Cheating Death Once Again v.3

So long 2011

2012-01-01T12:47:00.003-05:00

Spiraled notebook paper torn out:

*Sat 12 days ago last bowel movement 1/29
Revlen antiametics / other nausea meds avail
coat throat

__________________________________________
cancer answer
CT scan not show clear growth, but "leakage" in abdomen indicates cancer
^^^^^^^ word?
coat on upper GI near stomach

Fri: chemo plan for weekend
If nourishment not staying down, tube to intestines.

hyperalimentation
froz. pudding orange magic cup
milkshake van.
__________________________________________
cl. undies - tees
3-4 diapers/day

Tues - chemo last 2/1
nutrition -

Wed 2/9 - froz pudd orange magic cup; milkshake van, ? diarrhea all night (6x); Dr M 4:30pm

Thurs 2/10 - no mom; bread apple AM; vomit @ night
when I left: mac & chz, mash pots; some diarrhea Dr M 5pm

Fri 2/11 - no mom; 1 nutrition AM @ bfast;
Adv Dir Pwr Attrny updated, on file
- bfast:scr egg, apples, white toast, 1/2 long john, tea - still full 3pm
- has Ensure
- doc visit 8am: platlets too low for chemo ATM
dinner: spag, wildbry ensure, 6, 630 AM diah aggressives
- 125/83
- firmer BMs
- Aly PM -> 11:30
- Dr. Hawking weekend

Sat 2/12 - cup applesauce, supplement, yogurt, org spice tea ---- vomit, all came up
- 8:30 doc Hawking
- platlets? CBC?
- new bed?
- 12pm diah more watery lots
- bad dreams: bright, vivid, dark, depressive
- nap 1230-1
- Angie nutritionist: delay supplements, motility: better than solids sometimes, Reglen - diarrhea, another motility drug? side effects? small solids with no liquids, separate solid and liquids, liquids only: 2-3 meals/snacks? cold and dry post-chemo and not hot; sacchrine reject taste buds (nutritional supp) --> saltines/graham crackers, toast, fruit (strawberry juice bar --> ask in a bowl)
not enough, options:
1) tube nose bypass stom -> intestine, temporary, can go home, can try eating with it (size: top IV, pliable)
1b) line stom -> intestine
1) @ home with pump (continuous or few intervals) or gravity feedings or syringe so many CCs @ time
2) motility and nausea b/c GI; more nutrition thru vein more than IV, perentual outside GI tract port or new, yellow vitamin-colored proteins fat into vein -- in-patient, if you can't eat at all insurance covers; higher risks foreign into vein - infection, $ insurance

Sun: solids, snack, lunch
Sat: PM crm chkn soup; snack: Saltines
- ? diff med than Reglan? exacerbates diarrhea? arithromyacin smaller dose IV
- mid-week < 1500 --> tube discussion
magnesium, phosphorus, albumin (protein) pre-albumin
- people recording tray eating
** 2 pillows from dad bed slightly foldable
- 132/79 3:15pm Lbs: 158
-6:36pm soup, 2/3 yogurt, 1/2 tea

Sun 2/13: cr wheat, orange jello, 2% milk 8:30AM; magnesium shortage
**black pen, refills travel bag, undies/shirts

crackers 7AM (2)
lunch 12pm: chicken soup, vanilla ice cream, org jello, magnesium done 12pm, might do more Monday
? amortization - signing by Mom only?

----> Mom writes:
Dawn said not necessary - no rush.
Lunch 1:20 ate: Clinc Sauge (?) 1/3 jello and all ice cream
Vitals: 98 temp, 135/73, 98 oxgy. <----

Laps: 2am, 3 @ 2pm
160.2
toilet after walk: pee
5.1 potassium (3.5-5.2 good) goes to drop -> 20: 125/hr -> 100/hr
74 platlets (Sat 67, Fri 62)
3:30: 98.6, 130/83
4pm: Reglan
Denise = RN

__________________________________________

CFO: backfills for retirement under critical positions; HCO: nationwide hires normal program work
__________________________________________

mac & chz
mash pot & gravy
chkn noodle
scram eggs
wh toast
applesauce
crm of wheat
light very cherry yog
orange spice herbal tea
vanilla ice cream
orange sherbert

Tiffany - discharge
Sue/Janelle - case management - TPN lipids, metabolic / Dr Gui
12pm supplies
Janelle - home health / home care 830-930 call day of visit
Tiffany - discharge paperwork
Sue - until Sat if not working - case mgr (Rita, Jane)
Dr Gui - metabolic (TPN orders)
insulin?
Nurses - ? home diff

TPN --
TPN 7pm - 7am
home care - 5pm nurse
Hospital Home Care Plus - infusion, formulation meds, mixing
Hospital Home Care - 830-930 am call, let know doc appt, 2 visits first 2 days (tonight, tmw AM)
2/week - first 2 weeks --> 1/week

__________________________________________
picnic: Volta Park 12-4 for AA
__________________________________________

*********************************************************************************

I sewed 2 quilts for Christmas. One for my mom and one for my sister, featuring my dad's tee-shirts. You can see them over on tumblr. I'm making my own now. My sister told me the first year is still shock and maybe by the third year we realize he's really gone. I know he's dead. I know this. But I don't believe it still. It just seems like he's on a trip somewhere. And maybe that's the real truth anyway.

I also knitted 3 scarves and we randomly picked the one we wanted.

I gifted my mom a pair of earrings and me/my sister a necklace - all from our trip to Colorado to bury my dad.

I made a photo album of the photos from the slideshow and added in photos from our trip to Colorado.

Pretty much Christmas was a close-out of The Year of Dad Dying.

I'm hoping there's some new fun in 2012. Not that there wasn't fun in 2011. I went camping and made awesome friends. I got over fears of people that I had developed from drinking and isolating. I got over dislike for animals and adopted an awesome cat. I found my Higher Power and got on my knees for help. I had awesome, sober, fun New Years Eves. I went from standing at the bus stop wondering, "I do have pants on, right?" to gussying up in a skirt and boots. I stopped trolling Craigslist and haven't had sex since October. I baked and cooked all kinds of delicious treats. I joined the gym. I flew to the Midwest 6 times and decided to go other places in the next year. I made friends with women and found I could be friends with men without feeling sexual toward them. I went to therapy and cried my eyes out. I worked through the 8 steps with a super chill sponsor who finds me "illuminating" and is patient through my freak outs. I watched someone die with love and am living with that love.

I think 2012 has potential and I'm ready for whatever comes.

But I have changed a lot this past year. And one of the things I think about is that this blog really doesn't suit me. Sure, I need a place to write it all out - even if only sporadically every other month - but I'm not really Cheating Death Once Again. (Granted, we all are every minute of the day, but that's beside the point.) I'm more Sampling the Life Buffet or something touchy feely like that. We'll see what evolves.

Whatever happens, I'll let you know and hopefully you'll let me know.

Wishing you a delightful New Year. Wishing you a New Year that exceeds what you deserve and is better than you imagined ♥ ♥

the game of text tennis

2011-09-04T09:51:00.001-04:00

He's 50. I don't remember what conversation points couched that number, but I do remember that he kind of paused and looked at me, just like he paused and looked at me when he said he was married but that it was a long story. I don't really care. It's fun to flirt and I'm not really aiming for this to go anywhere, actually I secretly prefer it doesn't because I'd like to see if I can make friends with men and not have to sleep with them. Not many hetero men I can count that fit in that category, but I'm metamorphisizing in AA. Some men have girlfriends in the programs, fiancees, or are plain ol' single - and I'm learning not to flirt with them, to actually accept them as friends - not conversation partners with cocks.

Doesn't mean I don't like flirting with The Lawyer.

He's at the beach right now - ooh la la. And we exchanged banter about feminism yesterday. And he chided me about how sunny it is where he's at. I'm a masochist.

There are my new girlfriends Mo and T. Mo's at her sponsor's wedding in Michigan. She saw me through the last few weeks of back-and-forth with the Investment Banker. I saw it as sober dating practice, but was lured by his awesome amazing apartment on the 4th floor with a bay window tower looking over the city and a rooftop with gazebo and bonzai. Also, the super expensive, fast car in his garage; and the super cool cat; and that he has a military background; and that he related to so much. Alas, he was interested only on his timeline and couldn't fess up that it was more about sex than dating. I felt pretty strong when he wondered if my silence meant I didn't want him to email me anymore and I said yes and wished him good luck.

T sat through my entire 5th Step (confess your sins to your Higher Power and another human being), which was hardest when discussing my resentments toward my dad, my kissing cousins stories, and my petty grievances over my mother (she doesn't wipe her mouth when she eats -- how shallow am I?!). And she hasn't changed her love for me since those humiliating descriptions (we'll love you til you love yourself, AA says). We've also been pinging back and forth during her trip to NYC and my week-long flu.

There's a potential date who's camping in the hills of Tennessee who thought my fever-induced IM chat was endearing.

There's my sponsor who I thought was a lesbian based on so many stereotypical clues. Check-ins over time.

There's my awesome ex, who still talks to me and lunches with me despite going through the hot mess of my last months of my drinking.

And then there are the texts that I don't send, but think about sending sometimes just to say hi and I love you to my dad.

this morning

2011-08-22T06:50:00.002-04:00

It's how I can't believe that my father is actually pulverized dust in a plastic bag, wrapped in 2 other plastic bags, sitting in a cheap urn I bought at a garage sale 16 years ago.

It's discussing with my therapist that I should re-imagine positive outcomes because I've got a mind set to believe in low expectations or none. And how we talked about my passion for photography and she suggested I take a course to get back into it. The first thing I thought about was putting up a show of the photos of my dying and dead father. It's the closest I'd ever been to a corpse. It was beautiful and strange and I wanted to giggle and scream at the same time.

It's how it's a new day and I don't have to do again what I did yesterday. Or the day before.

It's struggling to understand the best way to "turn it over" to my Higher Power, while also being in the driver seat of my destiny. Co-pilot and map-maker I suppose.

seethe

2011-08-21T16:26:00.000-04:00

It's partly that the world is so damn unjust. There's all this pain inside. That you just want to find that one thing, you look for it. You don't cause it, but you take the opportunity to seethe in it once it's there. That one incident or that one action by the person you hope for - or just any ol' person - anyone - anything. A cat. A guy you crush on. A parent. A sibling. A stranger in the aisle of the supermarket. Everything is unfair and you've been robbed of things and people. And then they go an disappoint you. They don't call. They don't love you as much as you do them. You drive 4 hours to be with them or do something for them or bring them something. You love them that much to sacrifice. And they flake or they are selfish and ignore the time. But regardless of that moment - it becomes every moment. Every other moment you've ever had where you had a hope or expectation (and you've had so many) and they've all ALL every single one it seems like all been let down or dashed or you've been told not to, not to try, not to think about it. And that one person or that one moment becomes all the pain and hatred and rage and injustice in the whole of your being and past lives and all together now. And the pain is so pinpointed and spread out all over in every cell. You've been let down .... again. All you do is wish for, want, long... Your whole fucking life is just one long wwwwwwwaaaaaannnnnnnnnttttttttt. And you're never getting that love, that cuddle, that hand to hold, that forgiveness, that acceptance, that love... that love.... from your parents or from god.

And the heartbreak - again - once more - every fucking time - is unbearable.

Lately

2011-08-14T22:23:00.000-04:00

Good days, bad moments. It used to be doing dishes I would cry. One week it has everything to do with the vortexes that suck me in: the German girl on the bus wearing eyeglasses - towards the end he suffered cataracts and so badly wanted the surgery; trying to explain to someone the trial of what I lived - a vision of his fragile bony body like a concentration camp victim; and always, always, always, the one-on-one conversation we had where I told him how much I loved his hands and knew he'd always be with me because we had lived so many lives before together and he whispered, "L... I love you, too."

It's 8.5 months sober now. I feel amazing, life is awesome. No shit. Through all this bullshit, sadness, depression, missing my father, worrying about my mom's drinking combined with Ambian, struggling to form a real relationship with my sister, working non-passionately, war, famine, pestilence and all of life's tragedies - I am sober. I am feeling it. I am living it. I am awake. I think that's the biggest thing. I am awake. And I am making choices. It's incredible, really. Painful, ugly sometimes, confusing a lot, but thoroughly better than how I had been living.

I don't crave booze, I crave cock. And the healthy brainwashing of AA has me turning my focus on my sexual proclivities. Is it a craving - a verifiable craving of the chemicals in my brain that want sex? Or, am I simply a woman with a healthy sex drive? Am I replacing something with all the cock? Am I seeking something that is void in me? Or, am I feeling the pressures of society - thinking I should settle down, have babies, partner up. Am I a bonobo by nature or is it another chemical imbalance?

There was the monthly screw with Joe Awesome from January to June. Then, I introduced a date with Chris Depressed that opened a door for possibilities. A desire put me out on Craigslist again and in touch with Carl the writer, who I've seen twice and enjoyed thoroughly. A random decision to say yes to Will Rooftop and 2 hours of incredible, exhibitionistic sex on his open air rooftop terrace and another date filled with brutally honest discussion that made me feel like I was on a date with a mirror.

I don't feel desperate, I feel hungry. I want to justify that I'm still date-able, attractive, together despite these 2 overlapping current-quilts of personality change and disorder. I feel shifts within. I want the libertine freedom and independence, but I miss the partner that sticks by my side through it all. I want to cook together (albeit, I'll wear a maid's apron and nothing else). I want to clean our place (with nipple clamps and a hood). I want to go to the movies and we plainly share popcorn. I want to cuddle and wake up hungry. I want to be there for the tragedies that shake a person's orientation - my old boss, after his parents died "It's very disorienting" a perfect description. And celebrate the hurdles and wins.

Carl said his (ex-)girlfriend (debatable at this point), 15 years his junior, doesn't want to take care of him when he's in diapers. I don't know that I do either, but I want to take care of someone when he's in diapers. I've done it. I've see it. I'm not afraid.

I want love.

Mad, passionate, life-filling, prick our fingers blood-brother/sister swearing, television watching boredom, soup making when we're sick, swinger party exploring, whole and entire trust foundation love.

Life is changing on me, in me.

Or is it the same fabric, different shade?

I am the whore evolving. I wonder about pregnancy, but turn away at the prospect of swearing allegiance for 18 years and 50 more on top.

.........

And then there's Salvador the cat. He's amazing. It's a lot of fun to have a lovable creature in my life. I think he likes it here with me. He seems to have missed me when I went to my mom's for a week. I had a friend stop in - the first sober share of my flat, the first lady friend to see my cave. He enjoyed the company, but I think he missed me. He's supposedly 27 pounds big - a large breed naturally and a bit over-juiced before I got him. We eat less together and we play with racing around the flat. He sits on my chest at night and we purr together. I wake up at 6am on a Saturday sneezing my eyes out, but allergy meds clear it all up. A small sacrifice, as I'm finding. Pets do matter. I'm starting to get it. He's pretty cool.

..........

I wouldn't know where to start at all, but I'm dreaming more and more of putting some kind of book together. I have no idea what the running theme is or how to connect it all. There are bits and pieces and some good stories. A book of short stories? Ala "Little Birds"? It seems like so much of a business, something I would have no idea how to navigate - and not sure I'd want to. I wish I could just ship all the notebooks and all the pages off to some super scribe. I've already written it - I don't want to re-live it again.

This is of late.

My book

2011-07-29T17:39:00.001-04:00

I think I'm going to write a book about a girl in the last [weeks? month/s?] of her sexual addiction before she goes to rehab.

The gall of so-called Christians

2011-06-05T09:24:00.000-04:00

Over the years there's been this super rude and annoying commenter who posts passages from the Bible in the comment section. I moderate comments to spare the reader his crap. I rarely read the comments and just delete them. But I was curious about this one that he recently posted to comment on my story of my dying father.

"...he said that there's no water at the party and could we get him some."

Compare with Luke 16:19-31. Especially v.24

Luke apparently talks about some king that was sent to hell and some beggar that went to heaven and the king begs for water because there's none in hell.

This is as equally appalling and non-Christian behavior as those dumbass protesters who stand at the funerals of fallen soldiers.

My father was a Christian. He taught Lutheran Sunday School for years. He belonged to Lutheran churches all over the world. He made us kids attend church with him. When I was 18, I told him I couldn't continue to attend because I didn't believe the words or practices. He encouraged me to find faith. My father donated to causes of justice, helped disadvantaged populations, and always tried to live life under Christian principles: love they neighbor, do unto others as you'd have unto you, espouse peace not war, etc. He was revered in the community for his sage advice, assistance to any worthy cause at any time needed, and passionate friendship.

It's Christians like you that give religion a bad name. How about you read up on your principles? Matthew 7 for instance. A good reminder.

Frankly, I prefer to interpret my dad's vision from the other side as a fabulous cocktail party out in the woods. Kegs and shakers abound - who needs water?

180

2011-05-27T23:16:00.002-04:00

It's six months sobriety today. I can't even say "one day at a time". I have no idea when a day ends or begins. Time is screeeaming by. But it's time I start writing some of it down or I'll forget. They say the first year of sobriety is a haze. I've heard some people say they don't even remember it. I'm kind of banking on that in a way. These six months have been rather fucked up.

But I do and will want to remember.

I have this whole story developing. It started back in 2007, when he showed me the new property they'd bought in anticipating of building their real retirement home. Just before I went to Paris for grad school.

But I can't seem to write it fast enough for all the thoughts and feelings that come up. So, I guess there will be tandem tellings.

I flew out on March 30. I had just started fighting a cold. I landed and a family friend picked me up at the airport and brought me back to her house. I was so frustrated to have come all the way, with time tick tick tick draining away, and I couldn't even go to my parents' house. I was contagious. Last thing I needed was to get germs into the house.

On March 31 the doctor said it was a sinus infection and gave me meds. I cried in her office. She was actually a nurse practitioner or something who worked with one of the doctors that had treated my father. I cried because I desperately wanted to be with my family. I cried because I had a bad fever. She told me it wouldn't affect my dad (which now seems logical - how would a man dying of cancer get a sinus infection? As if it would somehow speed things up or make them worse. Or somehow, my germs would overpower the chemo, the radiation treatment, and all the drugs). And likely I wouldn't affect my mom and sister because I wasn't contagious. I could just wear a mask and wash my hands. But, she said, clearly I needed to be with them and that was much more important than germs.

On April 1 it was 24 hours and I went to the house. I quit smoking this day.

It was such a relief to be there. I wore the mask the first two days because we all thought that his immune system was so weak that he could somehow catch a sinus infection - and how disastrous that would be. Funny to look back on that now. As if we were still in fighting mode. I guess we were.

Dad was still in his bed. My sister didn't go back to Minneapolis like she had planned. In fact, for the next two weeks we really didn't leave the house at all. My sister ran to town one day. My mother another day.

It was gradual and it was quick. He changed from one day to the next. It came faster than anticipated and dragged on painfully. By Saturday April 2 we had moved from pill medication to liquid:

Sorting out the routine of pain meds, stomach pump, TPN, and addressing nausea has been challenging with an ever-changing landscape, but we've been managing to go with the flow with humor and cooperation. Dad was having some challenges with the oral solid pills that treat nausea, pain, and inflamation. We've switched over to liquid form of those now and they seem to be more palatable. We had a nice visit from a Hospice nurse today to check in on things and truly appreciate their kindness, patience, and jovial attitude.

Dad's been resting quite a lot throughout the day and night while struggling with managing the pain and nausea, but he's not lost his sense of humor.

We joke that the TPN in its long, flat backpack looks like a pizza box.
"Your pizza, sir," I said.
"Monsieur," my sister said.
"What?" Dad asked. "They serve pizza in France?"

Sunday April 3:

I took the night shift to give Mom and my sister a break. Dad and I had frequent interactions as he struggled to find comfortable positions for sleeping to counter the pain and nausea. We think that today some of the nausea has abated due to the introduction of a different med. The pain is also being met with continued meds and it all seems to help.

We woke up this morning to the rainy thundersnow sleet, with dogs taking cover, and slush ice covering the eastern facing kitchen . While it was a grey day, it felt kind of Spring-filled as we watched some of the snow melt in the front yard to show grasses underneath. We were also treated to a pair of sandhill cranes flying over the house, which Dad smiled at hearing.

I won't speak for the rest of my family, but it seems to me an interesting situation as life is now punctuated by hourly medications and not by the names of days or numbered dates. Memory loss can be contagious, as I tell my sister that I'll remember to ask Mom about something, forget what that thing was, ask my sister, she forgets, and we all end up giggling on Mom's bed for a while. We have a delicate power to enjoy humor in the little details and absurdities of our own activities.

Last night, he was excited about brushing his teeth so we maneuvered him into the bathroom and returned him to bed with a bright smile. Today, he did the same, although it took a bit more energy out of him so we might be bringing the bathroom to him next time -- bedside service!

Dad's still showing his wit now and again with wise cracks or concurring with one side or the other in jokes (ahem, my sister won the hospital-corner contest in the bed-making today), although he does seem to be lacking a bit of steam. We're grateful for the quiet moments when we're able to provide some comfort through reading aloud or a back rub, and are fortunate for the chance to be with him - and be together.

These were not private diary posts, but communications to family and friends. My father lost speed and steam and energy and life very quickly over time. It was just too hard for me to say it directly. And the backrubs were constant. It seemed that the tumor on his left kidney was causing severe pain and it helped to press on it. My sister, with the claw hands, was best at the deep massage. I was better at a more reiki type of activity, with my hands centered on his back as he sat, meditating on a cool light-blue light spilling throughout his body, cooling the firey heat of the cancer. My aunt commented that she thought I looked like I was guiding him from a cocoon into a butterfly.

Meds were the quarters for the day: morning, noon, afternoon, night. It was ABC med 4 times a day, DEF med 2 times, GHI at night, JKL as needed but only every 4 hours. There was not only the tumor on his left kidney but the cancer that had appeared to spread along the intestine below the stomach, which caused the appearance of a "blockage", thus complicating any intake of liquids or food for the past several months and also leading to the quick switch to liquid meds. The liquid versions of his pills were foul tasting (apparently - not that I tried his ketamine - thank god for being in AA! I remember hearing about the raver kids in college totally getting off on Special K... I can only imagine the hell that would have been if I decided to party), so we added apple juice to the mix, and later orange gatorade. And, later, when even liquid wouldn't stay down or would cause too much nausea, liquid drops under the tongue. Still the same morning, noon, afternoon, and night.

Time disappears. Time is not going outside for a walk with the dogs around the yard because you forget who's tagged in for med time. Time is give the meds now, find something to do for four hours, give the next round of meds. Check dad. Rub dad. Eat something. Watch the eagles. Talk about paperwork that's gotta get done. More meds.

Monday April 4:

Dad rested quite a bit until we had a visit from the home health aide who was so cheerful and compassionate, friendly and gentle. She came over to help with showering, but as Dad is very low on energy she was able to give a bed bath. Turns out her whole family is in the caretaking business and we might meet her cousin later this week for Dad's next bed bath, nail trimming, and shaving. The whole experience totally mellowed Dad out so that he slept most of the rest of the day except when the NP stopped by.

The NP's pretty great, too. She changed Dad's port, brought new supplies, helped us understand better how to comfort and support him, and listened to his chest. Dad's breathing had changed over the weekend, which we were assured is a natural part of the process. We also wanted to talk to her about pain management. While the pain med doses were helping, Dad was still feeling enough pain that he was interested in addressing it better. It wasn't an easy decision for us, because neither Dad nor Mom, my sister, or I enjoy the side effects of grogginess and haziness. But it was also a very important decision for us to make. Managing his pain and providing comfort is key at this stage. So, we all decided together that it would be better to increase the doses.

This was a crucial decision and discussion. Most interestingly, is how we all sat with the NP in dad's room and talked it through - dad including. It was clearly a major step in the process. Up the pain meds, reduce the ability to interact.

After the NP visited with Dad and changed the port, she sat with Mom, my sister, and me and patiently answered all our questions (that we had at the time - new ones arise every minute it seems). While trying to pinpoint the last moment would be helpful for our preparation - and his - it's just not as obvious as a date on a calendar or a moon phase. But there are symptoms to look for and we're paying attention for them, while focusing on giving the most patient and loving care we can. Of course, as you all know Dad, it can sometimes be challenging. He's a smart customer, a man with opinions, and has an eye for detail and attention. Despite the meds haze and the fog that pervades, he still appreciates a towel on his lap as we change tubes, a specific way of preparing for certain medical procedures, etc. But as his daughters, we have also inherited quite the same traits, so we embellish our own knack for detail by folding cords just so, cleaning connections well, and comprehending the source of some of his needs. (Perhaps these are both our separate but similar ways of expressing some control over a situation that has none and changes every hour.) As his wife, Mom patiently humors and takes on intimate tasks with courage.

Tuesday, April 5:

Dad rested most of the day, partially due to the awesome bed bath he'd gotten on Monday and a lot to do with the need for rest now. My sister and I took turns tagging in/out to help Dad with meds, a process that seems to evolve quickly.

Wednesday, April 6:

Having increased the pain meds in his port, the other medications to address the symptoms for nausea and longer-term pain have become a bit harder to ingest. The fog slows things down a lot and his stomach, growing more sensitive to the slightest additions or changes, isn't as receptive to the liquid meds. Despite this, last night he slept rather well - almost too well! As the night nurse, I tried to balance the urge to make sure he was alright and the need for sleep for us both. Thankfully - and not - he's started having random, infrequent hiccups that were an indication to me that he was doing okay through the night.

This morning, I woke him up for meds and also was able to share some really cool news. Someone he supported in the elections won. He was so happy to hear this news, his face lit up and the fog was visibly and quickly lifted - if only momentarily. I could tell he was proud, thankful, and pleased for the candidate.

Meds are again a challenge so we've moved to providing them with droppers under the tongue. The taste and scent don't seem as irritating to him today and he seems relieved of the process of pysching himself up for them, getting them to his mouth, swallowing, and concentrating on relaxing (ha!) to abate nausea.

We had a nice visit with the social worker this afternoon, and my sister got a breather in town. I was able to get some work done this afternoon as Dad slept. The spring sun has melted away quite a lot of the snow. My sister got to see a huge flock of swans fly overhead the house. Mom's enjoyed romps with the dogs in the yard. Dad's been able to hear some of the birds singing. And we've all benefited from fresh air flowing through the house - finally, windows open!

We were also visited the past days by neighbors in the area who have become friends either prior to Dad's illness or during these recent days. We're grateful for the dog-sitting (gives them a relief from being in the same house/yard and allows them a break from the stress of caregiving too), books on hospice care, the offer to run grocery shopping, the many dishes of homemade soup, pasta, chili, pie, jam, and the like. As most know, it's tiring giving care and by the end of the day or even at morning breakfast it's hard to find the gusto for cooking or even finding flavor in food. It's been such a relief to have all this healthy food made with love, and the brief but kind visits.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

It was Monday when the nurse started having discussions with us about timelines and provided us some literature on the dying process. My sister and I, internet savvy and hounds for knowledge, had already looked up all of these things online. It still didn't seem real. Although, we watched for the symptoms. While we didn't have all of the signs play out, we did notice

Signs of the preactive phase of dying:
-increased restlessness, confusion, agitation, inability to stay content in one position and insisting on changing positions frequently (exhausting family and caregivers)
-increased periods of sleep, lethargy
-beginning to show periods of pausing in the breathing (apnea) whether awake or sleeping

Signs of the Active Phase of Dying
-dramatic changes in the breathing pattern including apnea, but also including very rapid breathing or cyclic changes in the patterns of breathing (such as slow progressing to very fast and then slow again, or shallow progressing to very deep breathing while also changing rate of breathing to very fast and then slow)
-inability to swallow any fluids at all (not taking any food by mouth voluntarily as well)
-patient breathing through wide open mouth continuously and no longer can speak even if awake
-patient's extremities (such as hands, arms, feet and legs) feel very cold to touch
-jaw drop; the patient's jaw is no longer held straight and may drop to the side their head is lying towards
-mottling

My sister couldn't stop with the mottling. It was her one sign. She'd over-fiddle with his catheter bag, working gravity to help pull more urine out of his bladder. We had had a bad night when the cath had gotten plugged with mucus and he wet himself. I think more than anything my father hated bodily fluids for some reason. He could mow the lawn in 80F weather on my grandparents' farm, sweat buckets, joke around and rub his sweaty face on yours. But there was something very undignified for him in pee. After this episode, my sister couldn't stop fiddling. She even roped me in to the gravity game.

