talked out of the deal. But sitting around thinking about how satisfying it would be to just pound 'em one gives me a little relief from my anger. Obviously, I can't make any disclosures about the names on my list, but if you even think you might be on my bad side, you might want to consider not being alone with me. Or at least wear a neck brace. I'm just saying.

Although, I don't think any of those 5 read this blog. So if you're reading this, chances are you're safe. But if you run into me and I'm with a person that totally turns you off and makes you feel like you need to shower the evil away I just want you to know that I know this person is a massive fuckhead and I am working on the termination of the relationship. It's just complicated, that's all.

If you meet this asshole, you'll know why.

And that's all I can say.

Mean

I wish I didn't have to say no all the time.

No, you can't have a monkey. No, I'm not going to get you parrot this afternoon. No, you don't get a toy just because you've been good. All you get is my love and affection. No, you can't just grab at my breasts whenever you want to- especially not while I'm in line at the grocery store! You're almost five and I've got things I need to do. Just quit your fucking whining.

A couple of single girlfriends have told me that my tales from the trenches have been great cures for their nagging baby lust. Good. These little bastards will drain your wallet, steal your time, and suck your soul.

So, how come it is that I keep thinking about having another one?

Yeah, They Were Gay

I just amused myself by searching "Ishmail and Queequeg + Gay" and read the Moby Dick message board. Dude, there's a Moby Dick message board. People are busy arguing about whether or not the scenes with Ishmail and Queequeg sharing a bed meant that they were gay. It reads a tad like a romance novel to me, so I'm inclined to think of them as gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that!) But what I find sort of ticklish is that this particular message board had someone saying (I am too lazy to link it or even back track and find the page it was on- totally not important) something to the effect of- duh, you're all so stupid because it wasn't about them being gay at all. The blanket symbolizes the sky that we share both Pagan and Christian together. Okay. I can handle that for about 20 seconds, but it was the end that sent me into hysterics-"Why don't people think a little?" Sheesh! Like yeah! So not gay! It's all the sky-n-shit. What-evuh!

The fact that I have been up chuckling about this makes me feel guilty. I got into this discussion with my sister while I was at home and she pegged me as a snob. Then I go to talk to some friends about it and they say- Oh yeah, Bree. You're totally a snob. And they say it affectionately and pat me on the head like it's some nervous twitch I've acquired that they tolerate and maybe occassionally find endearing. I don't want to be a snob. It is just that some people seem, well...stupid to me. Am I wrong? In order to not be a snob am I to ignore the existance of stupidity in the world?

Okay, it wasn't exactly the blanket image that I felt was stupid (although, it kinda is) it's the fact that this person felt it was so obvious. Which I think is funny because the whole blanket thing seems like a real stretch. It feels like an attempt to ignore the fact that two men are snuggling in bed together and talking til' all hours napping and waking just like couples do in the early stages of an intimate relationship. Let's face it, I have some very close, close girlfriends that I love dearly and for whom I would easily lay down my life as Queequeg vows to Ishmail. But I've never spent that lazy, loving sack time with anyone I wasn't at least sexually interested in. There's a difference.

So that is just one demonstration of how I am a big snob. Apparently, people hate seeing movies with me. Sara commented to me that Ben is a brave soul for offering to see "World Trade Center" with me. Specifically, she said "I was just thinking that I wouldn't want to be anywhere near you for at least the first two hours after you see the damn thing." She's probably right. I am a total pain in the ass about these things. But...I know my shit. When I tell you why I thought that movie sucked, you can bet that I've thought it through and that I've put my full 31 years of experience into my review. Of course, I do tend to think about these things out loud. Sometimes out VERY loud- like after I saw "The Contender" and nearly made Tom and Sara's ears bleed. God, I hated that movie.

I think of absolutely everything in terms of story and objective. It has become a habit with me. Even my most private and personal thoughts and feelings are organized this way. Unfortunately that makes everything in life fodder for my obsession and if you deal with me you have to deal with the way I pull things apart and put them back together again. Occassionally this involves judgements. I do, honestly, try to avoid them and when I make them I TRY to be somewhat understanding. I fail sometimes. I'll bet that that comment on the Moby Dick message board was made by a high school student who considers him/herself to be very well-read (and probably is) and could just as easily have been me in high school. I'll freely admit that. I never said that I was never stupid. Hey- I'm probably stupid right now. But I just can't resist finding these things amusing.