And if it wasn't the cath bag, it was mottling. "Look at his feet." He would sit on the edge of his bed for hours (before we got the way more comfortable hospital bed that could be raised up and lowered, and could prop his knees up). He'd sway, but not want to lie down. His feet would turn purplish and get cold. But he loved his bed. He paid like thousands of dollars for it. So, it took us a while to figure out that a hospital bed would be better. He only stayed in it 5 days.

The mottling. It would come and go. Toward the last days it crept up more greatly. On the morning that he died, it crept up all the way to his bald head.

It was around this time that he also started to give us glimpses. The hospice nurse called it a gift. His hallucinations or visions. Whatever you want to call them. Walking between death and life. Seeing the afterworld. Or, if you prefer, his brain started misfiring dreams.

4/7/2011, 2:11pm:
Sitting with him after the Fed Ex truck left.

He said, "Trucks can only go one-way on one-way streets."

I said, "Yes, there's only driving one-way on the one-way streets. You can't drive both ways on a one-way street."

He said, "There are only one-way streets. Let me know if you want me to drive/take you there/show you/you need to get there." (Something along those lines, as if he could drive the one-way streets or would know them. I had no idea what he was talking about. I was thinking that he was remembering driving the streets of Toledo, Spain.). "Can only go one-way so it takes a while."

[Then I realized he might have meant the path to the next life.]

He continued, "If you go à pied you can go both ways." [à pied / a pie = on foot]

I said: [in French and then Spanish:] "Si tu est a pied, tu pouvouis marcher. Si tu estas a pie, tu puedes caminar. If you go on foot you can walk (it).... "

I said: "Remember the streets in Toledo, Spain? Very narrow one-way streets. But beautiful. I bet the one-way streets are beautiful there. Are they beautiful?"

Dad went back to sleep and we helped him lay down.

One night the pain meds ran out. Because they'd be one hell of a hot commodity on the market, we weren't given the passcode to set him up with a new bag. It was about midnight. Midnight in the middle of the countryside. The unlucky hospice nurse, who we saw about 4 nights in a row for a bad luck stretch, had to drive 45 minutes to get to us. (This wasn't troubling, because Dad was a DNR - do not resuscitate. It just meant that we would worry that he wouldn't get his pain meds, the machine would continue beeping, and our sleepless night would now be punctuated with more stress.) We paused his pain meds for a bit while we waited on her arrival. When she got there, she had to walk through the instructions to set it up. And while my sister and I stood by her side to help, we were all treated to a message from the other world:

4/7/2011, midnight, Dana Hospice Nurse visiting, squatting at side of bed, working on laptop. Dad just bolted up and with a smile and giddy almost like a schoolgirl, glowing eyes asked each one of us:
"Are you my boyfriend?
Are you my boyfriend?
Who's my boyfriend?

"There's a party. I want to leave this world and go to the party. Can I leave this world and go to the party?"

- My sister and I replied yes. Of course.

Then, he said that there's no water at the party and could we get him some.

He turned to me and said "mamoosh babcrushka with ice" We asked him to clarify because we thought he said with crushed ice. He repeated "mamoosh babcrushka with ice".

Then, he lied back down.

I was simultaneously elated and terrified. When the nurse had finished hooking up the pain meds, we went into the hall and whispered about what just happened. Whispered, because, while my father had suffered from some hearing loss due to flying military airplanes for much of his career, toward the end of life, he could hear a pin drop 2 rooms over.

I started to cry, while smiling. (This actually happened frequently the day after a night shift.) This was an incredibly beautiful and moving moment, but from this night onwards I was constantly afraid that I'd be alone on night duty and have to deal with another spooky communication like that. I also felt more and more sensitive to the creaks in the house, which only happened in his bedroom or in the living room where we slept. I could sense death walking the halls, standing on the porch outside, and hovering in my dad's bedroom.

I don't remember which day we realized that we needed to divide ourselves up. We'd been doing things as the 3 of us: sitting by his side, providing meds, making dinner. We realized at some point, I think his sister suggested it to me and I spoke it aloud to my sister and mom, that it would help us all more if we split up efforts so we weren't wearing ourselves out.

It was around this point, too, that we decided we needed take the counsel: tell your loved one it's okay to let go. Individually, we spent some time with him and said our goodbyes. I told him that I knew we'd known each other in previous lives and that we'd know each other again. I told him that I knew he'd always be with me. I told him that I'd always loved his hands - long, lean fingers with sturdy, flat nails. I told him that I loved him and would always love him. And, I held his hand. And, his glazed eyes shed one small tear out of the left side. And, he said, "L, I love you, too." And, I will always always always carry that.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Saturday, April 9:

[Mostly written by my mom.] The nights are when the tigers prowl & it's without fail that something goes awry: battery failure of a machine, which was easily changeable thank goodness; pain med bag reached low quantity requiring a midnight visit from a Hospice nurse; a change in port tubes that resulted in an unexpected inability to attach needed nutrients, which resulted in a visit from nurse close to midnight; and his new Foley catheter got plugged because they'd told us it did not need flushing - but I guess they don't know much about NEO bladders - resulting in a nurse called in at 4am to flush and help change bedding and clothing.

Mom wrote, "the girls are my mainstay as night nurses, the resultant days are this:"

Dad is comfortable, without pain, and taking his liquid meds as directed by our Doc. As holding his mouth open with tongue to the roof was cumbersome, we're now holding his lip open and placing into the inside of the cheek. The stomach pump is still running to assist with reducing nausea.

He's not speaking with us, but communicates with his eyes & attentive following of requests - eg to open his mouth so we can swab it out gently to prevent mouth issues.

The days grow longer as sunset is later, the birds are back and calling - we open his window for both fresh air & sounds - however, we know that time has also grown short for us, as a family of four. The best we can do is to keep him comfortable, loved, watched over & be grateful for each little time piece we have.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Riddle of the time of passing
Me: Dad, we're done with meds. You can rest now.
Dad: I'll rest after the celebration of the sneeze and the golden birthday. After we have dinner. Now, let's get on with this process... (looking at the stomach pump, the pain med pump, the bedside commode, the garbage bin)
Me, searching on Google finding nothing, walking the dogs over their land, thinking and thinking: What's a celebration of a sneeze? "Bless you"... Sunday? ...Who's got a golden birthday in April? My cousin's baby turns 1 year old on 4-10-11, maybe it's a mix up: 1 on 4-11-11?

From the death bed of my father
Dad (looking at the floor between he and my sister, staring off into the distance; as I walk up to his bedside): Look out for the pathway.
Me: Am I on it?
Dad: Almost.
My sister: Am I on it?
Dad: Perhaps.

I think it was over the weekend that we decided, with some thought and little fanfare that we'd remove the TPN. At the time, while I wasn't feeling impatient, I was feeling overly sensitive to my father's pain. If keeping him on TPN was causing him to suffer more, if it prolonged or extended the dying process, it made no sense to me. And I knew this. As a family, we had already talked to each other about the "if we end up in a coma" decision - pull the plug. We had the option to ween him or stop providing it. I was prepared to stop altogether.

I was ready for this because my father was not my father any longer. He was a shell. Once I had said my good-byes, I knew that he was crossing over more and more, and what we were left to do was care for the vessel he had needed and used. We needed to guide it as gently as possible to a still place so he could use the remaining energy and focus to get out of it. Discontinuing TPN allowed the body to chart its own natural course, freeing the spirit from the veiny bonds.

I guess my sister and mom weren't as ready so we decided to ween. That only lasted a day though because no one was interested in staying up one hour later to start the TPN or waking up an hour earlier to stop it. And, the way our brains were working, there wasn't an option to change the process and introduce it during the day.

After we stopped the TPN, his urine output continued steadily, which was shocking in a way. Nothing going in. Why is it coming out? And, oddly, the left kidney was being pinched by a tumor and the right kidney was his bad one, so how on earth was it happening?

He was a skeleton when he died. My sister said he looked like a concentration camp victim. When the nurse came to bathe him again, or when we wanted to freshen him up to prevent bed sores, we would roll him on his side. It was painful for him so I tried to make it light as I leaned over and held his chest, arms, and face to me, "I'm the lucky daughter. I get the special hugs today." But his body was so brittle and bony. I hated that it caused him pain.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Sunday April 10:

We are grateful for our decision to bring him home under Hospice care, for the comfort that he feels being surrounded by our safe, cozy home & the caring that we have patiently given him.

He sleeps peacefully, calmly and painlessly as Mom, my sister, and I tend to him; Dad's time is now his own to leave when he is ready.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

His friends and family sent so many good words. We read many of them in the beginning, but over time he wasn't interested or refused. I think he was regretful and wanted to hold on. He had been fighting the cancer for so long and was ready to fight more. Just that the cancer, which was made of his own body, had the same will. I think after a time the words hurt him and tied him more to this world, so he refused to hear them. And, they were sweet:

I understand you have filed your flight plan and that the tower has cleared you for take off. This will be your flight of a lifetime and I know that a happy landing awaits. I am so glad to be your friend. Know that we have your "six" and that friendship never ends.
I love you.

Charles Z.

I had night duty on Monday, April 11. I had feared it the Saturday, 9th. But I used the AA mantra "I'm turning it over to you. I'm turning it over to you." And asked my Higher Power for all the strength I could summon to brave the night. Monday night wasn't scary. Death wasn't clamoring. It wasn't a bull impatiently clawing at the dirt. It wasn't haunting. It was, instead, nearby. Death was watching now, with a lazy eye, disinterested with the torment my father's body was facing. Disinterested, but not unaffected.

My sister had slept in his room the night before, in an uncomfortable chair and position. So, I pulled the more comfy chair up, grabbed an ottoman, and propped up next to his bed with a blanket wrapped around me, my hand holding his.

His breathing was more difficult now. And the death rattle increased tremendously. Supposedly it's supposed to be more discomforting to us alive people than to the dying, but I disagree. My father tried with might to sit up a few times to cough it up. And when it bothered him, I hit the pain med button. I hit it as often as I could and sometimes timed the 15-minute intervals so I could preempt the complication. For some reason, at the time, my sister felt negatively about that action and choice of mine, but the hospice nurse the next day indicated it was appropriate to get ahead of the pain. Every 15 minutes. All night. I think it was one of the longest nights of my life. But it meant probably the most of anything in my life.

My sister had the night of April 12. He wasn't as bad. His breathing was still more inconsistent but the rattle had subsided quite a lot from what we hoped was the atropine finally working.

The morning of the 13th, I woke up from the couch and relieved my sister at about 7:30am. I told her to go downstairs to sleep, but she was stubborn and said no. We started the coffee. His breathing was raspy, louder, almost demanding something. The hospice nurse called to check in. We planned to see her in the afternoon. I got on the internet, looking for some good, magic words. A poem perhaps. Something to read to him to help him let go, send him on his way. I stopped at "On Death" by Kahlil Gibran and thought I should read this later on in the day. My mom had woken up, opened the blinds in his bedroom, the sun was soft, bright spring. She opened the window to let the birds' songs in and sat by my dad's side and my sister was on his other side. I put the laptop down and went to the room, and stood at the foot of his bed. My sister stood up and made the motions to cleanse his chi, floating her hands above his body, sweeping, sweeping. I grabbed the stool and sat down, holding his feet, his cold feet, in my hands. The mottling was visible up on his face.

I got up and got my camera - I had been taking photos throughout - and snapped a few. I sat back down on the stool and held his feet. My sister reached her hand across to his chest. His breathing had slowed. We sat in silence, holding him. She reached her hand over to his chest again and felt for a heartbeat. I watched him. In the quickest instance, I saw a light, white swirl like smoke tendrils above his belly. My sister stood up and reached over to his heart again.

We didn't really know what to do. We sat for a few minutes. And then, we decided to call the hospice nurse. As I got up to call, I looked out the window and she was pulling up. She came into the bedroom, listened with the stethoscope. "Are you sure?" I asked her.

She left us and did some work in the kitchen. I closed the bedroom door and created a sacred space, cleansed his chakras, closed the space. Mom decided what he'd wear for the cremation. I took photos. We called the funeral home. The hospice nurse waited. They put him on the gurney, leaving his face uncovered. We followed him out. They lifted him into the hearse (that was a PT Cruiser). We kissed his forehead. The hospice nurse left.

Wednesday, April 13:

One of Dad's go-to sayings was the 7 Ps one: Proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance.

This morning, Mom, my sister, and I each felt compelled to hang out in Dad's room with him a bit before 10am this morning. His breathing had become more shallow, but much less labored and more peaceful. We held his hands and spoke softly to him. The stomach pump was turned off and, with the window open, we could hear the morning birds chirping. He passed at 10:10 (the unofficial time). The hospice nurse arrived at 10:20, unplanned by us three, but Dad had probably arranged it. You know him...

We plan to spend some quiet time today, resting and discussing memorial service plans.

Mostly

2011-03-26T10:11:00.000-04:00

I'm going to miss seeing spring bloom. I've been watching from brown buds of wooden trees to tiny peeking leaves. Pink blossoms opening up. White white white petals falling over themselves. I'm going to miss seeing spring in DC.

They've moved dad over to the palliative care floor. It's 4 floors down from the outpaitent oncology floor he was on. I guess the physical relocation is fitting. He wants to go home. There's no more chemo. The radiation treatments he received relieved some pain of the tumor on his kidney. There's also ketamine, which when my sister told me, brought me back to the days of ravers and glow sticks when kids spoke about taking horse tranquilizers. She said he'd come home with heavy pain meds in a lock box. We joked that we could sell that shit on the street for a pretty penny. And other pain meds.

She says they've talked to hospice to understand what they provide. While we searched for in-home nurse care that wouldn't break the bank, we found nothing. They live in the countryside, where families do the caretaking. Not a lot of freed-up nurses. But I guess hospice visits often and whenever we hit a "rough patch" and need them to call -- which is apparently what happened to us while we were taking care of him before: learned how to set up the TP feeding (bag to a line, line to his port) and had to deal with air bubbles (omg, are we going to kill him if one gets in his line?! omg there's air in the bag! omg, I can't pull back on his port to draw any blood to check if the line's clear - is it clogged?) and then him vomiting all night long. Hospice can come to help. And there won't be vomiting now. The stomach pump takes care of that. TP in, stomach bile out. There is no use of his GI tract now, which the palliative care doctor says puts him on the shorter side of the timeline. If they said 6-12 weeks 2 weeks ago. Well, we can do the math.

Hospitals are not known for their planning skills we're learning. Last time we checked him out, we found out on the day that he'd be released. A nurse from home care, a rep from home care plus, a case worker - all disorganized, all unplanned, all a disarray to us. Yesterday they said he would come home on Tuesday, with medical equipment needing delivery on Monday.

Mother Nature is not helpful. The weather conditions have fucked my family over. Eight inches of snow last week, a friend came to plow and missed the driveway, the thaw that has turned their country driveway into a mud pit. How to get my dad home, how to get the hospital equipment to the house, how to ease the coming and goings for hospice care. There was a panic in my sister's voice. A defeated, worn out, almost crazy discussion with her last night. My mom has hit the end of her rope.

There have been new financial troubles and revelations that post-dad might not be as rosy as hoped. This brings out anger and resentment, fear and desperateness. I've imagined his frail body in the bed in the house, hooked up to machines, and not being able to help myself from pinching him -- hard, repeatedly. I'm angry at his selfishness, his stubbornness, his childish decisions that he made in a complicated marriage. But I won't pinch him. It's the pillow experiment - talk to the pillow as if it's him, punch it, get the anger out. "You've become a different person to me. Who are you? You are not the father I knew and loved, adored, and suffered the strongest love-hate relationship with. Who are you? Why did you do this? How could you?" I'm wrestling with this now.

A shell of a woman, I told my therapist. I'm coming and going and not sure if I'm coming or going. I'm finding I can't cry at home - home from work, be brave and be funny when calling my sister and mom and then entertain myself with Deadwood. I can't cry in AA meetings - too humiliating for my pride. I can cry one-on-one with a friend or (terribly unfortunately) my boss or the therapist. I can sob in the therapist's office. And then, clean myself up, and head back to the metro and back to my office. The therapist said I need to do something that will fill me up this weekend - fill this shell of a woman. What do I do? I asked her. I feel helpless right now. How do I process this? What is death? I watched a National Geographic "Moment of Death". It did nothing for me. How did I get dressed this morning? How am I walking from the metro to my office? Someone in my agency offered me a new job. I can't even think about that.

I feel so far away from his changes. I will likely be shocked. I feel so far away to help well. My sister and mother have been so strong. I'm trying to feed off of this routine of work, meeting, TV, sleep - because right now is a vacation. When I get there this week, it will be hell. A complicated, sad, frustrating, overwhelming hell. But I have to be there. I have to be there for him. I'm terribly scared he'll be sad or afraid. I want him surrounded by love, despite the mistakes he's made.

There's today - a sunny, lovely, chilly spring day in DC. There's tonight - maybe an AA meeting. There's tomorrow - 4 months sober, AA meeting with friends to cheer my chip, brunch with other friends, laundry, packing. There's Monday - work from home, head to the train station, go to Philly with my boss. There's Tuesday - all day Philly events with boss, train station, back to DC, back home. There's Wednesday - an early flight to Wisconsin. And then... there's I have no idea. The great unknown. The void and the whirlwind. The calm and the up-every-hour. The sun through the window and the possible pushing cars out of mud in haste and panic. The test of strength and endurance. As my sister says, this is a marathon. Energy drinks at the wayside, energy bars, but keep moving forward. My alcoholic mother is an energy sap and spew of negativity. She's been fucked over and is fucked up. It will be a sister thing. Patience when we lose ours, listening when all there is is to spit exhaustion, holding, crying, cursing, trying to remember to eat, cooking, feeding, caring, waking, napping, and maybe some work in there if I can.

I don't want to go, I can't wait to go, I need to go now. I hate him, I love him, I'm scared for him. Coming, going, sitting. Mostly I have no idea.

Spring

2011-03-20T17:59:00.000-04:00

They've said he's got 6-12 weeks to live. That was last week.

I'm going back out there end of this month.

It's been hard. Really hard. Verge of tears constantly. Not finding any connection in AA meetings, not picked up a regular sponsor. I'm not interested in drinking - thank god I've been relieved of the craving to drink - but I often wish I had something to take away the pain. I started back on melatonin to get sleepy at night and to sleep the night. And, since I ended "Six Feet Under" I'm now on "Deadwood." I guess those are my "drugs" these days.

I bought a couch - finally. After living in this grown-up's apartment with a bare living room for a year. It should make it here in time for me to need the cozy, curl-up comfort. I've already bought a standing lamp for it and am eyeing some rugs and a matching chair. I like this apartment and the building. I'm looking forward to biking around (bought an air pump and plan to visit a pally who can tweak the gears so they're aligned correctly), and taking walks in the Glover Park forest.

Some days I wish he'd die to relieve himself of the pain and discomfort, but he's got more living to do. It seems some of us die more quickly in the body and slower in the mind, and others (like my grandmother) die more quickly in the mind with the body slowly catching up. My grandfather had the best way out: a heart attack. No lingering long bedside medications, no mirror to see the tufts of hair go, no added surgery or chemo or radiation to give 10% of a chance at one extra week, no dementia to forget who you are or where you are or how to dress, no creaky hips, no broken nothing.

I can't fathom what it will be like without my dad in my life. I don't want to have to whisper to a ghost when I have questions about mechanics, need analysis relayed from Consumer Reports, need a dad hug or hear his pride.

In the tundra

2011-03-03T15:45:00.003-05:00

My dad is snoring softly in his bedroom, wrapped in a red blanket like one of those glow worms kids take to bed. Sometimes the snores are deeper, louder breaths and sometimes they stop in rthym and I hope he isn't disturbed by my typing out here in the living room. My mom always points out that his hearing has diminished from all the flying in the Air Force, but I think he hears some things that are quiet. Although he didn't hear the double-beep this morning at 7:30 when the IV nutrients had done their overnight, 12-hour feeding.

He was nearly dead to us last week.

I came out 3 weeks ago and stayed for 8 days. He had just been admitted to the hospital after 3 weeks of vomiting that built up some ulcers in his stomach and gave him esophagitis. In early January, the test results came back that the chemo trial he was in hadn't been working to diminish the tumor on his kidney. It had grown actually - only slightly, but a rather significant sign that treatment wasn't working. He decided then to take a break from chemo. His other options were to try 2 different combinations of chemo, but if it hadn't been working he wasn't feeling optimistic that it would now. He preferred to get some energy back, some taste buds, and some of his hair. Despite his decision, at the beginning of February, he was referred away from Mayo Clinic (through which he participated in the cancer treatment trial) to a more local doctor and hospital and tried chemo again. It might have been this round of chemo that set him into vomiting, or - we wondered at the time - a flu, or - we guessed later - a spread in the cancer.

Regardless, the 3 weeks of vomiting had dehydrated him, left him malnutritioned, and decreased his weight to a hollow 150lbs. When I came out the first time, we were focused on keeping my mother sane (after 3 weeks of living with and watching a stubborn old man that she loved deteriorate), figuring out if the cancer had spread, and being around him for our own and his comfort. The hospital sucked, really. The main dietitian was clueless about how to help us, and wasn't very offering to do so. The doctor treating him, while liked by my parents for his passion for aviation and long career of treating cancer patients, wasn't wonderfully communicative or helpful in alleviating our concerns: had the cancer spread? should we do an MRI or CT scan? if there's no blockage in his intestines, what's impeding digestion? is cancer causing the motility issues? We went from a liquid diet (broths, popsicles) to soft food diet (cream of chicken soup, mashed potatoes) and back again as the food just sat like a lump in his stomach, caused vomiting, or created discomfort. And because of the chemo treatment earlier in the week and debilitating vomiting, his blood count hadn't risen enough to consider new, aggressive chemo to treat the purported spread of cancer along his intestinal lining near his stomach.

Finally though, his counts were high enough and he got some chemo. But he still wasn't eating enough or getting enough nutrition. He'd been hydrated well through IVs, but there weren't enough calories getting into his system. So, on the day I flew back to DC, a foggy day that impeded me from driving the hour to the hospital or my sister driving the 3-hours to my parents from Minneapolis, he got a feeding tube. It killed me that he was all alone for this procedure. That he and we were stranded. But it went well.

I was back for a week in DC and heard only reports over the phone that the feeding tube was creating discomfort, that he wasn't gaining weight, that he couldn't sleep, that the pain in his lower back (a knot in a muscle from laying in one place for too long? the tumor on the kidney?) caused him more discomfort and he was starting oxycodone, that he would now get IV nutrients (something that we'd heard the insurance company would only cover for patients who could not eat at all - a bad sign). My mother again thought that my sister and I should come back. Sometimes we were convinced this could be the short end to the slow drawn out finality. Sometimes we thought it was just a dip in the rollercoaster. Sometimes we thought days, weeks, or a couple of months, or hours. Sometimes we thought about Uncle Jim who had a tumor in his brain from smoking cigarettes, and who, just 4 hours after he and my aunt had met with the doctor to discuss further chemo treatment, had a heart attack as she bathed him in the hotel bathtub. Sometimes we thought about Christmas this year. Or, was last year the last?

I decided to buy a ticket for Sunday. It would give me the Friday in DC to celebrate my 90-days of sobriety, and a Saturday to pack. I cried in the office on Thursday, told a few co-workers that he'd gotten worse, fantasized darkly about the end, tried to stay strong, and started to plan how to do my Step 9 amends to him. Then, Friday I heard that he was looking better and feeling better, making jokes, and gaining weight. Saturday, I heard he was even better. I started wondering why I was returning. Not that I wanted to pass up a moment with my family, but I would miss more work and would miss meetings, and I wasn't sure that my presence would mean so much.

I arrived Sunday to my parents' house. My mom, sister, and her dogs. I was feeling out of my element. It's kind of like a wolf pack. Me and my mom alone and I know I'm Alpha, take charge, do the adult-required role, lead the decisions. But my sister is also an Alpha - if not more so than I am. I'm more of a collaborative coalition leader. She's more of a power-grabber, disseminating information as needed. I sulked a bit and felt out of the loop. Monday morning I pointed out to her that it would be nice (aka more appropriate) if she would put the speakerphone on when dad called for his morning hello from the hospital so we could all hear. I tried not to be mean, but I know it came out snappy.

....................... as much as I got on that one.

Ask, and sometimes you get

2011-02-05T11:22:00.001-05:00

Interesting how prayer works. Sure, one can chalk it up to neurological responses, or mind-tricks that, once said/thought aloud, enable actions to happen. One of the (many) slogans in AA is: Don't Think. I'm trying not to think too hard about things - just letting the brainwash happen. Opening up and accepting. Letting myself be curious and open to new ideas, like a Higher Power, prayer, humility, the power of people, the possibility of brain surgery through thought-rearranging (not an AA slogan), etc.

So, on Monday or Sunday of the week of January 16, I did what I was suggested to do. I've often heard people in groups say they get down on their knees and pray. The knee-part resembling the act of humility and powerlessness - a symbol. The praying part the communication of realizing one is not the greatest power in the world and that help can be sought - another symbol. So, that night I got on my knees. The floor felt hard. I felt silly. But I knew that I'd been thinking about Step One quite a bit and wondering if I really truly was powerless to alcohol. The part of my life becoming unmanageable seemed more tangible to agree to: the cycle of drinking too much, going to work and shaking, unable to write anything with a pen without my hand cramping to form legible letters, the paranoia coming with thinking that everyone could tell I was a horrible drinker, the flush of my face after a night of drinking, the terrible feelings that drove me to drink as soon I got home from work, my history dotted with financial instability and blackouts.

So, I got on my knees and asked my HP to help me know and understand if I was truly powerless to alcohol. (Of course, the prayer was a bit longer, but not so long that I felt Catholic.) Then, I went to bed.

Now, I prefaced this blog entry with the fact that prayer could be dismissed as self-brain-washing, convincing the brain to create false connections, and perhaps even an act to induce certain actions that later are dismissed as coincidence or fate or a prayer being answered. But that following Tuesday, I was on the bus, put my cell phone in my jacket pocket, and walked home realizing it had fallen out on the bus. The first time I've ever lost a cell phone. What a state of panic! Luckily, I had my work phone and called the bus depot repeatedly but no one answered. I went back to the bus stop, got on the other side of the street thinking I could catch the same bus coming back through town the opposite way. I waited an hour in the freezing cold and began to realize I was, indeed, powerless - to more than alcohol. I had no control over (presumably) dropping my cell phone on the bus, and no control or power to bring it back. All I could do was hope that I'd be reunited (and I say it so dramatically because anyone who has lost theirs understands the desperate connection: I don't memorize or write down phone numbers anywhere, including my sponsor's).

And then I realized that this powerlessness extended beyond the cell phone lost. (An hour at a bus stop with infrequently passing buses offers a lot of time to think.) Even if I tell my dad over Christmas that he needs to not just make a chart of the exercises he does to strengthen his previously broken ankle, but that he DO them - it doesn't mean he'll do them. (Although he did.) No matter if I try to order my life or control the chaos, life will unfold the way it's going to unfold: I could get fired from my job, my father will die someday, I can slip and break a hip, political chaos will break out in countries all over the world, people will say things that hurt me, I will think nasty thoughts, I will run late to the bus, natural disasters will wipe out whole cities, etc... I can't control everything, in fact, I can only pretend to myself that I have an ounce of control and power over life. It doesn't mean I stop trying to make it on time to the bus, stop harassing my dad to do his exercises and eat well, stop trying to reduce my carbon footprint, stop encouraging world peace, or stop losing my cell phone. But it means that I can be and am powerless over alcohol. I can't control my drinking. I can't stop at one in a night and I can't drink like a normal person.

After an hour, a bus came by, the driver gave me the number to call, I called and they said they'd look around at the buses that had returned to the depot. A few minutes later, they called to say they'd found it. Luck had it that I have a membership to Zipcar and one was available. I cruised out to the depot, picked it up, tipped a $20, and drove home. On the way, to console myself, or to do a bad thing to my body, or whatever it was, I bought some Mickey Dees for dinner. (Who knows why. I eat it maybe once every two years. It's the juicy fries!)

The next day, perhaps due to the horrible food, or the stress of the cell phone incident, or grasping the idea that my dad's losing the battle with cancer, or PMS, or the full moon, or life just is life, I broke down crying at work. Thankfully, I have my own office, and gratefully, I had 2 women I could turn to from the program. I couldn't stop crying. It came out of nowhere and I just couldn't stop. Both the women concurred that I should leave work, but that as soon as I left I needed to go to a meeting. So, I came home, dropped my stuff off, and made it to the 4pm. It was a packed meeting (with the doors to the meeting open and people sitting in the hallway), but I spotted an open space where a chair was missing, grabbed a chair from the other room, and plunked it down. It seemed like serendipity, fate, perfect timing. Like, I was supposed to be there and the cosmos opened up for that possibility.

I sat down and cried through the whole meeting. It was a regular old speaker's meeting, where some old guy was telling his story of how it was, how he came to AA, and how it is now; and those in the room spoke about their own stories or checked in with the group. All I did was cry. I stayed for my regular 6pm meeting and stopped crying, got a hug from a girl I had previously found a bit annoying but felt perfect in her friendship, and even laughed several times.

The next day, I felt better, made it through the full work day, and went to a meeting. We were reading Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

Aside:

Again, people have asked me how I feel about the religious aspect of AA. It's not religious, it's spiritual - in as much as alcoholics need to be reduced to human beings, not the cocksure self-gods that we become, and need to have some firm belief in something greater than themselves: the fellowship, a deity, nature, an idea, or, hell, even an object like a doorknob. Something that an alcoholic can turn to when they're faced with a craving, a temptation, an accidental drink that is handed to them. -- Someone told me of how a group of AAs went out after a meeting to have dinner together. The table next to them were celebrating a birthday and downing shots of tequila, they bought the AA table a round. The waiter put the shots down in front of them and they froze. Luckily, someone's "normal" boyfriend was there, and when all the AAs were frozen in what to do, he stepped up, gathered up the shots and told the waiter that they don't drink. --

It's not that AA is recruiting for a local church or trying to make Christians out of the helpless. It's that there fundamentally needs to be a way for alcoholics to not depend on their own minds in times of crisis. We're encouraged to learn how to make phone calls to other people in the program, because for some of us, after years of drinking into deeper isolation, we have forgetten how to connect with other people. It's why, when I was newly sober and a friend in the program invited me to her house for dinner, I panicked and cried. Every social event of my life since age 18 has been infused with alcohol. I don't know how to interact with people without drinking. And, if I'm in a space where I feel like I want to take a drink, or I feel confused/depressed/happy and think that drinking will be a great remedy or addition, I have a network of people who I can rely on to help stop that first drink. And, if the fellowship can't help, that I can turn to a HP and a way of life that avails me of the tools to face whatever event I'm facing. For, if I am left to my own sobriety - without a life program, without a fellowship, without an idea greater than myself - I will fail for sure. I'm not strong enough to quiet the weird neurosis in my brain that encourages me toward drinking or other behavior. And, so far, there's no medicinal cure for this disability.

Oh, and AA was pioneered in the '30s, so it's pretty fucking cool that they even considered that people (Americans for that matter) could not believe in a Christian god. Granted, the program has worked successfully since then, so they don't consider re-writing the original text, which can be very annoying - as a woman and a non-Christian. Regardless, they left room for those of us who don't believe in that type of god, by qualifying "God" with "as we understood Him".

/Aside

So there we were reading Step Three (link - opens in PDF), and I know that sharing - speaking up in the meeting - is good for my growth. It not only helps me to get shit out of my mind, but helps those in the room if they're suffering the same problem, sharing the same joy, need to be reminded of back when they started sobriety, etc. And I really wanted to tell my journey to realizing powerlessness, but I absolutely hate speaking in public. (Lots of alcoholics suffer horribly low self-esteem.) So, I was thinking about sharing, and I asked my HP to give me the courage to do so. And then, it struck me, instead of asking for the courage or the right words or not to cry or not to blush, maybe I should just turn it over. Not as in, let me become a doormat to an invisible HP, or I can't do anything on my own, or I won't manage my own life. More like, if I should share, if it benefits the greater good of the group, if it should be, then HP, help me to do it. And, I raised my hand and told the story, including that recent decision.

And, it felt damn good. I was able to laugh about the cause and effect - pray, but look out, never know what you're gonna get! Able to relieve some of the pressure of the day-long crying. Able to admit that I cried, that I lost power and control, that I was humbled, that I was struggling with life circumstances, and that I needed help.

Comments

2011-01-18T07:27:00.002-05:00

Heh. Some of you might remember way back, when a religious fanatic from Wisconsin used to comment profusely regarding his pointless observations and bible-thumping. Well, like Jack from The Shining, he's back. Comments for anonymous posters have been turned off. If you'd like to comment and remain anonymous, please consider coming out of your shell, dear friend.

In the meantime, have a lovely day to those who respect me for who I am.

See saw - day 50

2011-01-16T16:01:00.000-05:00

My dad's cancer is getting the better of him. Tests came back last week that the tumor on his kidney is growing and the chemo has maybe only helped to slow the growth, but not to stop it. He decided to take 2 months off from chemo, get some energy back, eat more, get on with some projects, etc.

It was pretty hard to swallow the couple of days after we heard. But I'm lucky. Lucky that we know in advance, that I can spend more time with him while it's available. I can't imagine a sudden death where I wouldn't be able to ask him questions I've still got, still learn things from him, and share things with him.

Sobriety's been okay. Every day I think about alcohol, or drinking. I guess it's something I just have to live with - after hearing people with 2 years or more talk about how they still think about it. I've been working on Step One: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable. It's been difficult because I keep thinking I could try again, try to temper and manage my drinking. But then when I think about attempting that, I end up thinking I should plan it for a weekend night so I can get really shitty. Um, clearly, I can't drink like a normal person if my fantasies are alcoholic. Heh. But the program keeps me sane, keeps me going. There are so many people in AA and so many types of people - it's comforting to know that it affects the professionals like it does the homeless. That it affects mothers, fathers, losers, winners, gay, straight, etc. I feel more at home in a room with alcoholics than I do with anyone else. In fact, I couldn't even cry alone, but in the rooms, where I really feel safe, I could let it out. And no one laughed or balked at my break-downs.

Today's a good day. Tempered, quiet, private, mellow.

Holidays, continued

2011-01-08T16:18:00.004-05:00

So, we unpacked and settled in at my parents' place up in the woods. My sister left the living room and I was alone with my parents. We chatted and I knew it was time to tell them, but I wasn't ready. I basically asked my HP to tell me when it was the right time. And just as I started, my sister came back and borrowed my mother away. So, I started by telling my dad that I'm an alcoholic and have been going to AA meetings. He didn't quite know what to say, but he gave me stoic positive reinforcement and said he was proud of me. I think I had shocked him so that he didn't know what to say or do. My mom came back into the room for a second and I re-started the announcement since I didn't want her to feel left out or like I was telling a secret behind her back, since she's an alcoholic. (We're told in AA not to judge others as being alcoholic, but my immediate family has believed this for forever - with all kinds of proof and examples.) My dad had heard the first confession and started shuffling papers next to him on the couch. My mom looked like a deer in headlights. My sister sat, reassuring, next to the fireplace. (I had told her on the phone about 2 weeks into sobriety.) They took it quite well and told me they loved me and were proud. But they didn't know what else to say or do. And that was fine, because I was aiming to go to a meeting in a small town about 30 miles away, so I put my dad to work helping me map out the directions and decide which meeting would be closer to their house. He prefers action over sentimentality sometimes.

So, I hopped into my sister's car, as dinner was still cooking up. I told them to go ahead and that I'd eat when I got back, because meetings are more important now than anything -- even family. I passed a dog on the dark road and a few cars, and drove really slowly over the snow-covered back roads. I pulled into the small town and found the church that had been advertised online as having a meeting - I had even sent an email ahead of time confirming that the listed dates and times would still hold over the holidays. There were a ton of cars parked outside and I thought, "Man, there are a lot of alcoholics in this small town. Cool!"

I walked in and the church was quiet. The glass door kind of banged behind me. I looked around the foyer. No sign of a meeting. An old man came gently down the stairs and I asked him if there was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting here. He looked at me strangely and said no, no, he didn't think so and that they were in the middle of the Christmas service. Oh lordy. He apologized and said he was really sorry - for me. Hah! Quite humorous. This desperate city girl in all black in this small town on Christmas Eve. I asked if I could stay for the rest of the service, "What, is there like half an hour left?" (I didn't want to stay for the full-fledged service for crying out loud.) He nodded, "Yeah, about that long. You could take communion if you wanted." Hilarious. The last time I was in a church for an actual service - that wasn't a tourist attraction in a European country - was about 17 years ago. I sat in the back and listened to the pastor finish the story of baby Jesus, surrounded by all the little kids of the town. Watched the folks take communion and the parents bounce around their baby so it wouldn't cry or squeal out too much. We all filed out and I shook the pastor's hand and drove back. I passed a ton of deer eyes glowing out in the fields and drove at a snail's pace so as not to kill anything. When I got home, the family was surprised but laughed over the incident. I called my sponsor to have a mini-meeting (any 2 alcoholics getting together on the basis of discussing AA qualifies as a meeting - and I'm totally striving for the 90 in 90.)

Christmas day was nice - practical presents, warm fire, baking pies and cookies and brownies, and I didn't pursue a meeting because we all figured there wouldn't be any on the holiday.

The next day was the same, relaxing and energetic as my sister, her 2 dogs, and my mom and I trudged through the snow for a good healthy walk. We scared away the huge turkey vultures that had been hanging out in the adjacent corn field. I drove to the bigger city nearby and made a meeting in the morning - welcomed by strangers and given new phone numbers and cheers to continue on the journey of sobriety.

I cried when I had to say good-bye to my parents. My dad's still on chemo pills and has his spirits up but we don't know the progress - negative or positive. Most people with his type of cancer live 18 months at most if the chemo doesn't take. It'll be a year in April.

I had my 30 day celebration in Minneapolis. Brought my sister with me and we had quite the awesome time. I got my 30 day chip and was asked to comment on how I got here.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

And then...

2011-01-03T21:37:00.000-05:00

I feel like a dreamy mid-March, or a soft mid-October.

I even write that down over and over in my head and decide that the former is probably better.

And then, I go to a meeting with my sponsor, and she shares - about family frustration, finding the ground to stand on, and how she wants to cry but doesn't want to. And it reminds me that I want to cry, but don't want to, and won't. But it doesn't even remind me of that. Nothing does. Nothing. No.

I am sitting in the meeting. So happy to be hanging out with my sponsor again. Somber? Hearing the women share their stories and say their peace. Not thinking. Not thinking about anything. I can't think. I try to process. Wonder what the woman behind me looks like who is speaking. Wonder what the other woman's boyfriend looks like. Look at the girl who is texting. I don't hear the words in the book that's read. I just sit there and sometimes lift the cup of tea to sip. I feel for my sponsor when she speaks. I keep looking down. I look down for so long that I realize that the line of the backs of the chairs in front of me, all covered by black coats, is super dark - compared to the light above, the ceiling, the lamps, the plants. There is a clear, visible line between the darkness of the coats and the lightness of the top of the room.

I don't think.

And when people try to talk to me, I smile, and I have no idea what I'm saying really. It's just smile and sure, exchange numbers, and stories. It's pretend.

She and I go to dinner and I talk and talk and tell this and that, we laugh, she tells this and that, I go deeper and tell something a bit hard - look for the register on her face of disgust or disapproval. There is none. There doesn't seem to be judgment. I talk more and more. We laugh. We walk to the car. We get in the car. We talk more quietly. We turn the corner toward my apartment and I start sobbing. Crying. I can't even remember why or how or what was said. I just start. And I have no idea why. "It's not logical," I tell her. I'm happy all last week and then all of a sudden - out of nowhere? I am sobbing and hiding my face. I am so stuffed up in my nose that it's a wall. My shoulders heave for a split second and I tell her again that is illogical. Why would I be crying right now? It makes no sense.

A storm over the dreamy day in March.

It doesn't have to make sense. It just is what it is. It is release. With no needed trigger. It just is. Maybe it's keeping it together for so long and finally spilling over. It doesn't matter.

&&&&&&&&

I tell her I think I might end up like the woman in our meeting today who had 87 days and drank. I couldn't see her during the meeting, but I guess she was crying. She asks me why I think that. I don't know. Maybe because I need to do an experiment - just to see if I can drink moderately (although I've already told her I know I can't - the thought of planning a drink moderately leads me to think I should plan for a Friday so I can scrap the moderate part and really tear into it). Maybe because I do miss it - miss the warmth, miss having a reason for ice cubes, miss the pop of the cork, miss the idea of a long swig of cold beer, miss sipping or gulping while making dinner.

You try it. You take something you do daily (smoke pot, work out, kiss your kid goodnight, get on the internet - pick one) and then promise you won't do it for 90 days. Just 3 months. You can do anything for 3 months. And then, watch how it consumes your brain. At least five minutes a day I think about it - not like, "Oh, I wish I could have a drink and I miss it and boo hoo hoo." More like, "I should [insert your choice] right now. It seems like I should. I mean, every evening at this time I [insert your choice]. Why am I not [insert your choice]? Oh right, because I said I wouldn't [insert your choice] for 90 days. Dumb ass challenge."

Every day. Five minutes - at least. It's more like 3-5 intervals of 5 minutes a day. And, really, it might have been this irregular holiday season that's thrown me into a loop of high riding happiness and low riding confusion. I need the routine of meetings. I need to see my sponsor once a week at least. I need consistency and I haven't had that of late. I've had staying up late and watching a million episodes of Survivor. Traveling and trying to find a meeting and not knowing anyone at the meetings (although that rarely is a problem, it does cause slight anxiety). Eating way too much chocolate. Feeling dramatically lonely in my free time. Missing sex greatly.

All of this out-of-whack free time schedule that I used to love so much, because I'd fill it with drinking. Now, it's causing chaos.

Maybe that's why I cried.

I don't know.

But today was the tail end to a week of relative high.

The holidays

2011-01-03T21:15:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

As I posted elsewhere:
Last year was tough, it made us stronger. Last year was good, it made us better. Wishing you and yours a Happy New Year to only make us greater!

&&&&&&&&&&

I made a noon meeting before I flew out to the Midwest to visit family for Christmas. It was a well-attended meeting and we spoke about anonymity - principles before personalities. I like this tradition of AA because it boils every meeting down to why we're there, not who we are or how we walk through the doors.

My flight was delayed but there was a bookstore in the Milwaukee airport so I bought The Glass Castle - an incredibly easy memoir read by a woman with a very eclectic family. My sister picked me up in Minneapolis and didn't mind my request to sleep in her upstairs bed with her instead of on the couch in the basement. I wasn't sure how I'd handle booze over this holiday and wasn't eager to sleep in the room adjacent to the liquor storage - plus, she and her fiance have called it quits so he has moved into the guest bedroom.

The next day we drove down to Wisconsin, dropped her dogs off at doggie daycare - which was amusing in its own story, checked into the hotel, visited grandma and hauled her off to my aunt's for dinner, downed some soup with my aunt and my boy cousin, picked up the dogs, cruised to the hotel, and then I took the car to a meeting. This was quite the packed afternoon and I was eager to get into a meeting. My sister always runs late, which can cause me a bit of anxiety, but I was trying to let it all roll. I really love spending time with my extended family and was looking forward to sharing some moments with my Alzheimer grandma - time is precious at her age - as well as with my aunts and cousins. Because we left Minneapolis later than anticipated, all of that special time was squeezed into intense brevity. In a way, I was rather upset with my sister for robbing me of more leisurely interaction, especially since it's not as easy for me to fly out there and get this quality time.

I was also grateful that it was a quick visit. My extended family live in a town where I spent the last two years of high school, 9 months during my drop-out of college, and many booze-soaked holidays. I was nervous about being back there sober and didn't really want a lot of free time to cruise the memory haunts. But the newness of sobriety was weighing heavy regardless. I didn't like seeing my grandmother relying on a walker or wheelchair - this long-time farmer lady with the strength of a bull and independence like 4th of July. It was hard for me to understand her slurs and I felt badly seeing a spark of recognition in her eyes when she saw me - our time too short to hug and touch. My aunt had wine with dinner and I claimed recovery from a cold/antibiotics for not drinking. My boy cousin, her son, and one of my most favorite cousins when growing up also weighed on me. When I reach the 9th Step, I'll have a long letter of amends for him. I have altered our relationship and if I were to regret anything in life, it would be that.

I pulled up outside the small building that looked like a bar, distinguished from that only by the AA symbol of a triangle inside a circle. I was aiming for a 6pm meeting listed on the website, finished my cigarette outside, and introduced myself to a hick-ish looking woman who was also smoking, missing some teeth, and rather chatty. The 6pm women's meeting hadn't been held in years, she said, but there would be one at 7pm and there was plenty of coffee inside. She was so friendly - as most AA members are, especially to newcomers like myself - and introduced me to all the folks in the "break room." I had a hot chocolate and told everyone how I was visiting from DC. At 7pm a handful of us moved to the meeting room. A very young woman lamented about facing New Years Eve without drinking. The young woman next to her talked about how this was her last chance before being sent off to rehab for 6 months. She had tried to kill herself by swallowing pills, drank too much, and was addicted to pot and other drugs. An older woman was celebrating almost 3 months after a fall off the wagon. A man shared some frustration with his boss. Another man was excited to be a sober father to his 2-year-old son this year. And me, I broke down in tears - a typical reaction in early sobriety as active alcoholics (those drinking) use booze to suppress most every emotion and now, without that valve to drown them, they come surging upward at the drop of a hat.

I knew I had nothing to cry about in comparison to the teenager who was suicidal, but I couldn't control it. I was scared about sobriety with my family, scared about telling them, unsure how to face this holiday, the afternoon of rushing around had taken a toll on me, and I just didn't want to keep my composure - which I've been doing frequently at meetings in DC. Someone brought me the box of tissues, the dad guy asked if I thought I could not drink over the holiday, the leader of the meeting gave me her phone number. And, at the end of the meeting, the suicidal teenager gave me a handful of chocolate kisses, "I hear chocolate helps a lot during recovery." I hugged her and thanked her and told her I expect to see her here next year. And that's how it works. Strangers care for you, despite their own troubles or their own situations. And we're all friends by the end and at the beginning because we have a strong common bond.

I went back to the hotel, hung out with my sister and her ex-step-kids, and then slept like a log.

In the morning we drove by the co-op to pick up some ingredients for baking at my parents' house and I had a mini break-down. It was chaotic, I was unfamiliar with where things were, and I was overwhelmed. So, instead of planning to bake brownies from scratch, I said fuck it and bought a pre-made box. We drove the 3 hours north to my parents and settled into their house for Christmas Eve.

The upcomings

2010-12-22T09:04:00.002-05:00

I'm nervous about seeing family. I'm nervous about being back in old haunts. I'm nervous about how to tell my family I don't drink anymore. I'm nervous about too much down time. I'm nervous about the stories I hear of unconscious, patterned minds that if a drink is left near a hand, it grabs it as if in old habit. I'm nervous about the different meetings I'm going to find in other towns. I'm nervous about whether my extended family will understand if I tell them I'm not drinking because I just finished antibiotics and am trying to get healthy - not ready to tell the full story yet. I'm nervous about finishing the scarf I'm making for my sister.

Etc Etc...

But I'm also happy that I've got 25 days sober now and will celebrate a full month in 5. I'm happy that I have an awesome sponsor. I'm happy that my awesome sponsor has given me homework on the first Step (We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable) - something similar to this. I'm happy that my boss lady gave me a bonus. I'm happy that I get to hug my family. I'm happy I get to see my grandma and extended family. I'm happy to be traveling - in spite of the anticipated cluster fuck of security lines. I'm happy that my sister is SO completely supportive -- even if she doesn't get it all (it's true that, really, only other alcoholics do). I'm happy to give my sister a scarf I've been knitting since day one of sobriety - with its imperfections and all.

Etc Etc...

Never enough sleep

2010-12-17T10:52:00.001-05:00

Sunday day, I went to a meeting with my sponsor. It wasn't inspirational or amazing or boring or anything. It just was. But I was crying anyway. Little quiet tears seeping out. I had no idea why. After the meeting, my sponsor and I just sat there as I sobbed. No explanation - no need for one. My mind has pushed a ton of things deep down into my body so I wouldn't think about them, and perhaps this is just the biological release.

Then, I cooked up a mean bean chili soup and watched old episodes of Survivor. ...Ironic? nah, I've been cycling through old TV shows out of boredom: made it through all of weeds, was turned off by the catty morons on The Apprentice, not into the girlie drama of Seattle's General Hospital (Grey's Anatomy), stressed by all the yelling on Hell's Kitchen. So, I settled on Survivor for now: there's still mini drama, but I like it more for the group challenges.

Monday was a new day: work, meeting, sleep. Tuesday, I had 7:30am meeting with my boss lady (which meant I had to get up at 5:15am - who is alive at 5:15??!!), work, meeting, sleep. And it's about this time that my cold kicked it up into sinus infection land. And I've just been beat. Wednesday: work, meeting, sleep. Thursday: work, almost didn't go to a meeting because I feel so shitty but still made it, sleep. Thursday was the more interesting day as I had lunch with a grad school friend who is also working where I work. (She kind of got me the job.)

I told her last weekend that I had some good news, but we weren't able to meet up as she'd banged up her knee post-ACL surgery. So, when she met my new boss lady at a meeting she thought that was my good news. Nope! I was having that meeting in my friend's work building and asked her if we could grab lunch. We didn't have a lot of time so she invited me to the restaurant downstairs to eat at the bar. Hilarious. I mean, you've got to understand that I'm not some fiending drunk who is slobbering for a lick of booze. I didn't even think about the bar fact. "Of course it will be faster at the bar." And it didn't even dawn on me until after I'd told my friend that I was an alcoholic and she apologized for bringing me to a bar. But, I wasn't much of a daytime drinker anyway. Had it been night and she'd invited me to a bar for a chat, I might have thought otherwise. In fact, I found it odd that a young woman saddled up to the bar and ordered a huge beer with her lunch. It's the middle of the day!

So, she asked if that was my good news, and I told her, "You're the first person I'm saying this out loud to face-to-face. Please don't freak out." "You're scaring me, Lola," she laughed. "Well, I'm an alcoholic and I've stopped drinking." She got tears in her eyes and hugged me, told me how proud of me she was, asked what prompted it, how did I know, how she thought of me as her hero (she's younger) and how brave I was for doing this. I don't really think of it as brave. Frankly, I don't want to think too much about it - quitting drinking for good, knowing that I'm "allergic" to booze in the sense that 1 is never enough and a 1000 never too many, that this is a hard journey that I'm undertaking, that it takes bravery. I just don't want to think about that. I want to think about work-meeting-sleep right now. I want to think about the fact that in my list of priorities when visiting family for the holidays is: AA meeting, grandma, sister/parents, extended family, whatever else. Keep it simple. Keep it basic. Dig in and dig deep over time.

She was still very sweet and totally relieved me that she didn't freak out. It was super awesome. I think I stunned her though and when we hugged goodbye I think she was still processing it. I mean, lunch wasn't a very long time.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Friday I went to the doctor. Did you all know that DC has barely any urgent care clinics? It's ridiculous, but thankfully I called for an appointment on Wednesday and got in Friday morning. Got some antibiotics - needed to conquer this sinus infection so I don't bring it back to WI and infect my dad while he's battling cancer on chemo meds. Came home and slept for four hours. Then, I hit a meeting at 7pm. Saw my guy friend who helped me get to AA, listened to some good and honest stories.

Today, I went to a morning meeting, but ended up accidentally in an Al-Anon meeting. I was rushing to get to the meeting on time and didn't realize I was in the "wrong" room until it was somewhat too late to get up and walk out.

Texts to my sponsor:
Me: Oh no I accidentally ended up in the alanon grp mtg! think I might stay and listen esp considering what my sis said last nite.
Me: Think that's ok? That I stay?
Me: Quick or I'll duck out
Sponsor: Yes. You can stay.
Me: Is it bad? Am I a traitor?
Sponsor: I've accidentally walked into that one and have also walked out. Being in either one is ok... Alanon might be helpful with upcoming trip home.
Me: Maybe HP [higher power] wants me here? Accident on purpose?
Sponsor: NO!! LOTS of people overlap. If you speak, don't address yourself as an alcoholic. Just intro as "Lola"
Sponsor: Exactly. There are no accidents.

I actually heard some really good words and stories. It wasn't all alcoholic-bashing at all. In fact, it was about anonymity - leaving the personality at the door. Principles before personalities. I felt a bit justified for being in the room because my mom's an alcoholic, but it didn't matter. What mattered is that everyone is trying to get through life with some issues at hand. It was just what I needed today.

Then, I came home for a bit and headed out. Tonight was my first sober social event. This woman E had invited me to her place for dinner with friends. I took the metro out, with a good book in tow (Dry - A Memoir; by Augusten Burroughs, the writer of Running with Scissors). Then, despite E's offers, I walked the mile to her apartment building. I needed the cool air to clean my brain for the evening. The dinner was great, the company was so-so (some ego-acting, some bad jokes, but overall some really sympathetic and kind folks), the dessert was amazing (gluten-free German chocolate cheesecake). And, I was so humbled and overwhelmed by E's generosity - she gave everyone gifts. I got a thumb drive with This American Life mp3s, a rubik's cube, a million chocolates, and some vanilla spray scent. I brought her a bag of chocolates that I had basically already eaten from but felt compelled to bring something and I'm just not in the head-space to plan right now. Such a chump.

Then, one of her guy friends gave me a ride home. It's so strange to be around men right now. It's almost as if I'm a Mormon or something, or a 13-year-old at a Baptist school dance. No one really looks at each other. No one touches. The guys as they left the party waved. The girls gave me hugs. At one point, one of the girls who is dating one of the boys, was all huggy on him and he somewhat pushed her off - as if he didn't want to demonstrate affection in front of me. Not that there's not affection between alcoholics - don't get me wrong. I mean, the guy friend who helped me find my first AA meeting is also a pretty kinky, wild guy - after all, we did start our friendship trading sex stories and kink advice.

But there's this tension. And, I think it has more to do with me than them. See, I'm all newly sober and that means I'm super raw and exposed - able to cry faster than a speeding bullet. It also means that I'm not a whole person at all. I'm between some drunk girl who swallowed all her emotions and packed them deep down into the back of a cavernous closet and a girl aiming for sobriety who is finding out who her real self is - the self that feels things, is honest (more real than my fame-claimed "brutal honesty"), and has gone through the pink cloud out to the blue cloud to the black cloud to the white cloud while staying sober. Right now, I'm too new. I'm not to be trusted, but to be hoped for. I'm also highly lacking in sexual intimacy (21 days sobriety PLUS 21 days prior that of not sleeping with anyone which equals 42 fucking days of no fucking! Probably the longest I've gone in almost a year). So, I'm all oozing and radiating and pulsing attraction, while also emitting crazy-girl-supreme. I'm certainly not pouring myself over men, or even touching them, because I just feel too... well, Mormon. I'm all new and confused, and dangerously unstable.

I was walking home from work on Thursday night. Thinking I'd take the bus home and go to a later meeting because I was sick and planning the doctor visit on Friday morning. As I was leaving the building, this guy who works there left with me. We'd chatted a couple times before - once when I met him as the CFO was departing the agency and once walking out to head home. We briefly chatted the second time and I recall commenting (pre-sober girl) that I agree to working hard and playing hard. He had no idea that Thursday me was new me and as I was parting to go to the bus stop he asked if I'd like to grab a drink. I was totally caught off guard. I said that it was a nice invitation but I'm really sick and just heading home to rest blah blah. Well, could we grab one another time? I said sure, that'd be nice. (Dumb dumb dumb, but I'm not about to tell co-workers that I'm an alcoholic, just joined AA and well, I'm not even a month sober.) I'll have to figure out a plan for this one. He called me today and I begged out of a long phone call with heading out the door to dinner (not a lie) and that maybe it would be best to tag up after the holidays since I'm trying to lie low because my dad's not in the best of health and I want to get healthy (not a lie). Postponed for now. I'll chat my sponsor up about how to handle this.