I feel terrible about it. Clearly, my slip is showing and I am ridiculously insecure. You'll find that most things of this nature that I poke fun at I fear discovering in myself. Which is a clear indication that those things are present within me. Self loathing is a bitch.

At least I get a good laugh at it from time to time.

Playing the Obstacle

How many times have I sat back in my chair and smugly told another actor,

"You're playing the obstacle. You will never move on that way. Play your objective, not the obstacle."

Ah, physician, heal thyself.

Since early 2001 I have done nothing but play the obstacle in my own life. I've been strung along by circumstance, unable or unwilling to believe that I could commit fully to anything without losing everything else. So I have floated along on this river of self-pity making only negative choices.

Now, for those of you not versed in my particular brand of theatrical lingo, "negative" does not necessarily mean "bad" like killing someone or embezzling millions. A negative choice is one that keeps you (and the story) from moving forward. For example, at the end of "The Children's Hour" Martha kills herself and this should not be approached by the actor that plays her as a negative. If she does, then she is doomed to wallow and wail and make the audience hope she fucking offs herself fast. If she approaches the choice to end her life as a way to alleviate her suffering and save Karen from the burden of their friendship it is a "positive" choice. At least from the actor's perspective. The actor who makes this choice will experience relief and calm in the scene before she dies. She will use that scene to say a proper good bye to Karen, whom she loves desperately, and she will focus all of her energy on Karen, not on the impending self destructive act. How many times have you been in a room with someone who is completely incapable of giving energy to anyone but themselves? That type of personality kills a scene and destroys a play. It also makes for a very lonely person.

So...duh.

It is a bigger challenge than one could expect to keep energy flowing outward. Especially when "me" is really the only frame of reference anyone has. Everything in life must be channeled throught the "Me" Filter and sometimes the filter fails miserably. So, who do you call to be your plumber?

I think I need a good weekend of bitch slapping. And I mean bitch slapping with love and acting lingo. Some people are more comfortable taking advice from someone with a notepad and a desk, some with Tarot cards and a crystal ball... I need someone who is an honest asshole just like me. Someone who can say things like, "You're holding on to that in your lower back- knock it off" or "And how does that get you what you need?" or "Quit whining and just do the fucking scene."

Just do the fucking scene.

Which Stage Am I On?

I knew it would happen sooner or later.

It's grief.

Fuckin' grief.

The pisser about all this is that I'll be floating through the stages of grief for years to come. I've been dealing with it since Mom started to lose her memory and I see no end in sight. God- I hope there 's no end in sight. I'm not ready for that.

I was in complete denial when Mom started leaving things places. Jackets, hats, keys, gloves, and the like seemed to disappear like smoke around her. I got really scared when I learned that she forgot about my brother being in the Navy. For a long time it was easy to blame it all on my Dad. Let's face it, he's not the easiest or most forgiving guy to live with. I think even he would admit to that. After all, things started really going wrong just a few short years after her cancer was gone. How could she possibly have something else? Wasn't cancer enough disease for any one person to have? Didn't she fill the quota already? It had to be her bizarre living situation and Dad was clearly to be blamed for that. Right?

I truly believe that things even out somewhere down the line. This will make some sense to me in the grand scheme of things someday. But for now, I just want to drink and cry. I guess this is the begining of acceptance? Well, I've never accepted any fate without resistance, so now begins the screaming, crying and clawing. Stupid fucking Alzheimers.

Clearly, I knew it in January and I cherish the fact that I had that opportunity to be with her then while she could still communicate with me and I could still feel like the things I said landed with her. I got to tell her that she was the number 1 influence in my life and the most important person to me. I got to tell her about all the things that she taught me and that I hope to teach my son. How many people have that opportunity? I did. I got it and I took advantage of it, to the best of my ability. I really have no regrets about it.

But I'm still fucking pissed that it had to happen to her.