But there's more to it. I'm not ready to share my personal changes with anyone at work, but also I'm totally damaged goods.

As Augusten wrote (post-rehab, first time back in NYC):

While I'm doing tricep kickbacks, my face ready to burst capillaries, a handsome guy doing squats smiles at me. Nods his head. I immediately look away, feeling very much like damaged goods. Because even though I'm in public like a normal person now, I am still removed from society. I imagine how our coffee conversation might go.

Squat Man: So, tell me about yourself.
Me: Well, I just got out of rehab. And went to the first of the AA meetings I will have to attend for the rest of my life.
Squat Man: Hey that's great, man. Good for you. Listen dude, I gotta run. Nice talkin' with ya. Good luck. Ciao.

Like cubic zirconia, I only look real. I'm an imposter. The fact is, I'm not like other people. I'm like other alcoholics. Mr. Squat can probably go out, have a couple drinks and then go home. He might even have to be talked into a third drink on a Friday night. Then on Saturday morning, he might have a slight hangover. I, on the other hand, would have to be talked out of a thirteenth drink on a Monday. And I wouldn't wake up with a hangover. Just a certain thickness that only after rehab, only after waking up without this thickness, did I realize was a hangover. A comfortable hangover, like a pair of faded jeans or a favorite sweater with too many fur balls on it.

I go down to the locker room. In the shower I think about how I'm a drunk that doesn't get to drink. It seems unfair. Like keeping a Chihuahua in a hamster cage.

It's true. This is one the of the great truths to early sobriety - and long-term alcoholism. Sure, my sponsor has a great boyfriend she's been with for a year. Sure, alcoholics get married or partner up for life or for however long. They fall in love, they have kids or dogs or go traveling the world. They find happiness and sadness and joy and pain. But this does not happen in early sobriety. In early sobriety - I feel and have heard - the only people who get me/us are other alcoholics. Our drinking friends don't like us hanging out with a drink or two in us (I have yet to try this as, frankly, I don't have any drinking buddies in DC who equaled my drink-to-drink intake - and honestly, I'm not interested in finding them back in Minneapolis or Madison or Paris or anywhere.) Our "normie" friends (as you normal folks so affectionately called - those people who can have 1 beer a night or go weeks without drinking or have a beer a night or a few drinks and call it enough) don't get us unless they have alcoholic friends also. It's like when my school chum/work colleague didn't get it when I said I drank like it was water. Literally. Toward the end of things I'd have about 10 empty bottles for recycling after 7 days. And I remember pouring one glass of wine after work and sitting here, in front of the internet, getting up, pouring another, sitting down, getting up, pour another, over and over, like I was on rinse repeat. Or, like, when my sister said, "But you're not like mom." Sure, I didn't want to be visibly drunk like my mother. Toward the end of a night, she got mean sometimes. Growly. Touchy about every little comment. Slurry. Sometimes affectionate in a misdirected, accidental, sloppy way. I kept it contained and hidden during the work week. And on weekends, I had to have a few drinks before doing anything: seeing my ex, hanging out with friends (rarely done, a lot of excuse-making there).

The only people who can understand where I'm at when I break down in tears (with no real reason for them, no memory, no instigation), or when I feel shy reading the preamble, or when I hide my face, or when I beam with temporary joy, or when I'm terribly afraid - the only people who get why are other alcoholics. It's not just the same fears and emotions that regular folks have. It's an unpeeling of a giant onion that I've become with all my emotions pushed deep down.

One of the speakers I heard recently focused her talk on anger. How she'd find release for her anger when she drank, which landed her in several overseas jails and in fights. I never ended up in the latter two, and I don't see myself as an angry drinker, but my sister said on the phone, after I told her the first time, "I guess I can see it. I always wondered why you were so angry sometimes." I actually shared this with the group (a big group, too) following the speaker's lead. That I don't remember being an angry drunk (they laughed - of course, I don't), but that I'm looking forward to doing certain Steps to uncover that and also to speaking with those affected and asking for forgiveness. I know I was angry sometimes because I remember some raucous tangles with pdh and James, and the random screaming and singing at the pier in the dead of winter.

And, as the speaker said, her anger was just a result of a deep, deep loneliness. Alcoholics are some of the most isolated isolationists. We're all overly sensitive and supremely insecure. And while I'm going through this strange unraveling of that and the buried hurts, and becoming real again and learning to feel feelings and let them be normal, I really don't think I can be around other people much. Even tonight, sober around other alcoholics was difficult. I wasn't sure how to communicate, when to laugh and when to not take things too seriously, when to offer to help, or when to smile. After dinner, as we sat around with our stocking presents and chatted, I felt compelled to play with the rubik's cube. Focus on this object instead of the overwhelming need to cry for the amazing generosity of E for giving me gifts. Focus on this plastic toy instead of interact with all this conversation I felt disengaged from. I kept looking at the clock the whole time. I wasn't thinking about drinking, nor was I craving a drink. But I was craving the isolation and safety of my apartment. And, while I was outside having a smoke with one of the guys, he counseled me that I should keep doing this - keep socializing, keep getting together with people to get out of the bubble, to be normal again.

It's good advice.

But for now, one moment at a time. Revel in the debutante socializing, sip chamomile tea, and go to bed - so I can go to the meeting tomorrow, see my sponsor, and maybe try hanging out again.

the rollercoaster

2010-12-12T09:19:00.003-05:00

To my sponsor last night:

So, the meeting for celebrations was cool. I don't understand why ... or maybe I do why people ask others to speak for them on their anniversary: fellowship. It was all great. I was enjoying it and then [insert name of girl] invited me to the frozen yogurt place and I was all worried about catching the bus home. [insert name of girl] offered a ride but I wanted to get home - not sure why. Part of my brain was like in the Dupont meeting: don't rush out for the bus, just enjoy being with these people and relax. But I also wanted to get home to sleep for tomorrow's meeting in the AM. And then she and I were talking about where we work and things and that I should meet Amy who lives near me and she should be coming to the table soon and then [insert name of girl] asked what I was doing next weekend - that she was having some people over. And my brain froze into fear.

I thought back to one of the speakers tonight talking about his recovery and how he went into a meeting for young people (after being a tough kid alcoholic for so long) and all these guys came up and gave their numbers and one kid asked him if he was free tomorrow. He said, "no, I'm busy" (just to put off the kid from asking him to hang out). How about the next day, "busy." Then the kid said, "how about next Wednesday" (knowing this guy wouldn't plan so far in advance) and he said, "I guess I'm free." And the speaker took that point into how isolationist alcoholics are and I really identified with that so strongly. So, when [insert name of girl] asked me to come over I thought of that, and panicked. She said, it'll be fun, don't worry, we're just going to play games and stuff. And then I told her what I was thinking of and she thought I was kind of joking (and I was - kind of). And then I panicked. I haven't hung out with people - socializing - since Thanksgiving and that was before the me now. And I kind of teared up and she hugged me, and then Alice sat down, and I had to run to catch my bus.

What is wrong with me?!?! I mean, I know - from all the readings. But omg, I had no idea I was such a social phobe! And when she asked, I had to think, what am I doing next weekend? Well, nothing because I don't go out to drink anymore. Hell, I didn't even go out to drink before. I drank and then went to visit [the ex-boyfriend] to make out or hang out, but always after drinking. If I went out with friends after work it was to dinner and to drink - and then more drinking when I got home. Even Thanksgiving dinner with friends was a few glasses of wine and then get out of there to come home to drink. I mean, I had a verifiable panic attack at [insert name of girl] inviting me over. I know she understood, but omg. I don't even know what to think right now. It's so weird. So weird. I feel so tightly wound up, so cloaked. So contained. So trying to keep it together - look good, smile in the meetings, make jokes like I'm okay, have happy days and think it's all good. So held together. I can't even imagine just sitting in a meeting and crying - too many people would see me! I'd be so exposed! I know that's the point of it... as the same speaker said, "It's not about saving face, it's about saving your ass." But I don't know... this whole 5 minutes of panic is so weird.

Socializing - a group of people not in a meeting, but actually doing something together - without booze. So weird how I reacted. So weird.

I must be tired. All this rambling.

14 Days!

2010-12-11T11:16:00.005-05:00

Today is the 14th day sober. Whew!

What a crazy thing I'm doing. Trying not to think about it in the grand scheme of things, because the bigger picture, the longer-term is too overwhelming. Never drink again? But I never had beers at the German restaurant down the block! I never had whiskey on the rocks at Old Ebbitt Grill, never had a last sake, won't have champagne at New Years, won't be able to order the wine online that I'd purchased through groupon (gave it away as a gift), etc... Thinking of the future or the potential future that could have been is too overwhelming - and not necessary. The one-day-at-a-time thing works for me right now.

Thursday was a good day. I spoke at a meeting with the them of "joy of living". Told everyone how happy I felt compared to weeks ago, how I feel new and confused but joyous. Of course, folks pointed out that I was on a thing called the pink cloud

Then comes a day, followed by a series of days or weeks, where the addict or alcoholic experiences acceptance. He or she is excited at the prospect of what recovery from addiction and alcoholism has to offer and feel as if they have grasped what it takes to maintain quality recovery. All the work they have done in their addiction treatment center and self help group has paid off and they experience a reprieve from all the difficulties that have crossed their path. This reprieve, which is actually a feeling, lasts but for a period of time and as with any feeling, comes and goes. As this feeling of excitement and acceptance passes, the risk for relapse is great as the addict or alcoholic begin to doubt the quality of their recovery. They become scared and thoughts of their drug addiction or alcoholism reappear. Addicts and alcoholics will experience this “pink cloud” phenomenon many times in recovery. They become more committed to their relapse prevention program as their ability to cope up with feelings and situations increase and hence less likely the relapse is to occur.

but then...

[[[I didn't finish this post... the pink cloud is enough.]]]]

Higher Power part deux

2010-12-08T21:53:00.000-05:00

So, my sponsor thought my writing was nice, but lacked any real description or connection to me. True that. I guess I was just setting the scene for the more difficult work.

It's a bit more difficult, too. I haven't really thought of a higher power in a long time. Sure, when I can't find my keys, I scramble around muttering, "God, please please please help me find my keys. Please?" But I don't really picture a God or the blonde bearded guy in a toga.

"Some people," she said "believe their higher power is a judging one. Or, a scolding one like a parent." I was picturing the poor souls that have been tortured by Catholic school. I shook my head. No. No.

So, what do I imagine when I think about it? What's the puppet master look like behind the tree? What kind of sentiments do I attach to this energy?

It's difficult to pinpoint, although, if I'm truly honest with myself, I do think of a man in form. Sometimes, I think of my uncle who died of a brain tumor. Or, sometimes my grandfather. But they aren't really higher powers, I guess, since they're just spirits that watch over me.

So, to stick to the traits then. My higher power isn't condemning or shaming. It's more of a comforting lap with eyes of slight heart break. The world isn't pretty and what I do isn't always either. It's not disappointment, but it's heart break. That this higher power can see through my facade and see my pain, and his eyes are sad for that.

He's got a bosom filled with warmth and light for me.
Light. I was walking down the stairwell at work and the sunlight hit me. Light. Warmth.

Forgiving. Encouraging. Challenging, but not disciplinarian. Disciplined but not strict. Powerful - moving the great winds and stirring the oceans.

Holding hands in the circle at the end of a meeting saying the serenity prayer. My higher power is in the strength of unified voices. In humanity.

For the longest time, and still today, I hold a contempt for the stereotype of organized religion. So much of it is "let God take control." And, while I admitted that I try to control too much in my life (and I recall over and over how someone once said that bdsm submissives are often huge control freaks), I am also one to take charge of my life. Too many times I have heard or seen people who sit back and say, "let God handle it", and then don't act on what they need or desire. There is still free will and one of the things I think that the higher power gives us humans is the power to help ourselves.

That said, I do need to turn some of it over. Clearly, I can't control other people, the weather, cancer, the pop charts, conspiracies, wars, sunshine, my drinking. My drinking. I've been thinking a lot about this, too. Why I drank. When I drank. How I drank. When it escalated. How it got to be routine and not enough. There are no definitive points, but there are stages.

I started when I was fifteen. Sure, my parents were folks who allowed us sips here and there so as not to raise deprived, overly-curious kids who binged just to rebel. But I still did that. High school: I remember vomiting a fair amount in bars in Argentina. Back in the US, I was best friends with Mormons for 6 months in Oklahoma and didn't drink at all - that I recall. In Wisconsin, it's all we did for fun - and other exploratory activities. At that point, it gave me courage - to talk to boys, to make out with men, to be adventurous. College: I tried to be vegan and straight-edge but that didn't work. Dropped out of college and drank with the punk rockers in our house - and drank a lot. 40 ounces on the porch, jack and coke in the basement shows. When I moved in with the old man, it was to lube up my mind, release, be underage and drink in bars with him and his 30-year-old friends. Back in college, again it was to party, to get crazy, to spite my parents. Study abroad in Spain and it was heavy drinking. Shots and shots. My dad made a scrapbook of all my postcards and emails. I'm terrified to really look back on those days. Then, I moved in to my own apartment back stateside. And it became bar partying and drinking at home. And it progressed. And progressed.

More recently, I think about being at my parents' house when I got back from Paris. I drank moderately with them: 2 glasses of wine at dinner. But that was fine because I'd brought a delicious bottle of Irish whiskey back from my stop-over in Dublin. It was stashed under my bed and I ran through it at night. And on the weekends, I made sure to go visit friends in other cities. Back at my parents' and it was 2 glasses at dinner, then a glass from my mom's box wine hidden under the sink (yes, she's an alcoholic, a fact that the whole family is aware of - when I told my sister I'm an alcoholic and I've been going to AA she said, "But... you're nothing like mom."), and then another glass for good measure, and more days with friends. When I went to visit them over 4 July weekend, we were playing bananagrams and my mom had bought some cheap margarita mix thing - something I would have turned my nose up to before, but now it seemed fun and yummy. And I kept pouring. And pouring. We were having fun and I wanted to be chill. I wasn't smoking and I wanted to relax. I wanted to not care that my sister and I are competitive. I wanted to lose control over the tenseness around my dad's health.

Control. I can't hang on to it. I don't have it. So, I've got to give it to someone. And I wasn't always such a control freak. Younger me was more spontaneous, flowing freely with whatever happened, accepting the changes in life.

So, my higher power. I need my higher power to take control and have the control to help me when I can't. Stronger than me.

Blessing. Amazing. Goes without saying this super higher power superhero is omniscient, omnipotent, etc... Proud of me when I succeed at recognizing what my path is and act on it. Creator of destiny, but allows me to find my way to it - and hopes I recognize it when I realize it. Gift and wish granter. Caring. Teacher - helping me to learn from my suffering and challenges, that those are great growth periods. Has an understanding greater than I do: of the reasons why, of the how, of the why nows, of the interaction of molecules and electrons, of life and death. Oh, and likes really good music, great food, and has the coolest, most super intelligent friends.

At least, that's it for now.

Day 12... whew...

2010-12-08T21:00:00.000-05:00

To my sponsor:

Busy day, but got out in time and made the meeting. Mr. X was there, we re-introduced. He asked how I was doing (as did Mr. Y - from across the room) and how many days. I told him I was doing good, really good, and just waiting for the other shoe to drop. "well at least you'll be sober if it does," he said. :)

Listened to some good folks. We read from Living Sober about letting the ego go. I was thinking more about how I want to be selfish these days and how I am. I'm leaving work earlier than I used to, telling friends thanks but let's check in later, and living it as I can. Me. Me. Me time. I was actually sitting in the meeting and checking the bus times during the break, thinking that I would ditch early to make the bus instead of waiting 1/2 hour like the past 2 nights. But then I thought, what have I got to rush to? I'll just have more time to kill - granted, I can always find good ways to kill it (read, hang on the web, etc), but it would also free up time to consider drinking (not really a thought too much). So, I relaxed and listened and was present, and figured that 1/2 hour wouldn't kill me. When I got the bus stop I saw the 37 that is limited stop up Mass to WI. Wow! Not sure if that was Providence, but awesomeness. Bad traffic gave me more time to read the Drinking: A Love Story book, too.

Walked to Whole F for yogurt, walked past the booze and thought, wow, that's a lot of wine there. Got my yogurt, treated myself to some truffle cheese (so yum - try it if you haven't!! it's in season now!), walked past my old friend the liquor store, bought smokes (not smoking much ATM, but didn't want to stress it if I was craving), and came home. All chill. Chopped my garlic for the leftover pasta, was doing dishes and the pot with the garlic fell off the stove and a mess. But I was like, no worries --- I'm realizing a lot of my drinking was under the premise of letting go, losing control since I carry so much control all the time --- just let the water keep running, whatever, one hand in front of the other, clean it up, chop some more garlic and voila!

So, there's my check-in. Now, I'm scarfing dinner and will hit the sack in an hour. All good. All good.

Hope you had a marvelous day. See you tomorrow!

Hugs,
L.

Day 11

2010-12-07T21:43:00.000-05:00

And, yes, I'm counting.

This one lady in my AA meeting tonight said that she's been sober for 60 days, and everything just seems so much more clear - to her eyes and ears and senses - and she's not sure she likes it.

For the first week - ie, last week (OMG, that seems so long ago already) - I was a mess. I couldn't sleep. I could barely eat. I felt all jittery on the inside and a tsunami of tears was behind my eyes ready to break out any moment. This week, I feel good. I feel damn good. Work is lame right now and slow and I'm having a difficult time adjusting to my new big boss. But I'm not pushing it too hard, because it's perfect that I'm in a downturn at work while I figure out the other half of my life. I've had time at work to ponder, to doze a bit (not really doze, but close my eyes - which is a treat in this fast-paced world), to think about my HP (higher power).

My sponsor got back to me on my previous writing and pointed out that something was missing. I knew it already so I jumped in and interrupted her and finished the thoughts we were both having. I didn't connect this HP to me. How do I really see it? A condemning God? A punishing, Catholic school-y, mean nun God? A big, jolly, belly Buddha? I thought about this a lot the other night. Even sat on a pillow with my legs crossed and fingers in zen position, right in front this awesome part-melancholy and part-wise, framed pencil sketch of a Native American (chief? elder? shaman?). I sat there asking, "Who is my god? Where is my god?" over and over in kind of a chant. It lasted 30 minutes and then I had to go to bed. (Ok, I confess, not bed, I wanted to finish the last episode of Weeds.)

But nothing is coming. No lightning bolt, no angels on harps, no awakening. Another person tonight said, "Believe that you will understand, and then you will understand what you believe." Or something like that. I should have written it down. She attributed it to St. Augustine, but the world wide says that his quote is: "Seek not to understand that you may believe, but believe that you may understand." Ah, alcoholics, we make shit up and think it's deep.

Anyway, I'm not seeking, but I'm pondering.

Week 2. Week 2 and I'm pondering and have a cold. The fact that I have meetings to go to helps a ton. I can focus on work, then have a solid deadline to get out of the office. Then, I have a safe place where I can truly be me and say dumb shit or not make sense or stumble over words as I read them. I can listen to the joys of possibilities and hear the tears of the new seekers. I feel good. I haven't craved any booze, but I know the day might and will come. But I have an amazing safety net around me wherever I go: about 12 phone numbers of women and men who know what this is like, get it, don't judge, and have offered to be woken at the crack of dawn or midnight if ever I need someone.

In the meantime, of those I've told, my sister has been amazing. She asked a friend of hers in town where the AA meetings are and sent me a long list. So nice of her. I've had a couple of other friends offer to hang out - go to the zoo or a museum or a walk or coffee. One of my friend's dad died recently. I really wanted to take him up on his offer to hang out. Likewise, another friend who just wanted to come by and give me a hug. These folks are all "normal," non-alcoholics. I want to say yes, but I'm just not ready.

I called my sponsor and discussed this briefly. Is it okay that I'm not ready? Is it weird? She said no, that right now I'm an open and raw nerve, and the security of the group meetings is safety for me right now while I process and change (physically and mentally). It's not that AA's a cult and they ban me from engaging with other folks, it's purely my decision. And right now, I'm feeling a different kind of selfish, self-focus. When I was drinking I was also selfish and self-focused, but a different kind. A hurtful, non-caring kind. But this, now, is recovery. I need to find my core personality, who I was before I started drinking 20-odd years ago. Granted, I can't and don't want to return to a 15-year-old, but I've been washing down and stuffing down and numbing down my own emotions and feelings that now I've got to find them again. Let them breathe and be.

In the meantime, I'm just not ready to hang out or chat with those folks who don't suffer this disease, don't understand the compulsion, the need to keep drinking - one or two glasses won't do, I wanted more, I wanted all of it. And the hurt that I caused other people, without realizing it at all. (That step comes later.) The hurt that I caused myself, without realizing it, too. For, now that's where I'm starting. At the beginning. Opening the closets, airing out the rooms, unlocking all the trunks, peeling the layers off. And, while I'm doing that, I need to do it with other people who have done it and know the monsters, the dust, the nightmares, the buried jewels, the fears, and the ocean of tears that will be unleashed with this new decision.

Higher Power

2010-12-04T20:53:00.004-05:00

Sponsor homework: Who/what/how is your Higher Power? Describe.

A lot of AA is based in a "higher power" with the underlying idea being that alcoholics aren't able to control their drinking or stay away from the addiction without trusting in something other than themselves or other people. I'm not ready to do research on the program to dispute its process or history, controversies, or failures. I don't care about that right now. Right now, I care about staying sober, because last week was struggle in a bottle and that didn't make me happy, and because - as I'll weed through at a future time - my past was trapped in that bottle and my addiction really directed a lot of my choices and actions, a lot of which didn't make me happy. But, no, AA is not Christian-based or religion brainwashing. If anything, AA and its creators were lazy. They went with the old standard of "God 'as we understand him'". It's that last part on which the current AA - and I - agree.

But I've already been in touch with the idea of a higher power. I was raised Lutheran and when I turned 18 I told my father that I didn't want to go to church anymore. "What about just coming to sing the hymns?" "Dad, I don't agree with the words." So, he told me that every Sunday I'd have to go to a different religious location, learn, and come home and we'd discuss. (Very diplomatic of him.) I tried the Universalist Unitarians my first free Sunday. Bo-ring. And we really didn't attempt more after that.

But I've always been fascinated with what compels people to gravitate to religion, how religions have been formed, how they've evolved, and what principles they try to convey (and how those are often distorted by human interpretation or manipulation). Granted, I haven't immersed myself so deeply as to take a course or read all of the Bible or the Koran or what have you. But I've skimmed the surface or the foundations of the major ones. I tend to believe that the basic foundations of each one are pretty good guiding principles: don't fuck with other people so they won't fuck with you (aka do unto others as you want back to you), try not to kill, try not to maim, give love, think of the future sons and daughters of the earth, give thanks. That's like pretty much all of them there.

Building on that, I've identified with a lot of Buddhist ideas concerning karma, reincarnation, some of the suffering (craving often does lead to suffering for me in so many ways or another), and the noble truths. (Note, I said "identified" not practiced per se.) Then, there's the Taoist ideas of simplicity and harmony. The great dharma and deities of Hinduism. The amazing rituals of the Yoruba religion. The connectivity with earth and the sky found in Native American traditions, along with the totem guides I carry with me. The iconography in Catholicism with Mary as powerful producer of the Savior - not to mention the kick ass candles you can buy in Latino stores. The ritual of walk-about and spirituality within animals and nature in the Aborigine culture. Paganism and the celebration of the moon. The "Be Here Now" philosophy. And all the great leaders produced from all of these beliefs and faiths. Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, the Great Mother(s), etc...

All of these I have taken and melded into my own beliefs. But where have they gone, these directions to my life? Well, that's for another time. Today, it's the quest to find the connection, the encompassing orb, the guide, the cradled hand, the orientation, the whisper, and the light.

Although, as I ponder it, I think I melded all of those ideas and principles and pathways into me, which led me to think that I was my own god in a sense. I had all these tools and decided that I would wield them - alone. For, as we are born so will we die: alone. And I have believed that for a long time. And it has benefited me greatly. I have become very comfortable with myself, with being alone, with making decisions, with guiding myself. But I also became my own superhero, my own judge of what is right and wrong, when to lie or when to give, when to help another, when to accept others, and how much of all of these. Perhaps, that god-like feeling imploded in on me, in on the god.

But I digress (pun intended), and have strayed and wandered off. Literally and figuratively.

So, now to focus.

When my sponsor asked me to contemplate and meditate on my Higher Power (maybe not her exact words, but I know what she meant), I came home, boiled some water, poured some tea, smoked a cigarette, and found myself where I have found myself daily and nightly over the past 7.5 months. In my kitchen, staring out the window at the beautiful magnolia tree, still green leaved in December.

(photo taken: 6/14/2010)

I have always been taken by (and pulled to) trees. I remember going on Volksmarches with my dad in the forests of Germany. The tall pines in Italy, when my sister and I were tossing a frisbee and experienced an earthquake - looking up at the pines swaying. Hiding in the forest at night, playing truth or dare with some grade school kids, when we were caught and I was grounded because my parents thought I'd been kidnapped after dark. Watching my father saddled in a harness high up in a tree, chainsawing off branches, as I listed to "Little Red Caboose" on my pre-school record player. The thick density of the tropical jungle at Iguazu. The trees crashing in the wind of a night thunderstorm, while I moped on the golf course in Oklahoma. And then, the ultimate commune when I dosed in the hills of Wisconsin. The beauty of snow-covered branches in Minneapolis. The dry trees parted for logging roads in the hills near La Alberca, Spain (when I went off on my own for a weekend to hike and be at peace). The olive groves of Israel. The palm trees of the coast of Spain. The lush green covering Wisconsin. The weeping willows on my grandparents' farm in Minnesota. The ancient trees of Europe. The amazing autumn of DC.

They are my symbol of my higher power. They are my Shel Silverstein's "Giving Tree".

Trees pull the life blood of the world from the ground. They are grounded. They bend to the winds and rebound with the sun. They bleed sap and shelter without question. They hold strong in the storm and dance in the summer. They shed their leaves to provide protection to the smallest creatures.

And whoever or whatever made them could have produced them differently. Their construction could have been more like gigantic pussy willows, breaking at the slightest breath. They could have been born with man-eating jaws or Edward Scissorhands branches (and some are). Mother Earth, or God, or Allah, or Science could have let the trees down with their termination at the end of the Dinosaur Age. But they are life. And they are alive.

My higher power made these oxygen-providers, the intricate system that they are. My higher power created their composition and style, so that the great teachers of all time have been able to hold court and provide instruction to the learners of the ages. My higher power directed the trees to center in the dance of the witches, to grow under canopies of their elders, to lean together and form entwined branches, to age in broad circles, to tell the stories of the decades, to fall ill under a bug's menace, to crumble and break for the warmth of the first man and woman. My higher power wove photosynthesis and fruit. My higher power forced the roots up to crack and tear at sidewalks, which we thought were stronger than our own He-Mans. My higher power has watched the trees disappear and beamed on those crazy enough to take up camp to protect them. My higher power can make or break a tree with the smallest seed and the most firey shock of lightning. And can rain down life blood and can reign in chaos.

It will be to this power - and none other - that I will turn if I find myself without the path through the woods. If I can't see the forest for the trees.

Today

2010-12-04T17:40:00.003-05:00

Hey, [sponsor lady] -

I might end up writing you a lot, so don't feel the need to reply to everything. I just like writing...

So, I got the melatonin. I asked the pharmacist if 3mg of it was comparable to the Tylenol PM I'd been taking. She asked if I'd been taking it for a while. I nodded. A few days? More than that. A week? A lot more. Two weeks? Um, a lot more. Her eyebrows raised. Have you tried exercise or ... I've been taking them for a long long time. She came around the counter. Well, let's see if there's a smaller quantity for you to try. I told her I just joined AA and was trying to switch things up a bit and had been taking Tylenol PM for a couple of years (ahem). She's not sure they'll work, but I'm going to try tonight.

Then, I came home, wrote a short note to my friend about the day's meeting and took a nap. My sister called at 2:30pm. She told me about grocery shopping, how she's going to SF next weekend for a pre-birthday party celebration, and then she parked in the garage and I asked about her ex-fiance who still lives with her (she doesn't want to completely evict him until after the holidays - they've been together for 2.5 years and in therapy for most of that - he's definitely an alcoholic and he needs to move out to get his life in order because he still loves her and relies on her too much). Then, I asked if she had a minute and I told her I went to AA, told her about you (anonymity intact), about last weekend, about how much (more or less) I've been drinking. She was surprised. She asked all questions. She didn't understand how I had become an alcoholic and wanted to know what triggered the AA (she was afraid I'd crashed a car or killed someone; and how was I an alcoholic? I'm not like mom... heh). I told her that I tried not to be like our mom, as mom hides box wine in cupboards and gets slurry and sloppy and tense sometimes, and sometimes cold, and sometimes weepy. And in order to not be like mom, I told her, I also hid my drinking, but more like I'd drink a couple with people and then lay it on when alone. And, if she or someone lived with me, they'd see the box wine as my bottles of cheap wine that came in one night, out the next, in with more, etc... And, that, no, I hadn't killed anyone, but that I had a slow, sad slide into sadness and loneliness.

All in all it was good. I recommended she go to Al-Anon if she wanted to talk to people about anything. I told her it wasn't her fault (she tried to be my mom #2 when my mom was out of it most of the time). She cried that she knew it might be one of us as alcoholism is hereditary or whatever. She was sorry it was me. I told her not to be sad, that this is a gift that I have now - to pursue sobriety. We talked for a long time. I told her I was sorry, but that that step would come later. And that I was sorry that now she was surrounded by 3 alcoholics: mom, me, and her fiance. Merry Christmas! I said I wanted to tell her now because she'd be the one picking me up at the airport in a few weeks and that I'd ask to borrow her car to go to meetings and I'd have to explain it then, and I didn't want to tell her in a couple of weeks because it's her birthday, so ... I figured now would be best. That she could call me with any questions. That's it IS one day at a time so I'm aiming to stay sober, but I might fail and some do relapse, but I'm aiming for the 90 in 90. She asked about meetings - like, you don't HAVE to go forever, right? Heh... just my thoughts exactly, but I told her that I find comfort in them and that the guy who spoke on Friday was in his 50s and in his first 2 years of sobriety went to like 500 meetings a year. Count that up!

She knows about alcoholism and AA (somewhat), because she's the one who would research it all over the years when dealing with our mom. I told her none of this is her fault (kind of cutting to the chase on Step 8 a bit) and she knows this. She's super supportive and we're both, actually, super supportive. I told her I don't want her to freak out over this and that I'm here for her if she needs to talk to me. She said likewise, and she's not freaked out, she's super happy and proud of me.

The interesting thing to me is that I'm realizing more and more that all these people that I thought would have CLEARLY known, don't. After a while of talking she started to make some connections (that I have yet to make) between my past behavior and this new realization. Interestingly, she said she wondered sometimes why I was angry with her and now she knows it's nothing she was doing. I was angry with her a lot over my life, but I never chalked it up to being an alcoholic... guess that will come with more in-depth Step 8.

Anyway...

Now, I'm listening to This American Life, knitting, and thinking about going to the 7pm meeting. But I'm also still tired and want to make some headway on this scarf.

At the end, she and I realized how lucky we both are to have supportive families. To have each other.

As I'm lucky to have you, [sponsor lady]. Thanks again for today!

Tonight...

2010-12-03T21:42:00.002-05:00

- At 10:30pm (or so, as I was wasted and don't remember the exact time of my last drink), I will have been sober for 7 days.

- I told a room of about 100 people that I'm an alcoholic.

%%%%%%%

I look back at last Friday's texts. There was some guy I thought would be good for a lay. But it was 7:30pm and I was half into the bottle of wine and knew I wouldn't be able to "get it up" to party unless I had some of the good ol' whiskey. I busted over to the liquor store at 8:30pm because they close at 8:45. Got the gold, already very tipsy. Texted back and forth with this guy, who wanted me to go cab out to a bar across the street from his place in Arlington - he was even going to pay. But I couldn't find the mojo (I was about to get my period and was trying to force it). So, I downed about a quarter of the bottle, told him I'd take a shower and be on my way. Still, couldn't find the inertia to get in a cab and go over there. So, I texted that I'd cut my leg shaving. I suggested he come over. He had had 3 cups of coffee and was about to drive over. Shit, I'd have to have a cut leg. So, I told him I hadn't cut my leg but come on over!

"I'm sorta confused between the bloody leg lying and invite - I'm not starved for women and it doesn't sound right - I'm gonna pass.. Wish you well"

It wasn't that this was some monumentous statement. It wasn't anything but me being crazy ol' me again.

But for some god awful reason, I woke up at 5:30am on Saturday and couldn't go back to sleep. I was lying cross-wise in my bed, looking out the bedroom window. For weeks, for months, for years now, I've been telling myself I have to stop this. I have to stop drinking so much. I have to get back into the gym. I have to stop smoking. I have to stop. Stop. Stop. And for the past weeks it's been stronger inside me.

Sure, I've been hungover at work. Hell, probably 300 days of the year for 6 years I was hungover to some degree at my old job. But now, now I've got some really kick ass job doing some really up-the-ladder stuff and I had already - in the 7.5 months I've been here - called in "sick" twice and suffered 2 days of hiding a supreme hangover. And it wasn't going to go unnoticed for long. So, I'd been telling myself over and over, I have to stop this. In August, I switched up and decided no more whiskey during the week. I had spent an entire day in a training, sweating, feeling sick, needing a gallon of water, and blushing profusely every time I had to or wanted to speak in front of the group. This does not a leader make. Nor does it make a normal person.

But switching over to wine didn't stop the crazy. Instead, it was an entire bottle a night. White, on the warmer days - also didn't stain my lips as much. Red, cheap red when it got cooler. I was getting the shits, the runs, the drippy piles in the toilet. "Eh, must be a bad bottle of wine. I'll buy a slightly more expensive one tonight." I was struggling to wake up, feeling like dry heaving in the morning, I couldn't brush my tongue with my toothbrush without gagging and thinking for sure I was going to toss my coffee -- no, not food, couldn't eat until at least 9am.

Still, when I was at work, I was a highly functioning employee. It didn't necessarily affect any of my product, but it did create a double-layer of shame and insecurity. I'm working with executives who manage and strategize for the whole agency. Completely out of my element. And the people who put me there, or got me there, thought I could handle it. And I could (can), to some extent. But I was regressing, feeling more obvious about how hungover I was, thinking they all knew how much I was drinking. And I know they knew. How could they not?

How could anyone not?

A major turning point was the photo. The group photo from Thanksgiving. Me and 6 of my friends, smiling above the turkey success and pot luck beauty. No, I wasn't belligerent. No, I wasn't wasted. In fact, I only drank about 2 glasses of wine that night (because like most who hide their drinking, they drink few in front of anyone, and a ton on their own). But, my face. My bloated, cherub, fat face. Where had my eyes gone? Where had the nice, soft wrinkles and crow's feet gone? Where had the definition in my cheekbones gone? Who knows what was going on inside this sack of flesh! A few days my liver had ached - mostly after a weekend of a whole bottle of whiskey. But the shits. The runs. Clearly, a bodily sign to my brain in denial.

%%%%%%%%%

So, there I was. 5:30am on Saturday. I went back to sleep after an hour of swearing I had to do something to change. When I got back up, I spent the morning scouring the AA websites. I'd done this a couple of weeks before, and answered more than my fair share of yeses to the "Are you an alcoholic?" quizzes. Yet, for some reason, this time it hit me. I kept reading and I started crying. Crying and crying and crying. Not bawling, but sobbing. Sobbing hard. The hardest and longest cry I've had in years - and the most sober cry. The cry lasted all weekend, and is still hanging out behind my eyes waiting for more opportunities. But between that, I sent an email.

There was this guy. I can't even remember now how we found each other.... alas, the gmail search answers all. We met on a dating site, but never actually got around to meeting in real life. We started exchanging emails about 2 weeks after I moved here. So, for 7.5 months I've been chatting on and off with this guy as we traded bdsm stories (he was starting to explore more and I was trying to find outlets in DC) and sex tales. And, I recalled that during one of our infrequent chats - maybe the 100th in planning to meet up - that he invited me out for drinks. That he didn't drink, but I could.

So, I saw him online, in the midst of all my sobbing (tissue box next to me) and pinged him:
Me: I have a non-sexy question for you.
Him: Shoot
Me: You mentioned to me once that you used to drink but don't anymore. Are you in AA?
Him: Yep, almost 2 years
Me: Is the hardest step actually going to the first meeting?

I had found the meeting page for DC AA and was planning on going to one for beginners that Tuesday. It was Saturday, and I was a wreck.

Him: Perhaps. Are you ready?
Me: It's on Tuesday. I'm ready now. I'm not sure that I'll be ready again on Tuesday.
Him: Where are you going. Who are you going with.
Him: It's a great thing you are doing. It saved my life.
Me: XYZ Place. If I'm interpreting correctly. (They really need a direct link that says "Newbies here")
Me: I'm going with myself.
Me: Thanks and I'm glad.
Him: Chat me

We chatted for a while. He said he would meet me there if I wanted. I said okay. Then, I asked if I should toss all the booze in my apartment. He said: Do it. Now. And tell me when you're done.

Me (as ever the documentarian, I took photos and sent them): 1 flask washed out.
dumped, washed out, recycled: 3 wine bottles, 1 whiskey.
trashed: a George Washington blended whiskey package with shot glass (couldn't think of anyone to gift it to ATM). thanks for the support.
Him: That is Fucking awesome. I am really happy for you. Fuck yeah.

He told me to check in with him that day. And he checked in with me. Then, he said to ping him when I woke up on Sunday. Instead, at 8:30am, he pinged me on my phone that there was a meeting at a place closer to me that day.

I got up and checked. I made it to the noon meeting. I almost threw up all over myself just walking up the 24 stairs to the door. When I got there, I was in shambles. I was terrified. I was shaking. I was still crying. A guy greeted me and welcomed me and told me where the meeting would be and where the bathrooms were. I headed for the bathroom as I started to cry. Sent my friend a text from the stall that I was freaking out, it was weird. He told me to go to the meeting. Someone came into the bathroom, and when I came out, she said, "Are you Lola?... Yeah, I know it's weird, but someone told me a new person was in here..." I started to cry. She asked if I was safe, did I want a hug, I nodded. She gave me her number and took mine down and said she'd been at the earlier meeting but would call me later. (A typical scene for a newcomer: all kinds of people - usually same-sex - give you their numbers -- to call if the newbie thinks they might drink, if they need to talk to someone, if they need support, whatever.)

This woman is now my sponsor. She met me at three other meetings, and I went on my own to three. This last one, I finally got to meet my friend. After 7.5 months of flirting and then not flirting and just chatting, after being available for my break-down, after encouraging me to get to a meeting. We finally hugged and saw each other in real life. It was pretty damn cool.

And weird.

It's all weird.

I've told only a couple of people - mostly those that are far away from me (distance) or not too close (personal). It's only day 7. But I'm aiming for the 90 meetings in 90 days. I figure, a normal person could do it. Hell, normal people don't even drink a whole bottle of wine and top it off with a quarter of whiskey. So, 90 in 90 hopefully won't be too far of a stretch. That said, it's a complete restructure of my life: get up, go to work, go to a meeting, come home, read, sip tea, go to sleep. It's also a total restructure of my body. I'm exhausted. My eyes are tired and light seems brighter than before. My head aches often. My appetite is totally wack. My libido seems to be off on a vacation. My liver ached a lot on Sunday, but now it's quiet. This whole week has been sleep punctuated by sweaty tossing and turning and then chills. I'm not sleeping well, or enough. And on Tuesday, when I was thoroughly wiped, I wanted to bail on the meeting and sleep, but my friend told me to muster the energy. And for some strange reason I did and could. It wasn't the most amazing meeting by far, but it was a place to go and people to listen to, and another step in the process.

So, it's Friday. I'm sober. The headache is coming back. I'm exhausted and it's 10:30pm. No matter, I've got nowhere to be, no one to see, and nothing important except for this recovery. Tomorrow's a bright and early women's meeting. I'll see my sponsor and thank her again. It'll be 7 of 90, but as they say, one day at a time.

All Hallow's Eve tale

2010-10-16T21:43:00.002-04:00

Tis the season.
So, here's my story.

I was dating this guy in Minneapolis.

28 Nov 1994

To Lola

One black night
covers the day in white
The first snow
a season of white darkness
a season of long nights
and three hour days.
We move back to the
Womb, the cave
the introspective flip side
of green and blue.
the naked tree
the naked branch stands alone
the swollen fruit
its withered vine
the seeds have all fallen
covered to rot, to wait for spring
which has no place here.
<3: Crow.

Tuesday, March 23, 2004
strangest dream

reality first: i dropped out of college after freshman year because i was doing too many drugs and enjoying too much of life to really study anything. went from first quarter A's to third quarter C, D, and Withdraw. decided it'd be best on the family pocket if i dropped out and worked, found out what i wanted. during the spring i'd met a bunch of punk rock kids when i'd frequent the local co-op restaurant. it must have been mat. he invited me over. so i took his directions and hopped on the bus -- out of the safety of the fishbowl of university town into the real surrounding city. it was while riding the bus that i saw the outside world and how i was so alienated, even at big ten school in a big ten city.

mat lived with 4 other roommates. i remember there was pizza and tv, pot and conversation. after i dropped out of school i moved in with them. i was already dating someone within their circle so it fit in well. that summer i spent the majority of my time at adrian's apartment and not so much in the house where i paid for a room. i broke up with adrian because i smothered him too much and he'd met some cute skater chicks.

late summer of 1994 i met crow. i think he was just hanging around our house, knew my roommates.

i was a hippie punk skater then. hair dyed or long. phat pants and a phat skateboard. i had quit working at the YWCA in uptown near adrian's apartment and started at the co-op where i first met the non-conformists. crow was calm, tattooed, he called people 'brother' and 'sister', he had a sparse apartment with bongos and liked walking and finding old bikes and giving them away. he had dark hair and was my height, a gote, a perfect smile, and knuckles tattooed with L-O-V-E and H-A-T-E. i fell.

we'd been dating for a couple of months when he said he had something to tell me. we sat on my futon in the cramped bedroom, low on the ground, surrounded by a couple of candles.

and then he started his story. he wanted me to know the truth. he didn't know if i knew, but he wanted me to find out from him and no one else. "ok, crow, tell me." the year before he'd been in a dark place. (hard for me to imagine of this mellow, friendly hippie.) he came from a wealthy family and rejected it all. and he found himself in a very dark place, living with a friend who was in the punk scene and into dark ideas as well. they hung out at the hard times cafe.

one night they broke into the lakewood cemetery and walked through the gravestones. "i was in a dark place. i wanted to know more about death. what it looked like. how it felt. what it really meant." they found an open grave, dirt dug out, deep pit into the ground. crow climbed down into it and lay down. he said he could see the end of a casket and wanted to climb inside it. he didn't know how.

but this didn't satisfy their intrigue. their deep, dark, empty curiosity about death. so they decided they needed more. more information. hands-on information. they decided to go to "The Memorial Community Mausoleum and Columbarium at Lakewood offer alternatives for above ground entombment. The Mausoleum accommodates 3,000 crypts in corridors or semi-private alcoves. There are also several Columbarium rooms with more than 2,000 individual and family niches for cremated remains. The Pool of Reflections and adjacent garden crypts lie between the Mausoleum and Memorial Chapel."

and, according to his telling of it, they went at night. into the mausoleum. there were video cameras but they got in. and they searched. they found temporary crypts for bodies not yet buried. they found one. took the body out. put it in a large plastic bag and walked back out. they got on the bus. and i remember this clearly, "we rode the bus back to our apartment with the shoes sticking out of the top of the bag." "but, crow --... didn't anyone notice?! didn't anyone say anything?" "no, lola. i don't know why... no one asked us anything."

they took the body back to their apartment. he slept with it that night. and they explored it. not in any sexual manner, but in a pseudo scientific manner. "what happens to bodies when they die?" the next days they cut off the boy's head, hands, and feet to explore what they couldn't get out of themselves. crow reiterated how he was in a dark place and was out of that now. but at the time, he couldn't stand life, the living, and the living dead -- those business men on nicollet mall, the shoppers, and people not living with a full love of life. one day, he said, they went to the top of a downtown city building and threw brains over onto the passersby.

i sat there. listening. it was too out of my realm to understand. and too far away to comprehend. but coming out of his mouth so close to me.

they'd sworn to keep secret about these disturbing deeds. but his roommate, and partner in crime, started talking around hard times. the cops were investigating. his friend was talking. so they took the body and chopped it into smaller pieces and tossed it in the mississippi river. he wanted to get better.

his friend fled and crow fled. they were caught.

9 Oct 94
"While Crow put his bike in Tina’s car I made mention of how cute he was (is!) and she said he thought I was beautiful, too. I totally needed that, too. To hear I am beautiful. I was feeling very low lately. Very out of touch with myself. I've been consumed with doubt, fear, things negative. I was regressing into a shell like in middle school. Surrounded by people I'm in awe of -- physically, intellectually, and spiritually. It's sad that I can fall into such an unstable feeling of uncertainty and then become consumed by it. I start feeling negatively about myself - even when I am smoking pot. Worse when I'm smoking pot b/c it is then that all true feelings are revealed and increased -- shown through the opened doors of perception.

We all piled into a car and laughed heartily. We dropped Crow off at his grandparents and went to Nancy's... We drove back to Cafe Wyrd. We were to meet Crow there to then go to the Y for saunaing. We waited an hour and then realized he'd been sitting three tables ahead with his back to us! ... Crow and I sat in the back on the way to his home. I told him how I'd like to quit the YWCA and he mentioned how he and Chris, this paraplegic brother he takes care of, are looking for one other caretaker for trips to Mexico. So if the Riverside Co-op doesn't hire me and I'm ready to quit here then I could do it. I thought about it last night. Taking care of someone .. I don't know if I can , but I can do and be anything / anyone I want, right?"

sometime between then and 14 Oct 94:

"I don't know what the date is. But it is Thursday and I am up north on Snake Trail Road with Crow. We are cleaning out Chris', a quadriplegic whom Crow takes care of, cabin.

"Walking alone in his garden once, a poet saw a broad leaf move, revealing a tiny procession that bore a body on a rose-leaf bier. It was a fairy funeral."

14 Oct 94
"My fingers are filled with blood. Pushing their skin out. Filling up immensely.
I'm very happy and very confused. In a state of clueless anxiety and ever peaceful happiness. Crow -- Willy Crow Mojo. And Merry Sunshine. Together we have been.

One Sunday I walked into my house and found Jim calling Hazeldon in a very anxious negative energy. I walked into Tina's room and found her doing --- so yes, so, I've met Crow.

So, all my meeting of Crow and hanging with beautiful sisters happened on Saturday. On Sunday I got home and found 2 beautiful messages on my door -- both from Tina -- one on how the Riverside would enjoy my presence for a second interview at 6pm that evening. The other was about how her friend Crow called and would like me to call him, or he'd call me later.

I was ecstatic! I called Amtrak for prices on one-ways back from San Francisco. It would take 3 days. Then I called the Riv and accepted the 2nd interview -- the hiring interview! I then called Crow -- he was very surprised I called! I told him about the Riv and decided we'd see each other that night later on. -- So many days gone by -- so much happened. Well, long to short, Crow and I started hanging out more and more. That night he'd biked over and we went for a long walk into the graveyard by Uptown and around.

God, I dunno. In the past couple of days I got salmonella, called in sick to the Riv, quit the Y by telling them I was leaving for San Fran immediately (a lie) and drove up north with Crow to a cabin where we stayed Tuesday - Thursday.

It was beautiful. Deer, sunshine, reds, oranges, yellows, mice, wood-burning stove. Long walks to beautiful ponds painted in fall colors. Star-filled skies, sister moon, bathrooming in the outdoors - a primitive cabin. We cleaned out all this junk that a guy who was one of Chris' caretakers, Petrich, left there. He is schizophrenic and an "artist." He had all this creepy stuff -- funky collages, etc.. we slept together but did nothing. My body was burning to be touched, but we didn't and I'm glad.

We stopped at Kmart on our way there for a Janis Joplin tape -- just spontaneous. We stopped at Big Lake, MN, to wash a bit at a lake there. We were free. I didn't want to come back -- back from being tomboys, from rolling down hills, playing in the leaves, reading by a pond in the sunshine. My body needs to be out there.

So, Crow, he makes $1500/month by caring for this man, Chris. Crow lives on the second floor of this beautiful house that Chris owns. And for a while he was sleeping - nothing else - with another caretaker, Katie, who lives in the house. And from when he met me he called the night sleep arrangement off with her. But he eased into the transition quicker than she has. So I'm now in his home with big windows -- a round sun of leaves through one -- and wooden floors and cozy chairs. Katie is here and I can feel the anger and heart breaking. No matter how strong one is.. I can feel it.

And, man. Crow said Chris is looking for another caretaker. I'd love to -- flexible hours, live in the same house, freedom. But, man, I don't know.

I said in the woods near the studio/cabin that I wanted to leave my brain in the woods and only feel. I don't want to work. All I want to do is travel, be outdoors, eat, sleep and enjoy my Mother Earth. I don't want to have to pay rent or shit like that.

But the things that must be done with/for Chris.. tough."

15 Oct 94 Sunday
"I am at Crow's but my mind and body are tense with elsewhere. My head aches and i feel lonely -- a state which only I can cure. Crow is eating with his roommates -- a private moment for them, as I see it. I don't want to interrupt -- I want to leave to better light and more space. I am about to embark on a journey. A chapter of my life has ended and I am starting another. I have known Crow for a week and he has respected me and my body and my space and frame of mind. It is a struggle -- being with someone and giving them the freedom to be free. ...

"Crow. A wonderful person. He says what he most appreciates in me is my androgyny -- man/woman likeness. It is the same for me. In his facial features to his walk to his ideas. He is wonderful. He is earth, water, wind, fire. He has traveled, he has stayed. He's lived with nothing but the clothes on his back. He has been rich. He plays drums that stir my sexuality, my soul, the marrow in my sleepy bones. His rhythms make me dance, make my hips and arms vibrate and move like never before. He has nearly died and cured himself with his own body and deep meditation. When I kiss him he feels it. When he touches me I am Merry Sunshine. He continually praises me; reminds me of my womanliness, my beauty, my strengths, my energy. I am speechless to those words. Speechless to these feelings. My replies can only be in my eyes, my body, my silence... for words, for once, fail me. He reinforces the spirit I've been of late. Nothing is too new, but amazing just the same -- that another wonderful being is in my plane of being. We are parallel.

"Yesterday he quit his job. He worked for Chris. Chris is in a lot of pain -- continuous pain all night and day. He snapped at Crow and disrespected him. He disrespected the man who, in the mornings , comes in to wake Chris up with hand massages and envisions a beautiful peace symbol radiating in his palm. Crow sent so much energy to this man. It had happened two times before, this disrespect and Crow vowed to quit if it happened again. He can take care of himself, I know, but I am sorrowful for these events.

"Crow looks like an owl.
His sister, Jessie, a swan.
I am blessed."

"The day after our first walk together, Monday, 9th, he placed ten apples at my bedroom door. Ten giant seeds of friendship.
"He looks like a raven when he wears my backpack.
He is good.
And I am blessed."

11 Nov 94
(after my trip to the west coast alone)
"We had an interesting moment at one point. I was totally wanting to sing and jam in my room and he wanted to be quiet and peaceful. So, well, at first it bugged me 'cause I didn't want to "give in" but then I realized that feeling and thought about why it would be giving in and why I felt that way. Then I realized I'd rather give that space away 'cause it wasn't a big deal to me -- being silent or not. he's a silent person sometimes. He said he lived in silence for many months many different times. Which made me think about how many things I want to do yet in my life."

13 Nov 94
"... I gotta be somewhere. I don't know. Crow on probation. It's weird. Why do they have him on that? To monitor him? Does he have a freak streak that could blow any time? I see a dark side on him / in him that is often stronger than the light side. But he knows everyone and everyone knows him. I love his sisters. He's got a weird relationship with them. So close -- maybe too close. I dunno. Maybe I just was never that close with mine."

the cops put crow and his friend on trial. crow came back voluntarily when he was caught. his friend tried running. when it was his time to explain himself all he could talk about was a dark place in his life. the cops had pulled the body remains out of the river. and crow told me how he finally really realized what he'd done while sitting there, opposite the family. the young boy, five years old, easier to take from the mausoleum to their apartment, had died a natural death by drowning. it was a second blow the parents.

crow was sentenced to jail and probation.

maybe it's because i was so vulnerable. maybe because i was stupid. maybe because it all seemed like a dream at the time. maybe because i was so high most of the time it all seeped together. or maybe because it was so foreign to comprehend i had no idea. but i kept seeing him. i forgave him. i accepted his awkward past and took him for the man he was towards me. he had found peace.

i can't remember why we stopped dating. i can't find that journal right now. i don't think it had anything to do with his past.

when i asked my friends if they'd known they said yes, and thought i had. no one had thought to tell me while i was dating him.

i had gotten to know his sister jessie really well. she was into pot and the afro culture. she dated the big drug dealer in the neighborhood and danced like she wasn't white. she had a smooth drawl, a cool, a jive to her. she wasn't even out of high school.

i left minneapolis in 95 for a year. after living with a man 16 years my senior, i lived with the punk rock kids again in a 3 story house with 9 kids in 96. i came back to get away from him and start school again. in 97 i went to spain for a year of study. i came back to my own studio apartment and school.

i got back from spain in the summer of 98. a while after i got my apartment i went out around town to re-visit old haunts. found myself at another co-op restaurant (ours had gone out of business). after i placed my order i started out toward the back court seating. i passed the cork board announcements and looked briefly. there it was. her face. jessie's face. her young, vibrant smile. her squinty eyes. "Alive in our hearts... Jessica Miller 9-28-76 / 7-13-98" i asked around among my friends.

jessie had hit a bottom. they'd put her in an institute because she'd been hearing voices. doing things unnatural to herself. she'd been there for a few weeks when she took her sheets and hung herself.

the next time i saw crow was at her memorial. he played drums center-stage of the ethiopian restaurant, the nile. i danced, i hugged friends i hadn't seen in a while. crow and i didn't speak.

..........................

bd and i went to bed early because we'd both been away this weekend. i was in DC for work, he was in LA for spring break. i'd arrived at the airport in the morning after getting up at 5am to leave DC. i went home and wrote a bit, checked emails, masturbated, read. then i went back to the airport to pick him up at 5pm. i brushed my teeth, put on some nice smells. i was in my 2nd wind and wanted to roll around in bed for a while. try doing it and getting out of our sexless rut. he remembered he had a class meeting he had to go to. i didn't mind just picking him up from the airport.

but i got home and found myself resenting it. now i was tired. now i didn't feel funky fresh. but we hung out anyway. and went to bed early.

..............................