She was just getting to a point where I felt she might assert herself. I'm telling you, I was rooting for her to strike out on her own and, in some small way I got the sense that she was thinking about it. I can honestly say that if it was a choice between having me, keeping her tied to the service of her husband and children and NOT having me, setting her free to find herself- I would have chosen not to be born. Of course, I know that she would have chosen to have me because that is just the kind of woman she is, but if the choice were up to me I would lay down in a heartbeat. Without a single doubt.

But that's all just a fantasy. I'm here. She's here and we have to go on the best we can. There is definitely something to be learned in this experience, but so far I am not finding that inner strength that I once believed I had. No. Inside me is a sad, scared, morose little girl who wants her mommy. I hear that feeling never goes away.

Now, don't that just break your heart?

The Promised Tale

At 9:00 AM, Pam and I had gone back to the home to check on Mom.

We had been concerned because it was clear she was suffering from neglect and was heavily drugged. She could no longer eat by herself, go to the toilet or dress herself. She had trouble walking and always leaned to the left which caused her neck and shoulders to be very stiff. She had edema in her right leg, a classic sign of chronic inactivity.

We found her passed out over her omelette in the same sweater she had worn for at least four days- if not longer. Pam and I shook our heads at this and Pam proceeded to try to wake Mom up.

Pam would have made a really good nurse. Almost as good as she is a lawyer. She doesn't take any bullshit and she does not back down from confrontation. And she will do all this while smiling and flirting. She tapped Mom on the shoulder and got down on the floor so that Mom's drooped eyes would meet Pam's if she chose to open them.

"Would you like to go outside, Ma?"

I never called Mom 'Ma' until I became an adult. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but it is interesting to note. There is a certain sound to 'Ma' that clearly cannot be made by a child.

After some wrangling, we got Mom out onto the porch and were joined by a couple of other residents needing company. Pam got them coffee and worked to charm conversation out of them for Mom's sleepy benefit. Getting three neglected Alzheimers patients to have a conversation is something of a Herculean feat. I tried to read them a newspaper but found the news too irritating. It would have been better if I would have brought in some fun, bouncy novel. I'll try to remember that next time.

Mom squinches her nose up a lot because her glasses are in need of readjustment. She looks through you and fiddles with anything in her path. If she has a napkin she will shred it to bits and then look helplessly at the remains. Those need to be cleared away. She doesn't talk much, but when she does it is usually 'yes'. 'no', 'what?' or 'don't push me!'.

After the visit was over, Pam and I took her to the living room to sit on the couch and prop up her sore foot. There were a few other residents there staring at the menu on the tv screen for some Roy Rogers DVD. We informed the staff that her foot needed a cold compress and that she hadn't been to the toilet since we arrived and that she should probably be attneded to at some point in the near future.

There's a lot of bullshit that goes with removing a patient from one "health care community" to another. I won't go into all of that now because it involved finances, doctors and 30 day notices. It gives me a headache just thinking about it. In particular thinking about all the things that were promised to our family when we placed my mother that were never delivered. It's hard not to feel angry and bitter when your mother declines so rapidly and unnecessarily. So, when the green light came in on Sunday for the move, the siblings sprang into action.

Pam and Kristen mobilized the troops on the home front, making sure that the big kids would feed the little kid (my kid) and keep him busy. I nervously twiddled my thumbs and tried to look in possession of myself. Even though I was completely convinced that the move was necessary and the absolute right thing to do, I couldn't help but feel like I was unqualified for the job. I stood up straight, donned my white halter dress and took up my place in Pam's giant Honda.

We met Bryan just outside the facility and planned our attack. You- get the clothes. You- pack the toiletries. You- get the photographs. You- empty the drawers. When it is all over, we'll get Mom and deliver the letter of intent to remove. Pam will rub the director's face in it, get her meds and then we'll be home free. Go! Go! Go! GO!

We giggled nervously about our stupidly clandestine attempt to remove furniture and clothes and such down the back stairway and out the front door in full view of the receptionist. Look normal! They won't catch on! We had to ask them for a garbage bag and we took it back to her room to throw clothes in it. The trip down the stairs with the full bag slung over my shoulder prompted Bryan to sing, "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch...".