DREAM: in my sleep crow had beaten his girlfriend. she was the girl i knew years before. blond, soft, sweet. i knew he'd got on a bike and rode from minnesota through central america after his sister died. but i hadn't heard of him in years. all of a sudden i was brought back to minneapolis. he'd done something out of the ordinary and we were worried.

my dad was with me. he drove me over to crow's house with some girlfriend of mine. the house was a mess. chaos. books misarragened on shelves, dinner plates scattered, dust, lamps, a dirty couch covered in a flimsy shawl. crow was out of sorts. not surprised by my visit. my dad was finding parking outside. he'd wait there. my girlfriend sat on the couch and i stood. looking around. eyes wide but sad. frightened and worried. sad. sad. i half-smiled to crow as he paced around.

maybe others came and went. maybe i thought crow was sleeping, but my girlfriend and i were exhausted and so we fell asleep. her on the couch. me in the chair. dozing. trying to keep my eyes open. worried.

i woke up and knew something was bad. he was already gone. i climbed the stairs of his apartment. dark. nighttime. got to the top of the stairs and there was a hallway with a bathroom door at the head of the stairs. the light was on and streaming out through the half-cracked door. the water was running. it wasn't through my ears, but through my head that i heard him say, "warm running water.. you know..." i could see behind the door through my eyes. his body submerged. a deep ceramic bathtub, old kind, with claw feet. water was running over the edge and his blood started to mix. stream out and over the tub.

i felt so deeply sad. like i knew there was nothing i could do. it was to happen. and to stop him would defile him. he was dying.

and as i stood there seeing this from behind the door, with the light shining on my face, a body ran by. so quickly. just flicks of a body. his body. his ghost. soon leaving. he ran by my face, around the corner, and into the other bedroom. in flashes. leaving. not yet gone, but leaving. and that's when it hit. he didn't want to go. i had to do something. he's not ready to go. do something.

i was trying to dial but my fingers were frozen. the numbers weren't real. i couldn't dial 9-1-1. i ran outside and got in my dad's car. where's your cell?! i screamed. call 911!!! now!! hurry! we still have time! he didn't have a cell. so we ran back inside. but it was all futile.

i was in the back seat of the car. my dad was driving. and crow just sat there all of a sudden.

and i've never ever seen anything so brilliant in my life. in all my dreams or nightmares. or in reality. someone so bright and real. i looked over and he was just sitting there. i asked my dad if he saw him, he said no. are you sure? don't you see him? don't you see crow sitting here? no, he didn't. he was more real than any reality. and i had so many things to say. to talk about. and it all happened on that mind level that you don't hear, but you read about. and all in some time that isn't counted. so quick. so deep. he handed me a letter in an envelope. there were four lines on it. scrawling of some kind. i know it was mailed to me. i took it. and looked at him with so many more questions.

i think we went to other places. where our friends were around. and i kept asking, don't you see him? and i wanted to ask him what he thought of bd. ask him to look down on bd's sleeping body, and what do you think?

but then.. i was snapped awake.
my eyes flew open.
/DREAM

..........................................

i stretched in that half-sleep world and rolled over and held bd. i made him wake up with my tossing and turning.

i told him the whole thing. and in my mid-sleep, tears ran down my face. it seemed so real.

and, i tried to replay it so i wouldn't forget any detail. i know i have. but the ones i remember are the ones that count. that i think it's real. that he did just finally give in. that i was actually there, in some other plane, to witness it. that he did want to go, but wasn't sure. that his presence was the most amazing i've ever witnessed in all my life. so alive and so real. nothing i've ever seen in reality or dreams before. a glow. a feeling. a connection. nothing like i've ever felt in all my life.

and i rolled. tossed and turned. looked out the crack in the shades. what did it mean? if he didn't really die somewhere, what does it mean? if he did, what would that mean? why did he come to me after six years? why now? why me? my mind raced. and all i could come up with was that ... he did go. he was inflicted with the same schizophrenia his sister had. and that he came to me only because i cared. and didn't care. when he told me about his dark moment, i didn't care. i cared more about him, than what he did. i cared. and he never forgot that. it got him over stigmatization. it let him really move on from his past. that i had, in my own ignorance or bliss, had not gotten hung up on a momentary digression in his life. i had loved him. i had revealed all of myself to him and held nothing back. and loved him.

...when i got up just now to go to the bathroom, the front door of my apartment was unlocked. a crack. again, like i saw in my dream of the bathroom. like i'd stared at when i woke this morning. i had locked my door when i got home tonight.

.........................

i'm sad. i'm deeply sad. mourning. but i can't help but feel that image. that image of him sitting in the back of the car with me. so bright. so real. more real than ever i've seen. .......... love. deep love. unknowing love. just a feeling of life. knowing he wasn't real. that i was dreaming. but that he was still.... real.

........................

DATE: September 1, 1993
VOLUME:
SUBJECTS: Grave Robbing - Cases
Youth - Crime
NOTES: "Nice, sweet kids [from] good families", and part of the McPunk "modern primitive subversive scene", Crow and Bxxxx dug up a little boy's body and cut off his head, feet and hands to "enhance their curiosity about death".

........................

Date: Wed, 24 Mar 2004 08:07:53 -0800 (PST)
From: D
Subject: Crow

Lola,

I was fascinated by your last entry in cdoa2. I'm not sure if you only listed the cryptic last reference from the Minneapolis Public Library because you didn't want people to know the full story.... maybe protecting Crow's identity?... of if you may have wanted to list more but it was hard to find?... Maybe you just wanted some kind of proof to back up what might be seen as an utterly fantasic and unbelievable tale.

I believed you. But I analyze things. Reseach things. I'm a scientist to my very core, so I had to look it all up. If you're at all interested you can look below. You might not want to.

D.

........................

[ST. PAUL Edition]

St. Paul police Thursday investigated the possibility that a mutilated and embalmed boy's body found in the Mississippi River was stolen from a Minneapolis cemetery crypt last month. Police and cemetery officials didn't tell the boy's parents about the theft, reported on Jan. 23, until the mutilated body in St. Paul was linked to possible grave-robbing and occult rituals this week. The missing body is that of a 9-year-old drowning victim who was entombed in an above-ground crypt at Lakewood Cemetery last spring.

Ron Gxxxx, president of the Lakewood Cemetery Association, said the first known theft of a body in Lakewood's 119-year history was kept secret in hopes of sparing the boy's family further anguish.

The boy's parents were told of the still-unsolved theft Wednesday by a clergyman and a funeral director who know them, he said.

An attorney representing the family confirmed yesterday they had not been told that their son's body had been taken before this week.

"They were very disturbed they were not told the grave had been disturbed or the boy's body was missing," the attorney said. "They are just trying to find some serenity."

Meanwhile, St. Paul crime laboratory identification experts struggled yesterday with poor prints, both from hospital birth records and from the headless and handless body that is believed to have been in the river several weeks, Deputy Chief John Nxxxxx said. Work was suspended late yesterday and will resume today, he said.

"I don't know if we'll ever get anything conclusive," Nxxxxx said. If not, police may use DNA genetic testing in an effort to match the body with the parents of the boy whose burial crypt was robbed. That would take at least three months, said Sgt. Daniel Harshman.

Police also are comparing the mutilated body's toeprints with those of a missing boy whose parents had expressed concern for his safety, Hxxx said.

Police Chief William Mxxx said Wednesday that investigators believed the body, which was found near the Ford Dam on Tuesday, might have been dismembered as part of an occult ritual.

Sgt. Jon Hxx, the Minneapolis police expert on occult crimes, has investigated the Lakewood theft. He said he has noticed an increasing amount of cult-type activities and growing numbers of young people interested in them.

Lakewood workers discovered the theft of the drowned boy's body on Jan. 22, Gxxx said. Thieves are believed to have broken into the boy's outdoor granite crypt on Jan. 20 or 21, he said.

Workers found that the boy's casket had been opened and his body removed. Nothing else was amiss and there was no note or identifying material left behind, Gxx said.

"We were certainly appalled by what happened," he said.

Lakewood increased security after the theft and was considering further measures yesterday, including putting guards on duty around the clock, Gxx said. He said the cemetery, one of Minnesota's largest, covers more than 250 hilly acres with monuments that provide easy hiding places.

Gxx said the decision not to tell the boy's parents of the theft was made "in cooperation with the police to keep it low-key, pending the outcome of the investigation."

Minneapolis police, citing concern for the boy's family, also declined to issue reports of the theft until late yesterday. Deputy Chief David Dxx said: "I was told the management of the cemetery had decided not to inform the parents."

Gxxx said, "I feel comfortable with the decision we made under those circumstances. We're going to reevaluate that for sure. It's a very difficult question. We hope we never have to make that decision again."

According to Howard Fxxxxx of the Minnesota Cemetery Association, it may be a decision that no other cemetery manager in the state has ever had to make. Fox has worked with the association more than 40 years. He said he had never before heard of a grave robbing in Minnesota.

Gxx said he believed there may have been previous grave robbings, especially in rural areas, "where it went totally unnoticed." He also acknowledged "some reluctance to report it" on the part of cemetery managers.

While the January incident is the first confirmed theft of a body from the cemetery, Lakewood has had several previous instances of grave tampering, Gxx said.

Last October, the steel vault holding the body of a man buried in 1912 was pried open. Another grave was being dug nearby, which made the underground vault more accessible than usual, Gxx said. Police were called, but it was hard to tell if anything was taken from the coffin, he said.

Extensive vandalism occurred in 1975 at several private family mausoleums, but again, it was not known if remains were taken.

Also yesterday, the Ramsey County medical examiner's office said identification of a second body recovered from the Mississippi Wednesday had been delayed until dental records could be obtained. It was found during a search for missing body parts of the boy. Police said the body may be that of a missing 59-year-old St. Paul woman who was seen jumping from the Ford Bridge in December 1988.

.........................

[ST. PAUL Edition]

The mutilated body of a boy found in the Mississippi River was identified by police Friday as that of a 9-year-old drowning victim whose body was stolen from Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis last month.

Identification was made by comparing toeprints taken from the body with birth records of the boy, St. Paul police said. The unusual procedure was necessary because the head and hands had been removed from the body and are still missing. One foot also was severed, but was found near the body.

Police have said they believe that the body was dismembered as part of an occult ritual. No suspects have been identified. Cemetery officials discovered that the body was missing from an outdoor granite crypt Jan. 22 and reported the theft to police the next day. The boy's family was not told until this week.

David Dxx, deputy police chief of Minneapolis, yesterday defended withholding the information as an attempt to spare the parents anguish and to assist the investigation. But a lawyer for the boy's father said the police "have an absolute duty to disclose to victims that a crime has been committed" against them.

The boy's father "feels strongly that there has been a breach of trust and that it has added substantially to the pain that the family has had to endure," said the lawyer, Brad Exx of Minneapolis. "The next of kin had a right to know if there was a problem of security at Lakewood and a right to know long ago that their son's body was missing."

Dxx said, "Based on prior cases nationally, human remains taken from cemeteries are rarely recovered. Informing parents would also mean informing them of how bodies are treated ritualistically by those that take them. There were no investigative leads, and to tell the parents at that point could have resulted in their having to bear an immense burden for the rest of their lives."

He also said that if the theft had been publicized earlier the grave robbers might have disposed of the body in a different way. Police might withhold information again from families whose relatives' bodies are stolen, Dxx said. "It depends on the circumstances," he said. Grave-robbing is prohibited under Minnesota theft statutes and carries a maximum penalty of five years in prison and a $10,000 fine.

Meanwhile, the boy's body remained at the Ramsey County medical examiner's office in St. Paul. Exx said the parents, who are divorced, had made no decision on reburial.

"The priority of the family at this time is to deal with the grief by turning to prayer and their family," he said. "The tragedy of the drowning was devastating and the current events are overwhelming. The family is distraught.

"The father's immediate concern is for the welfare of his family, and he is choosing not to apply his energy at this time to the failure of Lakewood Cemetery to notify the family that the grave had been disturbed and the body removed."

The body was found Tuesday in the river just above the Ford Dam. The severed foot was found nearby. An extensive search for the head and hands was unsuccessful.

During the search a second body was discovered in the same area of the river. It was identified yesterday as that of Carol Michael, 59, a St. Paul woman who was seen jumping from the Ford Bridge on Dec. 7, 1988.

.........................

[METRO Edition]

Warrants have been issued for the arrest of two men police believe stole and mutilated the corpse of a 9-year-old boy from a Minneapolis cemetery three years ago.

Police have charged William Cxxx and Wxxx with theft of a corpse. Jewelry was taken from the corpse, said Lt. Brad Jxx.

Neither man is in custody. Both could be in San Francisco, Jxx said Monday.

The boy's dismembered body was found in the Mississippi River in January 1990. It has been stolen from a Lakewood Cemetery crypt. The boy had drowned and his body was entombed in an above-ground crypt in 1989.

Jxx said police got a recent tip that somehow 19-year-old CMMxxx of Minneapolis, charged last month in connection with the strangulation death of his great aunt, might have known about the case. Jxxx said police interviewed CMMxxx. The two men were later charged with the theft based on statements police received from witnesses. CMMxxx has not been charged in connection with the theft of the corpse.

Lakewood Cemetery workers had discovered the boy's casket open and his body missing. Authorities didn't tell the boy's family about the theft until the body was found.

At the time, Lakewood Cemetery officials said the theft was the first in it's 119-year history.

Three years ago, St. Paul laboratory identification experts struggled with the identification of the headless and handless corpse. Authorities also believed the body had been in the river weeks before it was actually found.

Police had believed that the dismemberment of the body, which was found near the Ford Dam, might have been part of an occult ritual.

Lakewood increased security after the theft and considered further measures, including 24-hour guards.

CMMxxx, in a complaint filed in Hennepin County District Court, said he was angry at his aunt for several reasons and choked and strangled her, punched and stomped her head and neck. His aunt, Frances Wilson, was found dead in the triplex apartment she owned in the 2500 block of Emerson Av. S.

.........................

[METRO Edition]

Charges were dismissed Thursday against a Minneapolis man accused of taking a corpse from Lakewood Cemetery more than three years ago.

Hennepin County District Judge Wxxx dismissed the charge of theft of a corpse against Bxxx, 21, after Corty's attorney successfully argued that the three-year statute of limitations had expired.

Cxxx and Wxxx were charged in February with the January 1990 theft of the body of a child. Corty's attorney, Bill Mxxx, said the charges should have been filed within three years of the crime.

Cxxx, however, pleaded guilty to theft on May 19 and is serving a nine-month sentence in the county workhouse and is to undergo treatment.

Cxxx had been out of state for a time, which stops the statute of limitations from running. The prosecution claimed that Corty also had been out of state and could still be charged, but Posten disagreed.

The body was reported missing from an above-ground crypt at Lakewood Cemetery in Minneapolis in January 1990; it was found weeks later in the Mississippi River. Three years later, an informant told police Wxxxx and Cxxxx were involved.

Mxxx said Wxxxx was a troubled adolescent at the time of the theft, but has matured.

"He feels badly for the parents he knows he caused pain," Mxx said. "He has expressed that to them."

.........................

[METRO Edition]

The family of a boy whose body was stolen from Lakewood Cemetery in 1990 has sued the Minneapolis cemetery and the two men charged with the theft.

The 9-year-old boy was killed in an accident and buried in May 1989.

The body was taken in January 1990. It was found weeks later in the Mississippi River.

Three years later, an informant led police to Wxxxx and Bxxx.

The suit filed in Hennepin County District Court alleges that the cemetery and Miller and Corty withheld information from the family about the violation of the burial site and removal of the body. It says the cemetery failed to disclose that trespassing and vandalism were prevalent concerns and that the body of another person was stolen in 1989.

The men's actions of removing and mutilating the body and displaying it to others were extreme, outrageous and beyond the bounds of decency, the suit says.

It says that the actions of Lakewood Cemetery, Cxxx and Mxxx caused the family personal and emotional pain and seeks damages of at least $50,000.

The complainants include the boy's father, stepmother, sister and half-sister.

Charges against Cxxx were dismissed in July 1993 because the statute of limitations had expired.

Mxxx pleaded guilty in May 1993 and was sentenced to nine months in the Hennepin County Workhouse.

of course, my god

2010-10-04T22:18:00.002-04:00

Don't read the previous entry with any kind of thoughts other than... I finally felt compelled to write something.

I mean, fuck, it's dry as hell. It sounds robotic. It reads like a boring Saturday paper.

But it's a bit of what I'm living. And I neglected to insert how my big boss glanced at me at one point and I wondered if he was studying my high heels because he's into them, or that the blushing Chief of Staff didn't blush this time but kind of dropped cool hints of what he's into, or how I felt turned on multiple times during my meeting - despite my period.

It was simply work relief out loud on my blog.

There's so much more going on, but so much of it is just living and loving. I'll write when I can. For now, that's what transpired.

relief for a control freak

2010-10-04T20:00:00.003-04:00

I wasn't always like this, and it's good that I remember it.

I remember when I was in my twenties and I swore I'd never, ever become so anti-social as my parents. I was punk rock and partied every chance I got. How could one ever decide to say no to a social gathering? Now I know. When all energy is spent during work hours trying to navigate the social fabric of a large organization, the last thing I find myself interested in is dealing with more personalities.

I remember staying up until 4am as a teenager in Buenos Aires. After all, that's just the culture. Dinner is eaten at 9 or 10pm. Lateness is a compliment - 30 minutes is perfect. Early or punctual, and you're regarded as an outsider. And the famous saying is "mañana, mañana." Again, in my twenties, it was natural for me to stay up until bar time - and try to push bartenders to stay open later. I scoffed at my parents and older friends who retired at midnight (or earlier!) to the quiet of their graveyard-like homes. I also swore I'd never need cover-up for under-eye circles or a blow dryer to pretty up my hair, much less any kind of "product" or preening.

Combine the two, and I've got to be up by 6am for an hour-and-half routine of showering, making coffee, putting a lunch together, checking my personal email (it's not allowed on work computers - thank god for the iphone), doing my hair, placing the make-up, and donning the professional work clothes I chose the night before. (God help me how many times the bus is late as I am!) Anyone who knew me before these days has laughed belly-over at the fact that I'm actually becoming a "morning person," while not joyous in the morning I am teaching my brain to actually be congnizant before 10am. So, this leads to enhancing the first point - ugh, people after work hours - and to an early bedtime. At first, because of the steep learning curve, I was like a teenager and required a full night of 8 hours. Then, I adjusted a bit, and could function on 6-7 hours. But now, I'm in a new position (executive assistant - what do they do? "execute!") and again I suffer without a full 8 hours of sleep. This puts me into bed by 10pm - assisted by magic little OTC blue pills.

It didn't use to matter if I had a smear here, a stain there, a forgetfulness over here. But somewhere along the lines - after my days in the non-profit but before grad school, maybe while studying for the GRE - I decided that I couldn't live without some kind of striving for perfection. It's always been inside me, perhaps a bit dormant. My father always tried to instill in us the objective of perfection - that we would never be so, but that the act of trying for it was good enough. In fact, it was perfect to aim for perfection. "Fail to plan, plan to fail." "Proper planning prevents piss poor performance." I also read in a book somewhere, and was confirmed by several dominants with whom I've engaged, that submissives are the biggest control freaks ever. It makes sense in a way. They/we aim to please, strive to fulfill our dominants' needs, want to be better and look better to reflect on them, want to clean the house better or serve the best and most formal way (if we're service subs), want to take as much pain as possible (if we're S&M subs), want to get every little action or position as perfectly as possible (to avoid - or reduce - a punishment, which we may or may not seek anyway), etc.

It's very interesting to me that my colleagues don't know this side of me. They don't understand that even if they tell me XYZ meeting isn't a big deal at all, it means the world to me to get it right. That they say ABC report doesn't mean so much because GHI agency won't really read it - I'm still compelled to complete it perfectly. This can be a hiderence if I don't control the control freak. For instance, boss man tasked me with writing a paper on a certain budget possibility. In the middle of writing it, the woman who previously held my position stopped by and I asked her, "when is it enough?" Of course, she reminded me of what I knew in grad school. "At some point you have to stop researching it and write it. You'll never know everything. You can't. You're too new and you're not omniscient."

So, here it was. A big meeting today. I'd been put in the position to coordinate it. The Commissioner was there and someone tried to introduce us - although we'd been introduced twice and I'd bumped into him in the hallway several times - and he said, "Oh yeah. I already know her. How's it goin'? [something he says EVERY time I see him] I hear you're doing a great job." [The little sub in me rejoiced. Or, perhaps, the girl on the border of X-generation and Y-generation. I'm told my generation and younger seek more validation in their work than previous generations.] "Well, thank you. That's nice." I had nothing more to offer or comment. I was a bit taken aback. My big boss isn't one to offer much feedback at all, thus, I'm only assured that I'm doing a good job by the fact that I'm still in the position that I'm in - would have been transferred if I wasn't working out to his standards.

But then the mistakes. The mistakes came in rolling over the day-long important meeting. One representative wasn't present, although I thought I'd communicated clearly that she was supposed to be there. (Although this doesn't count as a mistake too much as people had told me how problematic she'd been in the past.) Then, the missing last page of Mr. Y's presentation. I went back to the office after the meeting and there it was, the communication from the Commissioner's chief of staff to omit that page. Whew! I had to forward it to him, humbly, just to point out the fact that I was, in fact, not in the wrong and did not neglect my duties, but that there was a missed communication in the end. Same with a following presentation. A page was missing. I have yet to dig up the email communication on that one, but I'm pretty set in knowing that it wasn't my failure.

And that's all new to me. In the good ol' days, I could have let it roll off my back. But in this new spotlight, I feel ever more compelled to make it right, make it excel, make it outstanding. I don't want to meet expectations, and I don't just wan to exceed what people think I can do, I want to knock their fucking socks off. Not that I'm aiming for some superior rise up the ladder, because frankly I don't think I want to be an executive - I'm too lazy. But I want them to think I can gel in the funny moments of the secret downtime between them. I want them to know I can pull anything off and do it superbly.

Sigh. Who is this new person? "Who has kidnapped my sister?" My sister asked. All of this newness even boils down into my dirty sex life. I've been seeing ....

TBC.

and no editing.

fuck it

2010-08-31T22:15:00.002-04:00

so what if the ex-co-worker found me... I doubt she's still intrigued now.

so then....

i love when i feel it swell -----

the words swirling inside

the feelings bubbling up

the tense intensity when i hate all people and only love thoughts

i can feel something coming up, about to burst, but contained, restricted, not screaming, but gazing up from the well and ready to leap out, hunger and exclamation, patient steps and stomping screams, something is coming up……….

Almost exclusively on Tumblr

2010-07-30T22:00:00.001-04:00

Not enough time or gusto to plug in here, kids.

Want to see what's going on? Check it at my tumblr: http://pourquoi-pas.tumblr.com/

the bad daughter

2010-06-23T22:40:00.002-04:00

Mum says tonight:
We had a good chemo visit-Dr N is great;our nurses super;we are irreverent;they brought a tiny tele for soccer; ran into friends at the shop. Dad mowed the yard; I loaded the truck.My friend going to Mass asked what prayer we'd like - I asked to make it a hard fight ,just not impossible. We are doing fine!

I feel tremendously guilty. Part of what I wanted from my exorcism. Let loose some long-held baggage.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Dear DC dom, domme, and IlRe -

Domme, I'll wear the tight black summer dress (the one with zipper up the front?). I presume this means I'll have time to go home from work and change before meeting with you all? Or, I'll change upon arrival?

Thank you for giving me an overview of the possibilities for tomorrow night, and for the opportunity to share some thoughts prior to Tuesday. I've had a hard time not thinking about Tuesday, so my mind and imagination have whirled around and a few things have surfaced.

Of course, I understand that my words will be read and decided upon as you all please. I'm also aware that sometimes it's best not to say anything at all - mind fucks, desire twisting, etc. I've simply decided that I'd like to push myself on Tuesday a bit further than I have before. This three-dom/me-scene is already one step in that direction. In situating myself mentally toward that goal, a few ideas popped into mind. I've been reading a book called Radical Ecstasy, which speaks highly to the intersection of tantra, s&m, spirituality. I'm interested in the potential of our opportunity to use the violet wand and flogging/whipping toward a very gut-centered release of some tightly-held, worthless baggage. I'm also curious about balancing that (possible) process with some very naughty sexual acts... of course, only if I'm a very good girl and anyone has any interest in using me as such. Along that vein, I'm very intrigued by objectification, as well.

Having contemplated this email many times today, and well aware of the potential consequences (as well as the trust I feel toward each of you), I'm going to take a deep breath and hit the "send" button.

Thank you for allowing me to share this with you. I'm terribly excited for tomorrow. :)

lola

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

I've been selfishly absorbed. I was going to call my parents tonight, but I just couldn't muster up the intent. I didn't want the long-drawn out descriptions of how things went. I didn't want the forced conversation. The reminders. The knowledge that my father is fighting. I wanted to be selfish today and yesterday and days to come.

And now, I feel horrible again.

Relishing in my own fight. Facing my deep fears and physical pain. As if I couldn't stop and actually be present for my family.

And, oddly, last night, and the days leading up to it, all I could think was, "I asked to make it a hard fight ,just not impossible."

Luckiest girl in the world - major update

2010-06-09T21:33:00.000-04:00

I will publish this regardless if I have time to edit it.

Preface.

There's so much living going on! I really had no expectations for DC. Sure, there have been Madam scandals and all the politicians and all their cigars, but I really had no idea I'd have my dance card filled within 2-1/2 months.

How to run down the fun? How to describe the emotions? How to re-tell the stories?

Oh my. It's a huge feat.

I guess as a framework for it all, as a backdrop, a foundation... I've got to wake up at 5:45am Monday-Friday. And I'm a whore for sleep so I'm popping a Tylenol PM by 9:00pm to wind down and in bed by 10:00pm - or so I try. Weekends I've found myself waking up at 8 or 9 or this past weekend 10 for a nap at noon. Work days are full of steep learning curves, political savvy, negotiations, leading the charge, demonstrating my abilities, performing at top notch. It's a bit stressful. My division is 1500 people. My agency is over 150k. There's a lot of learning going on. My dad is undergoing chemo for a new cancer that has appeared. He seems to be doing well under the circumstances and our family is tight regardless distance.

So, in the flip-side of time, in my nights, I like to release.

There is the Mother Teresa of Love:

Mother Teresa of Love - first writing

11/17/2001

{{{{i took a break from writing this and started to get ready. it's 713pm and i'm sitting in my finest under garments, make-up on, hair settling into place, "out of control" by the chemical brothers is on, and i'm sipping some shiraz while reflecting for a moment. i think, some days, that i'm the mother teresa of love. i skip like a magical rabbit from lover to lover, spreading confidence, assurance, connectivity, inhibition, the light of the sun, the nectar of the flowers. how many times have people contacted me, years later, and told me what an impact i had on their lives? NYC hip-hop boys, blue collar mechanics, tree-huggin' hippies, spotlight strippers, high-tech wizards, photography geniuses, record-spinning stylies, artists-in-residence. maybe i won't be the one to settle down, marry, to-have-and-to-hold-from-this-day-forward-for-the-rest-of-your-life-i-do. maybe my calling in life is to preach love indiscriminate. it's a blessing and a curse. to connect with everyone on the deepest level. "who knew?" he asked me last night. "who knew? i've never felt this way before. this has never happened in my life." i knew. i have. this has. but it's always different, don't get me wrong. it's always different, beautiful, and special - even the fuck'n'chuck booty calls. that's why i felt so rejected days ago, while waiting for him to call. because, in some spiritual/religious way, i knew i had something to bring to him and he was wasting time. not my time. he was wasting HIS time. i'm off to the art opening - i'll continue the digest of the above stories later.}}}}}

There is the submissive pain slut.

The babygirl to Daddys.

The lover to lovers.

The porn star to photography.

The forever teacher.

I feel best describing things by time, by people. If you asked me if I played sports ever, I'd have to go back in my mind and think: soccer - volleyball - field hockey; age something - lived in Germany for the soccer so ages 6-9, volleyball in Oklahoma and Wisconsin - ages ...., field hockey - Argentina. And then my mind wanders to who was there. My life is categorized by places I've lived, then remembering what ages that was, then who was there.

So, here I am in DC. I'm 35. My colleagues thought I was 25-30. I feel younger than ever, and older than ever. I am life embodied in time.

And I never expected so much joy from this place in the world, so much action, so much fucking, so much feeling.

There is DCDY, the Dominant Couple (aka previously just DD - the dominant daddy), the Soccer Player, the Musician Daddy, the Poly Daddy (aka Hill), the Pet Daddy, and the few between: the SleepCreep, the Photographer, the Younger One, the Choker Yoga Guy, the IM chat Daddys.

And it's strange, because when I ride the bus, ride the metro, walk around - except for the tourists - this city is all women! So, how have I been so lucky??

DCDY - gives me rides home from work sometimes, we kiss in his car, sometimes he stops up with a gift and a cock to suck, a short distance cock fucking, a shoulder to cuddle on. He's been a CDOA reader for years and knows who I am - probably more than anyone in this city. He is not jealous. He is not a time-taker or time-waster. We have our obligations and our time together. He is the person I would call in an emergency. He is the Daddy I'd lean on if I needed propping up. He is a friend. He is - and this so important that it needs to be said again - the person who knows ALL of me.

The Dominant Couple - we played alone together a few times. He and I alone, then the three of us alone, then at a play party at her house, and another play party last Saturday at her house. She's well to do, married to a cross-dresser, hosts parties out in their beautiful house with a full dungeon for the younger generation of kinksters. He's a family man, works downtown, and is her Dominant - she used to be a Pro Domme. And I wasn't so convinced about him until I met her. He's more rough, brusque, non-social. I thought him a bit thuggish. But she balances him out. She knows the rules of play, the safety, the sensations, the care. She holds me as he beats me. She caresses me and tells me what I slut I am as he flogs me. She whispers into my hooded ears what a little beautiful slut I am while he face fucks me through the mouth hole. We get compliments after about how hot the scene was.

The Soccer Player - I fell for him but am moving myself out of that. We share a sad commonality that our dads are dealing with cancer. He loves wine more than I do and is a connoisseur. We did a wine tasting and touched each other slyly like we were teenagers. We love music - he more avant-garde, more reggae from Jamaica. We can carry on a conversation while caressing each others' legs. We fuck with passion and I'm turning him on to Daddy/little girl play. I started missing him as our schedules didn't permit, but it turned out it was on purpose because he wants things I can't provide: steady, long-term dedication. I had visions of poly with him, us being primaries and fondling others on the side, but I don't think that's in the cards for us. I'm re-adjusting my view on us. Retrieving a bit of what I put out there, recalling a bit of my heart.

The Musician Daddy is about my age and brings a sly, good gift of smoke when he comes. We fuck raw and naughty. Daddy/little girl all the way. Apparently, I'm the only one in his rotation that craves this, although he played with an ex before in this realm. We talk music, politics, family - all briefly before he leaves. A short visit.

The Poly Daddy - I fucked him once while his baby daughter slept in the other room. We looked at photos of him and his wife with another couple. I went over again to their place to play with them both. She's pregnant. They were fucking when I walked in - a true, straight-to-the-point hello. I hadn't licked a cunnie in years until hers. It was nice enough, but I'm still firmly a whore for cock. We had good chat. She cried after he fucked her - a release, and an overwhelming feeling of bringing me into the mix that night. We chatted more and kissed while he fucked me from behind. All nice, all ethical. He wants to visit me alone and do more Daddy/daughter.

The Pet Daddy is learning bdsm. I was hesitant to meet him for this reason, but he seems to have an idea of how to go about things and does them. We had drinks and dinner and I crawled up into his lap to kiss him. We were alone on the patio and it seemed apropos. Another night, he came over and spanked me in a long, slow, sensual, built-up spanking and finger fucked me until I was a wild beast on the bed. He was the first to sleep over and we slept well. In the morning, I sucked his cock and he fingered me over and over because I couldn't get enough of his hands, his arms. We share common work interests and common bdsm ideas. This time, he wants me to start as a girl and be trained into being a good pet puppy. Bondage tape to bind my arms, knee pads to scurry about, bondage tape on my feet and hands. A collar. A leash. A dog bowl. And who knows what kind of training. Fetch? Simon Says? I'm excited to see.

The SleepCreep wanted to play out Daddy molesting his sleeping babygirl. I had had several drinks on the weekend and popped a Tylenol PM. I buzzed him into the apartment and he fucked me slowly, without waking me (although I was entirely conscious, just drowsy). Came. Left the rubber as a note. Left as quietly as he entered. I never opened my eyes. Anonymous completely. So fucking hot. Our schedules don't match up and he's got a new lover so I'm not sure if we'll play again.

The Photographer was in town one night and on CraigsList. He came over and made some lovely photos of me - posted on Tumblr. He's kinky and poly and smart and fun. I hope he comes to town again.

The Younger One from a Southern state. New to life. New to sex. New to wanting to be fucked by men and fuck women. He's wound up and long-lasting although without rhythm to get me off. He is sweet and working for good causes. He's also younger than me. The first in a long time. But dirty dirty.

The Choker Yoga Daddy - Sounds so strange, but he's newly divorced, exploring, discovering, realizing he likes to use his extensive skills from hardcore martial arts wrestling something rather to choke girls out lightly and have them come to while he's fucking them. I have yet to actually have a date. I'm hesitant for all the right reasons, but enthralled by the idea of losing consciousness to wake to find I'm being fucked. He's also into tantric sex and I'm dying to learn about it.

And then, some free time with IM Daddys. Two of which live in the city. But to realize our naughty chats into real life would make the world explode in firey sparks.

&&&&&&&&&&&

Time management, I guess. And, unpacking the nest, setting up the living situation, making myself at home, getting the rotation in order, feeling free and fancy fun! My dining room windows face north, face the street, are smack viewing the middle of two lovely trees. I feel like I live in a tree house. Climb up to be recluse and free. I can walk about the apartment naked (the living room and bed room windows face an adjacent building but their shades are always drawn and I'm in between 2 apartments, so my blinds are mostly drawn - to protect the innocent). I can unpack, repack, make a mess, make sounds, be quiet, invite over, leave, change, re-change, dress up, dress down, prepare, let go, .... be free!!!! Free! I feel so free!

I'm facing a lot of shit outside this little treehouse. Dad has 10-15% chance of living past 3 years, but I keep hearing from folks who were told the same thing about their parents (pro-Domme lady included) and their family members lived long, long lives. Work is busy and crazy and challenging and fun -- and good for the world!

So, you might think the red light is hanging outside my window blinking, flashing, calling to the fellas. But I think I have a really great situation. Wonderfully amazing, complex men and women in my life. Caring and sexy, honest and breathing, full of dimensions in emotion, intimacy, dedication to life.

I have a new thought of late. A thought that comes once in a while. A thought that how nice it would be to find a poly primary partner to settle in with a bit and keep playing around together and on our own. So far that hasn't been in the cards. I'm open to it. I'm not afraid of the emotions that come with it, or the work or the love. But I'm not calling for it strongly. I'm just.. lazily entertaining the idea. Feeling a bit jilted momentarily that it's not immediate when I crave it, but I am enjoying what life is bringing. I can't help the naive, idealistic, new eyes I have on. Or the fact that it's a state of being for me. I consider the nightmare possibilities of things, but know that the idealistic positive is more realistic and achievable. I could end up dying a lonely, sad, prolonged, painful death ----- but, damn!, have I lived a fucking stellar, amazing, exciting, uplifting, wonderful life!

I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world!

undies case: closed

2010-05-25T20:54:00.001-04:00

Silly foreign visitors using me as a mailbox. (A grad school chum coming to visit - forgot to attach his last name to the To: portion of the address.)

Sigh… and I thought they were my size, albeit, kinda ugly.

....and the underwear mystery is...

2010-05-25T18:28:00.003-04:00

Who sent Lola 8 pairs of girlie undies (in size small) from Victoria Secret?

God, I hope it's not a wife of a lover sending a not-so-subtle hint.

Eeek! I hope it's just a generous admirer instead.

If it's you, 'fess up, please.

The pain is the glory

2010-05-06T22:47:00.001-04:00

"I don't get the whole being in pain is pleasurable thing. How do you get all these bruises and why do you like it? If you don't mind me askingg......" [asked on tumblr]

Oh, darlin', the answer to this has been written in books and tomes and encyclopedia-length writings.

For me personally? Geez, even that's a book-length novel. Well, to give a synopsis while withholding learning opportunities...? I hate to explain it without offering links or books or references for your own exploration or learning, because frankly I'm not fond of giving my own version of the facts without supplying you with alternative comparisons. Although, for now, I don't have the time to search it out for you --- I hope commenters will suggest things, or you'll go a-looking on your own.

So, here goes my personal interest part:
Endorphins.

Just like smokers dig on nicotine and heroin addicts dig their drug and runners relish their highs, so is pain in the body. It jogs a part of the brain to "feel." Granted the aforementioned is more hazardous, the same principles apply. The brain is the center of transmitting feeling, sensation, perception. And the body reacts.

I wasn't into pain much for most of my bdsm life, but I've come to enjoy it more. It's like, for me, an ass spank can be a snap-to, a wake-up-call. It's taking the brain away from thinking and into feeling, focusing on the senses. I like morphing from a sitting girl in a chair crunching numbers or plotting over programs into a girl reacting to how my body feels and goes. A slight tweak of a nipple, a pinch on a cheek, a spank, a paddle to the ass, flogger to my back, a lit cigarette to my breast, a face slap -- all these things re-focus my brain from abstract ideas and into a place where flesh matters and is foremost.

And, once that sting - of whichever kind - hits or happens, then my brain changes. Forget schedules or ideas, confusion or analysis, dreams or interpretations - and focus on what is actual. It's in some way, a retreat to a primal state of being. When humans hunted and gathered, speared and sucked poisons from our bodies.

I've read about the days when we used to hunt our own food (and many still do), we'd feel the flesh of the goat/dinosaur/deer and kill it. Blood would flow. People would skin it. It would hang in the foyer of the habitat, people would see it. Then, it would be cooked and eaten.

Shit's not like that now. Now, it's pre-packaged, arranged, dressed, presented. We have no idea what came before or middle. We just consume the end.

I want to feel the beginning, middle and end. Granted, not as a delectable item, but as a part of life. And, I've read about people reenacting these hunting scenarios to go back to those days, those feelings. Or, enacting kidnapping scenes (mostly the bored rich do this) to feel the throttle of surprise.

It's rather similar, in my mind. A primal urge, a hunger, a genetic curiosity and interest.

Sure, one can find this kind of pain in bicycling a long distance (as I have), weight lifting (as I have), getting a deep massage (as I have), etc... It's the same thing really.

But there's more.

It brings in the domination/submission (top/bottom, master/slave) aspect wherein someone who has the control and someone else gives up the control of the situation. Another aspect of the above, I suppose. I would prefer to be the hunted than the hunter. (Although that's fluid to a point.) And brings in trust - that the person wielding the pain instrument will respond to the person receiving so there's "just enough" --- which varies person to person.

It brings in the beautiful side of competition. Not the ugly "I'll fuck you over you bitch" side, but the "Can I take more than my own best?" side. The upping of a person's own ability. The challenge to be and do better than before. To take more cycling up the hill (Lance Armstrong), to box harder (insert a famous boxer), to beat the time and distance and strength of the last time.

It also brings in the beauty of visuals. To see my own flesh formed. I might wear a hood (as I did recently at a play party where my tits and ass were pained) and miss seeing the actual action, but after, I get to look at my body and see colors. Reds and blues and pinks change to purples and roses and greys. And they change over days into other paintings.

So, I guess this all can explain my own perspective on pain as pleasure. It's invigorating, it's enlivening, it's rich and real, it's instantaneous, it's sustainable, it's beautiful. And it's so freeing.

Knicker party

2010-04-12T22:15:00.001-04:00

So, how has DC been for the sexy side of Lola?

Y'all know that I've been working my ass off. Getting to bed by 10pm. Getting up at 6am. Waiting for the horrendous bus system to get to me work by 8am. I'm enjoying the job, feel challenged, and get to assist with an agency that has over 180,000 employees and spends over $10million in certain programs (which we are analyzing). I pretend to be grown-up. I dress like I'm comfortable in the heels and skirts, pants and patterned jackets. I'm aiming for the next levels of promotion.

I've walked a lot. It's a half-hour from my apartment to the bottom of the hill in Georgetown - past quaint stores with French names, "It" girls and their faux tan legs, boys with their Polo collars up, fashion, and ice cream. I took my bike, Duane, in for a summer tune-up, and need to return him for gear alignment, but he's in working order. Took a 17-mile bike ride NW up to Chevy Chase (still makes me think of Clark Griswold) and down through the Rock Creek Park. They close the main road off on the weekends so it's cyclists, lolly-gaggers, and families.

But, really, what you want to know is: how happy is Lola's cunnie?

Well... it's been an interesting few weeks.

I updated my OK Cupid profile before I left for DC and have had some intriguing exchanges from that.

I started an exchange with a guy on OKC who is in a poly relationship. He works on the Hill and his wife is a raging horn dog, but so is he. I'll call him Hill for now.

I had my Daddy-type friend over. The one who has known me since CDOA v.1, who helped me secure my flat, and who has helped me acclimate to DC over the past few weeks. I'll call him DCDY.

I placed two Craigslist ads, which introduced me to some interesting chat, but no consummated action.

I met up with a Daddy/dom type. I'll call him DD.

So, what has come of this?

Well, DCDY and I met for dinner after work my first week. Had awesome guacamole and margaritas over at Oyamel. He drove me home, came up, we snuggled a bit, and talked about some of the Daddy/girl ideas we have. He got to see the apartment in mid-unpacking state. Nothing much happened, but he came back the following weekend. He brought me some big, blank paper and crayons of all colors so I could draw to my little girl heart's content. Then, we snuggled more with Mr. Bear and my Dolly. And then Daddy wanted to show me a new friend he brought. He sat down on my bed and I kneeled on my appropriate placed hand-woven rug. He stood up, back against the wall, looking into the full-length mirror. He got behind me as I crouched over on all fours on my bed. Then, we had pizza. And talked and then he split. A nice, lovely afternoon.

[In fact, he just stopped by now. I need a drill to screw my full-length mirror to the door. (Yeah, it all reads so naughty, doesn't it?) A kiss, a bit of relating our busy weeks, his drill plugged in to recharge, a good long hug.]

Then, I met the DD. We had lunch before I started work. He teased me with the toys in his pocket and staring deeply and intensely without letting go. I blushed. I fidgeted. He put my hand under the table on his hard cock. I decided not to invite him over for the afternoon. We met up again the next week. I went over to his office after work and we drove out of DC to a house owned by a friend of his - actually his submissive's husband. The basement has been converted into a dungeon playspace. He gave me an Easter Bunny of chocolate and a cute card with stickers. It was a nice distraction to ease into the game by letting my little girl stick the stickers, while my big girl sipped on some wine. He had me call him "Sir" or "Daddy" and asked me to take off his socks and shoes (something I remembered from being with Sir Keith back in the day). I sucked his cock and he finger fucked me. I bent over his lap and he worked my ass into some bruises and stinging release. He bent me over the medical table in the center of the room and used a few natural bamboo canes on me. And, then flipped me over and fucked me.

We sat on the couch for a while and talked about our interests. There were a few things that pulled me back and made me re-think the possibility of our continuing on a deeper level. Small things that can matter, like not having a blanket after our play. I'm a sensitive being and need after-care. No excuses there, just saying - there was no blanket. He's been with his submissive for more than 5 years now, so I'd definitely come in second in the running. He's also got a family that requires a lot of attention. And, he likes women in heels and skirts. I don't mind dressing up occasionally, but anyone who knows me well knows I'm a tomboy pretending to be a girl who likes to dress up like a slutty princess sometimes. Also, just some of the too-quick assumptions that a lot of people make in the bdsm world: that a submissive will submit so readily to someone who shows dominance. I might have done that before - to my detriment and to my joy - but I'm a bit more cautious now. And, perhaps, more patient now.

Last weekend Friday I was in a heated (ie sexy) exchange with Hill, as he was home alone and his wife had left him in town. After a bit of whiskey, I decided to venture across town to his place. We talked easily, he showed me his sleeping babe in the other room (so naughty!), and we got undressed with quickness and familiarity. I sucked his cock and he called me good girl. He fucked me from behind whispering about how I'd watch he and his wife fucking, sitting in a corner of the room, touching myself, not being able to do anything but wank to them fucking, how I'd be their girl servant, and do what I'm told. And then I sucked him off. Walked for forever to find a cab (while I got my period in my little girl panties). Couldn't remember my apartment address. Walked a bit of the way home. Content, relaxed, relieved of a certain pressure that had been building up for weeks.

Aside from that, there is building. Growing of a "network." Although, I'm back to how I felt last year. Maybe it's spring that does this new mind twist on me. Maybe it's age. But there's a piece of me that wants to find a bit more in someone.

I described it on CL like this:

little girl missing her Daddy

I know there's gotta be a Daddy out there who is missing his little girl, too. I'm not talking about a money Daddy. I'm talking about a protective Daddy who knows that his little girl needs hugs and teddy bears, spankings when she's been bad, pink hair bands for her pigtails, a special lollipop when she's been good, walks in the park, pushes on the swing, a particular pacifier at bed time, and sometimes big girl outings. I'm not a needy little girl and my big girl job keeps me awfully busy. I am intelligent, creative, fun, thoughtful, naughty, and mature. But a big part of me misses Daddy time. Do you have an empty lap and big arms that need a to be filled?

(Please send a pic for a reply. No, I'm not a bot or seeking monetary means.)

:)

...........

There's a lot in that paragraph that could be construed as regular, ol' relationship action. Boyfriend-girlfriend hand-holding, comforting, supporting. Sure. I know this. But it's not what I want. I want those things wrapped in a clear kinkiness. I want those things within a lens of naughtiness. And I don't want them all the time.

I keep going back to how Frida and Diego lived. One complex, two houses, meeting places in the middle. What Katharine Hepburn said, "I often wonder whether men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then." I want my space, I want lovers, I want severe kink, but I also want some protection, some support, like a little bird under a dirty old wing.

I wrote down my call-to-action, as it were. As I read many, many years ago and have done off and on. Write down my interests, put them under a candle, make it a direct call to the universe. (Albeit, I'm without any candles for some reason so my Mother Mary statue will have to do. Regardless, it's my official call to the world that I know - again - what I'm looking for and hope someone will come along with some of the traits.)

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

So, all in all, my cunnie is happy, my desires aroused, my intrigued heightened, my possibilities ... endless.

A few tips: How Not to be a Moron in the Workplace

2010-04-12T19:23:00.002-04:00

Do not talk to yourself in that "people around the table will hear me and ask me about what I'm oohing and aahing" way.

Do not talk out loud to your email.

Do not talk too much personal biz: no one wants to hear that you just decorated your Tampa back yard with columns and hired a plant decorator; no one wants to sing "Happy Birthday" on the phone to your husband because it's his birthday and you are not at home with him to celebrate - plus, it's the middle of the work day, he's at work; no one wants to hear you moan "I don't have anyone to put on the 'Emergency Contacts' list - it's a long story."

Don't be all aggressive in new team work. No one is trying to steal your mojo. No one is going to usurp your job (unless you don't know what "usurp" means). Just chill the fuck out.

Do not have HR discussions with your employee in front of other employees. It's not classy. Take a moment, get up from the team table, walk to the other room, and then tell her/him about time off, comp time, and why there's no paid OT.

Don't eat ice cream for lunch and try to make up excuses for why you're doing it. Just eat your damn ice cream. No one is judging, and if they are - it's all internal, and who the fuck cares?

Don't talk about PMS or bras or pantyhose around your male colleagues. It's inappropriate and weird. Who wants to know about their jock straps, ranging hard-ons that they release in the bathroom, or five o'clock shadow growth?

It does not matter if you're from the South, North, or Far East - "ain't" is not an appropriate word for use in a professional situation.

Grow a pair of balls. Keep it together. Have some class.

New phone number

2010-04-07T21:21:00.002-04:00

If you have my old one - and you know who you are - I'm changing it. Email me if you need the new one.

And, no, Mister Random Stranger, I will not give it to you.

Bisous from DC,
Lo.

PS. Updates coming soon. This work lifestyle is so not my color....

Freedom in the Capitol

2010-03-25T17:20:00.000-04:00

I christened my new apartment yesterday. A nice solo job with my jeans down around my ankles and all the freedom of porn that I wanted.

I so missed living on my own.

DC is beautiful these days (although it'll rain tomorrow). I've been a grown-up, getting up at 6am to run trial bus routes to my future workplace. I've already been assigned some work for this weekend.

Joined the Zipcar and took a many-hours drive for apartment essentials. It's my first 1-bedroom and it's obvious that I've lived in studios. Rooms that are almost finished: bedroom, bedroom closet, bathroom, coat closet, kitchen (with a whole 3 shelves of crystal glassware and punchbowl scored from the grandparents - I could host a killer booze party but don't have any food). I have no living room furniture at all except for two bookshelves. I need a couch, rugs.

I'm totally excited about this new chapter of life. I grabbed a coffee downtown by the Naval metro stop - the first coffee I've had in 10 months. I think I'll need it for pep in these early mornings. Realized that I could easily be intimidated by the suits and the "What do you do?" attitude (which equals "What can do you for me?"). But I don't care. I don't care if I don't have killer outfits, that I'm not a hottie 20-something intern, that I'm not living in the most hip neighborhood, that I can't do anything for you.

I've got some dates set up. One with an old, old friend who has known me since CDOA v.1 days and who has been such a savior in my move to DC. We're setting ourselves up in a Daddy/girl situation and I'm excited to try it out with him. I'm also meeting with a dom from FetLife for lunch. He's into women wearing dresses and skirts and I might disappoint in that arena, but we're both into watersports and he's much older than I am so that's attractive. Then, there are a few randoms from OKCupid and FetLife. I'm in no rush. There's a whole city of pervs out there and I'll have my fun.

Meanwhile, my mind wanders back to Scat Man. A guy I met for drinks in Minneapolis and then invited over to the place at which I was crashing. I let down all my guards. I went deep into my kink. I explored more Daddy/daughter roleplay and incest fantasy. The deepest I've gone ever. Where fantasy could blur to action. Where dirty talk wasn't dirty, it just was.

We had such a good time that we stayed in touch when I went back to my parents before driving out to DC. He came down for a visit and stayed in a local hotel. We fucked in the room and then went out for drinks at a small pub. We held hands as we sat at the bar and turned our heads from each other, talking to strangers we'd just met. The whole time, our hands gripping.

When we got back to the hotel we were wasted. And somehow (I don't remember the details - all the whiskey I indulged in, after days of sterility at my parents'), we were in the bathroom. I squatted, and shit in his hands. He rubbed it on my ass, on my arms, on his face. I can still see this fleck of it sticking off the side of his cheek. This is where my drunk brain woke up. Where my drunk brain saw the openness of two people. Where I saw the exploration that could be. Where I tested a limit and went beyond it. Where I trusted someone to care for me and get deep down with me. My shit. My feces. My dirtiest part. My insides... were on us. Something so much more organic and beautifully sick and honest and internal... internal... I can't think of another word. My insides came out - outside. If I have a hard time showing my emotions, speaking words of care or interest, or breaking down the barriers of mind and body -- they were gone. We were dirty and sexy and reveling in our nature.

I had that scent in my nostrils the entire next day. I kept thinking I had shit on the bottom of my shoes, like when you step in dog doo and can smell a bad scent but have no idea where it's coming from. Is it following me? Is it my mind? Oh, fuck, it's on my shoe! But there was no shit anywhere. It was just the memory lodged in my mind.

I've never gone there before. I remember Daisy, a friend who was an escort and dancer. She told me once, as we leaned over the bar and talked closely, about how a client of hers got them a hotel room, brought plastic sheeting, covered his chest, and asked her to shit on him. I was aghast with curiosity and fear. Now I know.

I do not require this kind of interaction and depth, sincerity and honesty in my everyday life, but I am changed for it. We have developed something I don't know that I could find elsewhere. But I am still pining for my future, potential lovers. And Scat Man and I relish in that: he's fucking other women, I'll fuck other men, we'll play with others. It's an easy poly situation in long-distance, but we're not as honest with others as we are with ourselves over chat or email. I had a heart sigh for him - have - but we're anchored on the same boat while freely drifting and backfloating and tickling with the octopus and mermaids.

A nice segway of safety and surprise into this new chapter of my life. I'm excited for the change. I'm excited to see how my growth goes. Many challenging days ahead with the new, high-level job. Many fun nights. Work hard, play hard. And, above all else ---- freedom.

Never, but maybe now

2010-03-17T17:45:00.000-04:00

I was never into scat before. That might change.

Huh. Interesting comments of late.

2010-02-28T14:26:00.002-05:00

Mostly I've been rejecting spam comments: lines and lines of links to drugs and chicks.

But the most recent on "The Nooner" is very interesting.

%%%%%%%%%%

Other than that? It's been 2-1/2 weeks with my family. I'm somewhat losing my mind, considering one of those weeks was me sick with a horribly sore throat. This, of course, freaked me out and sent my mind into wondering if I'd contracted an STI from oral sex. Needless to say the swab revealed that I had haemophilus influenzae, a common bacteria, that my body did well fighting off on its own with the help of gargling salt water. (Seriously, I should listen more to this type of household advice.)

And, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for confirmation. I'm DC-bound for a job, but there are hoops to jump through and then Olympic-sized judges to confirm or reject my performance. The waiting is really getting to me. I scour the Craigslist apartment listings, find something I could live with (and in), and then hope it sticks around. I've given up on that one and will, instead, wait for the final confirmation before getting excited. It should be any day now. So they say.

I am excited about the move, and finally living in my first one-bedroom apartment. Having the salary to do so. Having a job. Making a difference again. And, getting the fuck out of my parents' house. They're lovely people, but it's not advisable to visit this long with parents once one has become an adult. I see their dysfunctionality much more clearly. And I don't want to.

Anyway... nothing fun to report. Just the good news of a job and the patience that is my karma.

The nooner

2010-02-08T10:40:00.000-05:00

My friend told me on Friday about a potential date he was going to have for a guy to suck his cock. It's been a personal fantasy of mine to see guy-on-guy action. A long-standing fantasy at that. I don't usually wank to gay porn, because I usually envision myself as the bottom in the porn scenario and if the bottom has a cock it kind of confuses my lust. Nonetheless, over all my years of crazy libido, I'd never watched live guy action. So, I told my friend I'd love to be invited to watch.

Turns out that his date's fantasy involved sucking a cock with a woman. And, my friend, well, he's up for almost anything.

The date plan was that my friend was going to cross-dress as a slut in black and heels and the date was going to come by over lunch break. The date's a rather stereotypical looking bear daddy who is married, living a quiet life over on the other side of town. My friend put us in contact via email to assuage any nervousness on the part of the date: who is this chick, what does she want, is she for real, etc...

We chatted a bit over email and I sent him the nudey lola with socks photo and the nudey lola riding the sex toy photo. I guess he was convinced because he replied with "OMG!!!!!!" Flattery will get you everywhere.

Got over to my friend's house and poured a small whiskey (all work being done for the day). My friend got all dolled up in his slutty CD outfit with black stockings, black top, and heels. He was quite a sight with his plaid lumberjack robe on top. The Date arrived. We were all a bit nervous - least of all was my friend, most of all was The Date. His hands were shaking when we introduced ourselves and his voice cracking and rapid, "So, this is your first time?" (He'd already asked me that in email.) He pulled out the poppers and put it on the table. They both took a hit and my friend, with lovely moaning porn on his laptop in the background, got up and straddled The Date on the couch so his cock was well positioned for The Date's mouth. I watched from a comfy chair across the room: hand in my tights, slowly finding my clit and working myself up.

My friend came over and put the poppers below my nose. Having never indulged, I thought poppers were pills (poppers, uppers, same idea in my mind), so I'm sticking my tongue out a bit waiting for him to drop one and he says, "You inhale." Of course, I blushed, but then the blushing turned to red balloon fire inflating of my cheeks as the rush hit me. I'm not sure it really did anything for me - and we sniffed a few more times - but damn if my friend's cock wasn't enormously hard and bursting at the seams.

My friend called me over to the couch to fondle myself there, in view for him and The Date. I wasn't planning on participating really. In my mind, I'd just envisioned being an onlooker, like some Eyes Wide Shut masked observer. Power in my distance, cooly watching as if they were my actors, or my homemade porn. I guess I'm like a bitch in heat though - a cock is around, I can sniff it out, and damnit I want it. I was a bit reluctant because the spontaneity did catch me off guard. How far would I go? Did I want to fuck? Did I want cum on my face or in my mouth? Did I want to be sucked? Thankfully, time was in check. This was a lunch date, not an all-nighter. The Date touched me tentatively and I let him. I played with his cock in my hand while he sucked off my friend and my friend sucked on my tits. It was a tangle of limbs - so much so that a leg movement and my friend almost bonked The Date.