It would have gone without a hitch, except for the hallway littered with neglected residents that we were forced to leave behind. One woman's wheelchair was caught on a rocking chair in the hallway and she had been trying to extricate herself from it for about 20 minutes, nearly falling out of her wheelchair and drooling all over herself. Bryan couldn't take it anymore. Go on! Save yourselves! I'll catch up later! I watched him kindly ask her if she needed help and then gently repositioned her in her chair and then turned her chair to a clear stretch where she could get around more easily. I lagged behind and found myself in conversation with a charming lady who stutters so violently that she often takes a minute or two to get out a sentance. On top of that, she has Alzheimers, so you can imagine how that went. But, I just couldn't leave without hearing the entire story.

When we finally were able to get Mom, we found her in exactly the same spot we had left her over 3 hours prior. This clearly meant that she had not eaten lunch or been toileted since before 9:00 that morning. Pam was happy to deliver the letter at this point while Kristen fumed, "We should just take her and not sign her out. Then we'll see if they even notice anything!"

Pam, apparently, took great joy in delivering the letter and telling the director that we would, indeed, be taking our mother away. I was unable to witness this event but Pam says that she gave her the letter and once it dawned on the director that this was not a day trip she responded with, "Okay...do you have any questions?" Yeah, how do you sleep at night?

We were good to go. Bryan and I were snail racing Mom out the door (She can't move much faster than a shuffle these days) and we almost had her in the car when she grabbed herself and said, "Toilet!". This lead to the anticlimactic return to the building for a very slow bathroom break. By the time we made it to the bathroom, the deed had been done. Kristen and I were flummoxed as to the proper method for toileting Mom. Mom seemed disturbed by the whole exercise and, quite frankly so was I. Kristen turned to me and shrugged. I suggested that Mom might be more comfortable with one of the staff toileting her because I sure as hell didn't know how to get her to do it. Pam swooped in and made it happen despite Mom's vociferous objections.

Much later, (much MUCH later) we had finally made it into the car and were on our way to the new place with smiling, chatty residents. We listened to Jim Croce on the radio which caused me to remark how good it was that sober rhymes with October or Jim Croce's rhyme scheme would have totally fallen apart. Mom laughed. Not at my observation, but at the sound of the words sober and October. Hey. I'll take whatever laughs I can get.

At the new home we found a giant Koosh ball and it was placed it in Mom's hands. Her surprise was electric and after a while she tried to shove it into her paper water cup. We smiled. It was nice to see her involved in something.

Reports are that Mom has been adjusting well and actually eating by herself again. The staff at her new home has been warm, welcoming and understanding. I'm looking forward to family barbeques at Mom's new home. It's really odd how it does not bother me at all that she doesn't seem to recognize me anymore. It really doesn't. I had had myself worked up about how that was going to devastate me. It didn't. Because who I am in this scenario really doesn't matter. The only thing that does matter is my Mom. She's my Mom and she always will be.

So. That's how I spent my summer vacation.

Ahhh! Useless Travel Day!

I have returned to a hazy, sweaty Brooklyn. The humidity is totally out of control and I ooze with every move. After a good nap, I am heading out for an iced latte and maybe a turkey gruyere croissant. Not that I couldn't get one of those in MN (although I haven't experienced as much gruyere love in MN as I have here in Brooklyn) but it's my favorite cheesey, greasy treat on 9th Street. Some things are just site specific.

On a later date, I might find the time to detail adventures with my siblings as we rescued our beloved Mother from one of those nursing homes you should hear about on 60 Minutes. If I rest on it a minute, I might be able to find the humor in a pretty dark and painful situation. Until I find where I dropped my sense of humor, let me just tell you that if someone you love has Alzheimers and needs to be placed in a memory care facility- do your fucking homework early. You do not want to rush picking out a home. Know the day is coming and that it could come at any time. Be prepared for it.

I am sad to say that, odds are, that day will come for many of you. I hope you'll have a great group of people around you like I had my sibs. I swear I don't feel grown up enough to handle this shit and I have no idea if I would have been able to pull off a necessary heist like this on my own. My sibs rock. We were totally like the elder care A-Team. I promise you, it is a pretty good story.

But I am in need of a nap and someone to feed me a good dinner that I did not have to cook. I am going to just shut down for the rest of the day because I am totally drained. Perhaps I will be lucky enough to have a dreamless sleep. Lately I've been having these dreams with painfully obvious imagery. I'm almost insulted that my subconscious did not go through the trouble of coming up with more creative connections. Oh well. If I have to, I will traipse through the wreckage of my childhood home salvaging knick knacks one more time.

And for Pamela's benefit, I will try not to use the word "like" every five seconds. Damn!

Greetings From The Heartland

Okay, first off I need to say how much I love my sister, Kristen, but her keyboard is in the most cramped and uncomfortable space imaginable. I just don't know how she can live this way.

I'm doing surprisingly well being in MN and I've been keeping my guilt to a minimum. Here's a total newsflash- none of this shit is my fault! There's nothing I could have been or done that would have changed any of this. My living far away did not make my mother ill and moving back would not make her better. It's a relief to not feel responsible but it is also a bit disconcerting. After all, if I am not blaming myself for all the crazy/ bad shit in the world then what AM I doing? Hmm? Riddle me that one, Batman. I guess guilt is just something with which I occupy my time. A hobby of sorts. It serves no real purpose in my life.

However, Old Dutch potato chips DO serve a very specific purpose in my life. For regional comparison, I'd say that the "Dutchers" are a very salty cousin of the liberal east coasters' Utz chips. Sometimes, you just need an assload of salt.

Let's see, what else?

My father asked me (As he does on every face to face meeting) when I was planning on moving back home. This time I answered him with alarming speed. Usually I roll my eyes, shake my head and give him the reluctant "Dad, I just can't see myself ever living here again." This time I shot out a ballistic "Never." Yup. Never. Never, ever. And I never say never.

I miss a lot about being in MN. I miss the sounds, the space, the insecure friendliness masquerading as customer service and even my mother-in-law complaining about how dangerous things are on the east side of St. Paul. To hear her talk it is as if she were living in an urban war zone instead of a matchbox Shangri-La. Don't get me wrong, I know there are drugs and theft in her neighborhood and I don't want to give anyone the idea that even the crime out here is lame, but I just can't work up the necessary fear. I can't be afraid of anything in the TC. My home town? yeah, that place inspires a twinge of terror. After all, it is the only place I've ever been beaten up or received death threats. I guess that tends to color a person's perceptions on a place.

As much as I feel this place in my bones and know that I will forever belong to it, and it to me, I also know that it isn't right for me to be here for more than a few days. I know it like I know all the words to every Replacements or Gear Daddies tune as if they were etched into my brain, whether I've ever owned the album or not. It's the jukebox at Steve's and a certain elder sister's tape collection that burned that sound into my soul. It's the half shoeless farewell concert, hair coated in red and blue mascara, country roads that served as spots for late night coffee klatches, and the strangely seductive smell of Deep Woods off that have made me the woman I am. It's weird to be so much a part of a place and so removed from it at the same time. It is crystal clear that I can't go back. What there is of that belongs to another generation. My time for that has passed. I drove down 94 today, my son in the back seat, passing landmarks from another woman's life.

Stephen Wright has a one liner: I'd like to get a full body tattoo of me, only taller. In a way, that's what it feels like. I wear the mask of a woman who once lived here, but it couldn't possibly have been me. I'm not me anymore.

Neither is anyone else. The landscape here is almost unrecognizable, both physically and emotionally. Nothing is even remotely what it had once been. Even things that on the surface seem to have stayed the same are completely different at the core. Or maybe I just see them differently. In a way, that's a shame, but it is to my advantage to see things as what they really are- whether it is comfortable for me or not.

What is most troublesome to me, at the moment, is the disconnection that I feel. I can't help but wonder if my emotions are just going to bite me on the ass one day and drag me down or if I really and truly have come to terms with these things. How can you honestly tell if you're living in denial?

All I know is, these Nordic types crank the AC up way too fuckin' high. It doesn't need to be 68 fucking degrees inside a Chili's. I'm wearing a thin summer dress and have come in from 88 degrees. A 20 degree difference is way too much. I shouldn't have to carry around a sweater in August. Turn it down, fuckers, turn it down.

Hiatus?

I'm going to be out of town from the 1st to the 7th. I'm not sure if I will be willing or able to post during that time.

I will, however, be working on my sense of humor.

I'll let you know how that works out.