It was super fucking hot to play with my clit and watch these two. The Date's lips tight around the head of my friend's cock, and his hand just below, gripping and stroking. A man who knows how to touch another man. Sure, there are chicks who know how to give blowjobs and handjobs well, and I'm damn fine myself, but there's still never quite perfection for me. I don't have this body part. I don't want to hurt it. I don't want to grab too hard or pull too much. My friend tells me he doesn't like wet things - isn't into kissing, doesn't like saliva much, hates gum. Me? I prefer slobbery wet blowjobs. I want spit on my face, trails of drool from a cock to my mouth, swallowing multiple pools of saliva. The Date knew just how much pressure in his hand, how much spit was needed. It was horny perfection.

My friend pulled my sweater off. (I'd already taken off my tights to show my little red cherry thong.) They both went at my tits and I kept my finger on my clit. The Date went back to my friend's cock and he shot his load as I moaned along.

Then it was done. Clothes put back on. The Date said I was hot and wiped up a bit of dripped cum on the floor with some toilet paper. I thanked them for letting me watch. My friend was like, fun and gotta run back to work.

It all happened so fast. Truly, a half-hour can go by like a wink. In my mind, I think I was imagining a drawn-out porn hour-long fantasy. Different positions. Some unplanned fucking. I wanted to see cock in ass. I wanted to roll around on the floor and call The Date "Daddy" and pretend my friend and I were siblings in some wack incest roleplay. Or, maybe they'd push the coffee table out of the way and get into a 69 while I touched myself, viewing from the couch. I'd pulled out my silver underwear bag thinking I might want the egg vibe - but there wasn't time. It was all over so quickly. Guess that means there's room for more expansion on this. Guess that means I can add it to my list of "Things To Explore More Fully." At least I got a good taste.

Almost caught

2010-02-04T14:03:00.000-05:00

I've done this a few times. It meshes with my trucker fantasy. But today, I was spotted, and not sure how much or what he saw.

Between cities. I pulled over to the rest area. Further from the other cars, but not so far as to be suspicious -- I guess? (As if I have this figured out.) I pull out the mobile to pretend some work call is coming in. Of course, that's why I pull over. I am a good citizen after all - don't want to drive and talk. Whip out the laptop. Reach behind into the roller suitcase, pull out the silver underwear bag. Laptop in lap. Pull out my trusty egg vibe (this one from the sex store in Paris). Slide the seat back. Facing the big, heavy, resting trucks. Dirty trucks. Some with headlights on in mid-day. Some just pulling up. Are the men napping? Do they have girls with them? Are they getting sucked off? Are they shooting up? My dirty dream to connect somehow and - of course - am serviced and fucked. In a cab. In one of those awesomely dirty, messy, lived-in cabs, with rosaries hanging from random hooks, velour red (blood red) curtains, a small college dorm-sized fridge, a mattress?, a cushion? what the hell is in the back of these cabs? how big are they?

I put the egg in under the open zipper, under the soft pink fabric of my thong. Put the laptop crooked-wise in my lap and pick the one video where the hairy French guy is pounding the nubile girl from behind and she's into it but her moans are screams. Side by side next to the one of "hungry joe" - some guy I friended years ago who likes exhibitionism and makes videos of himself jacking off. In this one he's using a see-through fleshlight. She's screaming (I turned the volume up as the car engine runs), he's lubing up the fleshlight, the phone is by my side, my hand in my pants, I change one of the batteries out, turn it up high high high, not enough time to work up to it.

I look up and see the rest area janitor guy at the trash bins in front of my car. Fuck! Slide my hand out from my underwear to the keyboard. I feel the instant blush in my cheeks. Cover the open zipper with my sweater. He looks at me. Looks back to the bins. I toss the egg vibe to the floor of my car. Pick up the phone. "Oh, hi, yeah, so I found the document.." He empties the bins. I try to mouth words in fake conversation and attempt to quickly calculate his viewpoint angle. Was the laptop hiding my hand. Was the cord obvious? Did he hear the screams? He moves on to the next bins.

I pretend the fake call. He finishes this stretch of cleaning and walks past me. I try to smile innocently as he walks by.

Out of view, I pretend a trucker has binoculars on me. Staring. Watching. Wondering. Knowing I'm faking my phone call. Watching me put the phone down, jack up the videos again, quickly place the now dirty and dusty egg vibe into my pants (I wipe it a little beforehand but the dirt makes me feel more naughty), and and and and .... quick, pulsing release. The blood rushes to my cheeks. The inside walls clench and contract in spasm. I close my eyes in orgasm like an addict feeling the kick in my veins. But quick. The janitor might have seen it all and called the cops. I'm running late anyway. Battery out. Egg back into the bag. Bag into the suitcase. Laptop closed. Pants zipped. I step out for a smoke. (I have quit, but it's my rebel behavior on these hormonal trips that makes me want something between my lips.) Pretend - again - that I'm on the phone.

Climb back in. Pull the seat forward. Reverse. Pull out.

Ahhhhhh, yes....

What wasn't, now can be; what isn't, just might

2010-02-04T01:28:00.002-05:00

I've heard about the transformations people make. Mostly it's from socialist, hippie freak punk kids to conservative, blue-grey haired cranky old people. I very well might be progressing along that line, but I'm doing a rumba as I go.

It's such an odd life.

And I sometimes wonder who's really living it.

I know nothing at all about Scientology but someone told me once that it has something to do with humans believing they're actually aliens inhabiting a human form. Well, I feel that way all the time.

"This can't really be my family."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying out the hair dryer and make-up. Learning to be a woman."

"What would it be like to work for the Federal government?"

It's all so curious. My father and mother are aging before my eyes and annoyingly so. I don't like seeing it. I don't like realizing that I'm actually smarter than my dad right now, more nimble than my mom. But I haven't suffered much. I mean, I've always been this way: grumpy in the morning, independent in the afternoon, and more friendly over wine. I have no office in their house so I'm using the dining room table to set up my computer. (After I Skyped with my friends in Portland who smoke the jones, I realized I needed to be able to find a space where the laptop could face a wall and not have my parents stumble behind me to see Jane and Michael pulling on the bong.) I end up sighing a lot. I breathe a lot when I'm stressed. And there one of them is - "What? What's up?" I call it hovering. Stop hovering, I say. My father stands there, in front of me or next to me. He wants attention. But I refuse to acknowledge him if he doesn't say anything out loud. He needs a volunteer job for fuck's sake. Instead, they've been building an eco-friendly house in the woods 2.5 hours from here. But he won't tell his sisters and mother (who live in town) or his brother or friends. It's a big secret because he's ... well, selfish and sneaky. So they get all busy with this house but don't warn or tell anyone they're packing up and leaving town in a few months. This leaves his sisters to take care of their mother, who lives in an assisted living home. I don't think it's fair to not be open. I don't think it's nice to lie through omission. I find it hard to fake through answers to "What are your parents up to these days?"

But, the fascinating thing is that I'm so much like him. Self-absorbed. Attention hungry. Me first and the gimme gimmes.

My mother putters on. I'm not sure who she is. I can see her eyes frantically searching my face and eyes every time she talks to me. A look of hoping that I'm understanding her. A look of worry that she's boring me. This intense desire to be loved by me. But at the same hand, she'd turn and chop me off any block. She's such a strange person to me. So nervous in company - but I remember when I holed up in Paris and didn't speak to anyone for days and would go out into a party and worry about controlling myself, trying to be a person after forgetting, after living in a den of routine and killing comfort. So, I'm trying to accept her. Love her through my eyes.

But damn it all if I'm not impatient and annoyed with my lack of individual space. I have nowhere to hide during the day when I want to work. What does it matter though? I'm about to sweep away for a job.

The internship in Madison has gone really well, but the networking in other circles has gone better for now. DC might be calling. I'm hesitant for this transition, and not sure I'd pass their tests to get there. I wasn't sure about interview #1 but I got #2 from it. I wasn't sure about panel interview #1, but got offered a job from it. Now, the time for sitting alone. Now, the time for a tarot reading.

I know it's hippie. I know it's weird. I can't explain it, but I can. Sure, it's mostly the research, the outreach, the work I do to get there. But then there's the secret rituals I do to throw out there my dreams, my needs. I sometimes call it "God" or "Mother" or "Destiny". I meditate. Driving back and forth between Chicago and Madison, Madison and the river. Hours to listen to NPR and catch the college radio stations, fantasize about truck fucks in the road stops, and meditate, think, dream.

I cannot stay much longer with my parents. I love them. I am fascinated by their process and our interactions. I cannot stay. I need my own space. My own kitchen. My own center. I need to pay off the debt. I need the next level in this game. I need to see who I'll become next.

And this all just might take me to DC, into the fray, the speed, the honey bee hive, the lies, the masks, the ambitions, the desires, the steam, the cold, the bones, the waves of change.

After all those prayers of meditation, all this work of humility and drive. I really am not driving the train. As I wasn't when I followed art to Minneapolis, Fernando to Costa Rica, Ryan to Madison, school to Paris. Once I launch the dream of hope, the hunger for experience - someone else starts conducting me there.

I have no idea why or how or wherefore. And, the background checks might prohibit this path. But for now, well, it looks damn near close to the Capitol.

[no editing this one]

My thoughts on money for play

2010-01-29T01:27:00.001-05:00

and a photo of my nudey body

and lovely Paris

over at tumblr.

xo

Waiting for a sign

2010-01-20T22:44:00.002-05:00

Yes, I've had fun up in Minneapolis with a boy there.
Yes, I've had my threesome (long-awaited) with two lovely men in Madison.
Yes, I've had my good times with one of the three - tied and beaten and fucked without mercy in Madison.

But really, I'm waiting and working to find my next employment.

I could work for a migration research body in DC.
Could further pursue a job with the Dept of State - though they do random drug testing.
Could further hunt down a position with a consultancy in DC.
Could hunger for a foundation job in NYC.
Could work the crowd to find something in Chicago.
Could do some government work in Minneapolis.

Could could, would would.

I have no idea where I'm supposed to be throwing my hardest thoughts and efforts. Could come back to Madison and get something much better paid than when I left, much more growth opportunity, more exposure, more planned steps to get to me one of the above in the end.

I'm waiting... waiting for a glimmer in the shift of stars, the wind to change so it blows up my skirt. Waiting... and working towards - well, something.

Over there yonder

2010-01-15T19:51:00.003-05:00

I've been answering some interesting sex-related questions, as well as posting some new nudie photos over on tumblr.

Right now, I'm preparing for a playdate, but I have been job hunting, too. A naughty girl with a sugar side to me. Indeed.

xo

Harrass me with your curiousity

2010-01-09T23:43:00.003-05:00

tumblr offers questions now. Jumping on the bandwagon. Ask me. Anonymous enabled. I don’t lie.

Bonne Nouvelle Année! Happy New Year! Feliz Año Nuevo!

2009-12-31T13:30:00.001-05:00

Wishing you a new year that exceeds what you deserve and is better than you imagined.

FeltLife giveaway

2009-12-09T15:42:00.001-05:00

FetLife “Sit on Kinky Santa's Lap” giveaway

FetLife is a free social network for the BDSM & fetish community. Similar to Facebook and mySpace but run by kinksters.

Don't cry for me Argentina

2009-11-13T10:46:00.002-05:00

Pretty low-key lately. Chicago was nice with amazingly warm weather and great family. The drive to Minneapolis was giggles and singing '80s songs loudly with my sister and her fiance (who did not sing but deejayed). Then, it's been a slow easing-into-society process. Job hunting a bit online, driving practice to the car wash, dinner with a girl friend.

Then, last night I went out with a guy who worked with me way back in the day when I was working for a local newspaper. We had drinks at some typical bar with wooden interior, a circular and centered bar, TVs blaring sports, and stools supporting all kinds of overweight, boring-looking people. I brought him a 2Euro coin and he brought me 5 scratch-off games, which I've never played before. We won $2. I had a dirty martini and it didn't taste as I was hoping it would. He had grapefruit juice. We've both cut down on the drinking quite a bit during these precarious days of unemployment, when we could be easily subjected to a bout of depression or anxiety. We went to a pool hall to shoot some and I learned that not all pool halls serve booze, and some can feel downright depressing. I won one, he won one. Then, we rounded off the night at a dive bar called Vegas, where some scowly college kids were drunk and singing karaoke. I had a Maker's Mark on the rocks for old time sake. He had a Sprite. Talking came easy. We had exchanged some emails over the past couple of months since finding ourselves via Facebook, so we knew that we could joke about naughty sex, share openly about our depressions, and dream of our evolution.

When he drove me home, he patted my back and let his hand linger. We wished I was wasn't staying at my sister's and that he wasn't crashing with his parents. Then, we kind of leaned into each other and he started kissing my neck. My heart palpitated and my body sighed. We kissed gently until I tightened my teeth around one of his lips. His right hand grabbed my hair and pulled my neck back. His left hand dove into my jacket. I tried to move it into my skirt, under my tights, but he kept pointing out that we were parked in the middle of the street under a street lamp. I didn't care. Who would care? I didn't live there. No one was awake. No one was looking. I am not fifteen. But I was totally prepared to jump into the back seat to get it on. He said he had no condom. We said we'd hang out Friday night. He waited for me to get inside the house and his SMS was "Nighty nigh cutie pie."

no, no, actually I'm not going out tonight

2009-11-06T16:10:00.003-05:00

I have 3 huge suitcases staring at me from the corner of a dark shadow of my apartment. The toilet and shower and closet shelves are clean, although unnecessarily so. I've given more to this apartment than is necessary to clean it, but I'm a bit OCD and a bit fetishy about cleaning, so I take this time to inhale bleach and other toxic chemicals and scrub scrub scrub while think think thinking of what I'm cleaning away.

I am prepping my ipod for the 14-hour flight on Aer Lingus: sexy tunes for when Mr. Flight Attendant asks, in his almost incomprehensible Irish accent, if I'd like "coffee, tea, Michael Collins Single Malt, or Michael Collins cunnilingus?" And then, the tunes for when I pop a sleeping pill and attempt to twist-cramp myself to sleep. (I have lewd fantasies of "accidentally" slipping a hand into my pants to fondle myself while sitting next to a handsome potato-exporter.)

There were fireworks somewhere out in the city, and the Eiffel's light rotates overhead. I know I'm forgetting so many things, just like I knew I was forgetting something when I left Spaniard's apartment this morning. "Thanks for the nice umbrella :-)" he texted. But I know what I'm leaving here, and I know I can't take it, and I know I'll feel short of it for a while.

... Finally.... Finally, the tears are coming. I've been wishing they'd come. A few streams in Spaniard's bed was not enough. A few stiffled droplets during adieus to friends was not enough. Which is why I am not going out tonight. I need to say good-bye - my way, finally. It's been building oh so building. The street line when I turn the corner at my metro, my street line, my chimney stacks to the sky, my grey buildings against hazy, dusky, impressionist skies. The last frustration in BHV, searching for vacuum bags when no one knows where they are and refer you to another floor's department. The fact that my French is good enough for them to understand me, but still not know what I'm talking about. That I'm asked for directions and can turn and point with clarity and sureness. That I know the metro lines and the fastest way to get there. That I can still get lost by a block but then remember what neighborhood, where it leads, what it's next to. This familiarity. The tea had with new friends just yesterday under an awning under the pouring, drenching, loud rain. Our breath seen for flittering seconds beneath the heat stands. The so-not-environmental heat stands.

So, I've said my good-byes to those that need them. And those friends to whom I haven't know who they are and why it might be harder for me to say good-bye to them. For they are the first I knew here. I want to refuse to say good-bye to them. I want to pretend this journey goes on. That my voyage to the US is simply that. A moment of respite from here.

But I know this isn't the case. It never is.

I left Buenos Aires in 1991 after three and a half years of growing up there, and I have yet to return. I rarely return. Even my return trips to the Midwest mean something strange to me.

But Paris is, indeed, a moveable feast. She will be inside me forever and I in her. If just for a small second, a slight dent in time, an imprint in this historic apartment filled with ghosts previous to me and enjoyed by me and better for me.

This is my good-bye party. This is my moment of hugs and tears and so longs and until we meet agains.

so long, Spaniard

2009-11-06T13:10:00.004-05:00

I hadn't had a drink in five days. He poured Glenfiddich. We talked for two hours, then we went to his bedroom. I held his hand as we stared up at the ceiling, in the dark, clothed, with The Pixies singing from his living room. Small tears slid down my cheeks. But it wasn't long before I rolled a leg over his hips and unbuckled his belt. And it wasn't long after caressing his cock that I was hungry for it. I pinned his arms and bit his nipples. Between his legs, I tickled my lips with the fuzz of his pubic hair and filled my nostrils with his scent - always so clean but still him. His knees retreated to the sky and I wet a finger at his ass. I imagined I could want a strap-on to fuck him - if we had days and days, but we did not, and his arousal was almost too far gone. I am fair play. I get mine, too. He leans up but I am clasped to his body. He lifts me and guides me to my hands and knees, pulls my jeans down but not off. He is my steady fuck and he is awarded my new virginity. His girth prodding steadily for entry, and when his cock is inside me, he speeds up. I move my hand behind me to his abdomen to push him back. "I want to feel you, all of you." The length, the slow, drawn out length of him filling me. I whimper. I hunger. I want him fast and slow and again and deep and barely the tip of his cock touching me and banging me and then slowly slowly like a whisper of nerves. I love my shudders, my spasms, my involuntarily volunteering. I love the sounds he makes when he comes. He pulls out, inch by inch, as I whine heartbroken at his departure. My face in his bed. Again, tears. Elation, relief, relaxation, sadness, I miss him already.

nerve.com

2009-10-30T16:28:00.000-04:00

Back in the day, I used Nerve.com for dating and artistic fun:

"a week in DC with lola"

me my goods my habits
I am: a woman
Looking for: a man
Interested In: friendship, dating, play
Age: 27
Location: midwesternly
Area Code: 666
Occupation: political whore
Education: college
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Religion: what have you got?
Star Sign: are you one?
Relationship Status: Single
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 125 lbs
Hair color: not a hamptons blonde
Eye color: firey pools of observation
Cigarettes: sometimes
Booze: often
Drugs: never
Self-deprecation: never

you your goods your habits
Age: 18 - 88
Education: college, grad school, post grad

the tip of my iceberg

Last great book I read:
Let's Go Guide to Washington, DC... or how to make your own party in the nation's capital.

Most humbling moment:
a tie: talking to the inner demons of a homeless man in front of the white house - or - when my step-cousin leaned over and kissed me while drunkenly watching Apocolypse Now

Favorite on-screen sex scene:
a 1970's anti-feminist porn shown at the Women in the Arts museum

Celebrity I resemble most:
chandra levy.. only, alive.

Best (or worst) lie I've ever told:
to the congressman who offered to show me places i wouldn't normally have access to: 'i'll call you tomorrow!'

If I could be anywhere at the moment:
back in DC ass-fucking in the hilton, in richmond fucking, in the elevator of the rayburn with that hot lefty intern, in arlington finishing off where my cousin and i were interrupted, in the limo with the Honorable Reps.

Song or album that puts me in the mood:
WASH!ING!TON!DC - the magnetic fields

The five items I can't live without:
condoms, a guide book, metro map, camera, business cards

Fill in the blanks:
mingling is sexy; networking is sexier.

In my bedroom, you'll find:
i'm unpacked, maps of DC, undeveloped film, unpaid bills, unfulfilled desires, business cards, a shot of maker's mark, a pile of mail unread, clean sheets, the next campaign director for the next greatest thing

why you should get to know me
who else do you know who can fly into a new city and come away with 4 new lovers, 9 new potential employers, 3 new bruises, and a million new stories? i'm fun, fearless, friendly, you can dress me up for the kennedy center, you can undress me with your eyes and i won't take offense, and i don't wear khacki.

more about who I'm looking for
the next president of the states

editor's note: this is one of many stories created using a personal ad, for further information on the author, please see her other profile: lola990.

job rejection and NYE 2002 memories

2009-10-29T18:35:00.001-04:00

over on tumblr

Hence, why it's good to have a sense of humor

2009-10-27T19:01:00.004-04:00

Celine's last day in Paris and she wanted to grab lunch at a super hotspot in the Marais (where she's seen models and the famous).

Then, she wanted to do a pedicure/manicure thing. I have never done a pedicure/manicure thing. First, for the ethical reasons that these shops are horrendous on the Asian employees (why are they almost all Asian?). Second, I'm just not girlie enough for it. Third, I'm very aware that my feet are not my best feature - and they're ticklish.

When the Asian lady lifted up my foot from the tub to do some scrapey scrapey thing on the bottom, the 4 teen girls behind her cracked giggles and popped their eyes. One even leaned over to get a better look.

No, my feet are not clubbed. But yes, it's why I always wear sexy thigh-highs or cute knee-socks on dates.

For dinner, I went over to an international affair of all these kids from my grad program. And, who did I run into but the classical guitar player.

Ahhh, life.

1,383

2009-10-21T18:43:00.003-04:00

Total documents from 1987 until 2009. It's mostly 2005 onwards. I know I have notebooks and notebooks from 1986-2005. Only 1/10000 of them have been logged into a computer.

I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!

Reine des Reinette

2009-10-20T16:09:00.001-04:00

They're not Gala or McIntosh apples.

Harvest: late September; Season: October - January
Description: Gourmet dessert apple. Flavor on the sweet side.

Wikipedia's French page translated:

The queen is a variety of apple relatively old, whose maturity occurs in late summer - early autumn.

The INRA d'Angers got around 1975 a mutant characterized by a more intense staining and early maturity. His name is Belrène.

Description of the fruit

The medium fruit has a thick enough skin, slightly rough, heavily dotted with gray, yellow streaked with dull red. Her pale yellow flesh, fine juicy, crisp and tart is very pleasant to chew. This is an especially suitable for pies, especially the tarte tatin.

* Shape: cylinder-conical, slightly depressed on one side at each end.
* Peduncle: medium length, strong, especially at the base, obliquely inserted in a narrow and deep basin.
* Eye: large, half-closed, very large cavity whose edges are generally united.
* Water: sufficient, sweet, tangy and deliciously scented.
* Maturity: December-March
* Quality: First.
* Wood: hard [1].
* Palm: generally small, slightly spreading, the largest and longest, very geniculate and very fluffy, green tinged with red red slate.
* Lenticels: elongated, very large, abundant.
* Pads: very emerged.
* Eyes: large, ovoid, obtuse, clad in bark and downy.
* Leaves: excessively large, oval, somewhat hairy and brownish green above, greenish-white below, shortly acuminate and deeply toothed.
* Petiole: Short, very heavy, tomentose, often fluted.
* Stipules: the longer and wider.
* Fertility: Ordinary. Bon pollinisateur. Good pollinator.

Culture

For full wind, graft flush with the ground, this apple is admirably suited and makes trees rod straight. Dwarf forms, it thrives quite well but needs to be budded on apple Paradise, about making it more productive by lessening the excess vegetation. The variety is particularly susceptible to aphids and has a strong tendency towards alternation.

Obtained in Holland, the tree is hardy and bears the very cold climates of Northern Europe.

The Queen of pippin is particularly recommended in all the orchards because they can pollinate many other varieties. It reached full flower 2 days after Golden Delicious and is pollinated by 'Granny Smith', 'Golden Delicious',' Starking Delicious.

History

Our Queen of Reinettes - whose original name seems to have been "Kroon Renet", belonging to the Batavian language and meaning "Pippin Crown" - was born about 1770. The Netherlands, where it has long cultivated several varieties of apples Kroon, is regarded by the pomologue Diel German as the source country of the latter, he described in 1802. He had received from the Hague under the label Kroon Renet.

In English, the variety called "Queen of the pippin" distinct variety of "King of the pippin", even if the two are often confused.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

I just ate one of these drizzled in the honey from my love affair last year with the Economist Beekeeper Sex God.

Meet Joe Black

2009-10-20T14:26:00.000-04:00

For how terribly acted, for how long it runs, for the multiple and obvious goofs, for Brad Pitt's horrendous hair, for all these things - it's still a decent script.

There should be a remake soon. Less on the sap, more on the death, I bet. This plot is the same type of philosophical question we all have about the elements out of our control: nature (Anti-Christ), our obsessions (Little Children), mutants (X-Men), degrees of separation (Babel), beliefs (Angels and Demons), consciousness (The Matrix), and death (Meet Joe Black).

[I can't believe "dervish" came out of Anthony Hopkins' mouth. Like I can't believe "suborn" came out of Brad Pitt's.]

Bill: There's not an ounce of excitement, not a... whisper of a thrill. And this relationship has all the passion of a pair of titmice. I want you to get swept away out there. I want you to levitate. I want you to... sing with rapture and dance like a dervish. Be deliriously happy, or at least leave yourself open to be.

Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without. If you don't start with that, what are you going to end up with? Fall head over heels. I say find someone you can love like crazy and who'll love you the same way back. And how do you find him? Forget your head and listen to your heart. I'm not hearing any heart. Run the risk, if you get hurt, you'll come back. Because, the truth is there is no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love - well, you haven't lived a life at all. You have to try. Because if you haven't tried, you haven't lived.

Bill: You know, I got to thinking. With you here and seemingly occupied, how's your work going, I mean, elsewhere?

Joe: While you were shaving this morning, you weren't just shaving.

Bill: What do you mean?

Joe: You were hatching ideas, making plans, arriving at decisions, right?

Bill: Yeah, I guess so.

Joe: So you understand the concept. While part of you is busy doing one thing, another part of you is doing another, perhaps even attending to the problems of your work. Correct?

Bill: Of course.

Joe: So you understand the idea. Congratulations, Bill. Now multiply that by infinity, take that to the depths of forever, and you still will barely have a glimpse of what I'm talking about.

Joe: You're the poison, Drew. You've operated behind the scenes
to suborn the trust of a man... who has stamped you with his imprimatur of class, elegance and stature. I've had the opportunity to be witness to every kind and degree of deception. But Bill Parrish has been on the receiving end of machinations so Machiavellian... that it has rarely been my experience to encounter. And yet, he has combatted them stoically and selflessly, without revealing my identity. Had he violated the vow of secrecy he took, his task would have been far easier. He could have turned defeat into victory. But he is too honorable a man to have done that. Because of me, he has lost his work, his company, his reputation. So now, given these losses, I'm compelled to end the need for secrecy. The time has come to tell you who I am.

The Lighthouse

2009-10-19T20:02:00.000-04:00

Celine gave me good hash.

It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.

I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.

We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.

I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.

This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.

So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.

Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.

So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.

And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.

finished

2009-10-18T19:27:00.002-04:00

I have just finished the saving the entire history of every CDOA. I now saved every motherfucking entry I have written.

Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.

I've gone as far back as 2001.

That's a lot of fucking words.

If by, you mean

2009-10-18T14:01:00.000-04:00

Thursday, August 29, 2002

life is so beautiful some days

when you find the perfect quotes:

"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown

"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.

"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Today:

"Anon" has a name and immortality.

"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)

"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.

Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:

IF BY WHISKY

THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:

"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"

The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:

"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.

"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.

October

2009-10-16T07:29:00.002-04:00

2003
looking back is still the same:
"i'm tired, but it's also october.
i tried to look up my old blog's october archives but i couldn't get 'em.
october is the worst month.
yes, it's the most beautiful.
yes, i love tossing ideas around for halloween costumes and party plans. (although of late i'm always a catholic school girl.)

but it's also:
anniversary of date rape
anniversary of mike's suicide
anniversary of laura's car crash
anniversary of the commencement of my relations with "the old man"
anniversary of my first girl kiss
anniversary of nostalgic, homesick feelings in spain
anniversary of josh and his preggers ex-girlfriend
anniversary of getting back in dating saddle only to choose kink over the good boy
anniversary of lori's tragic death"

i hate october.

i turn in.
hiberation has a unique meaning for me.
introspection into the deep dark dank corners of my thoughts.

2005
my october is over.

pumpkins were carved again. the car battery died up on the hill again. the stars came out again. i said no again. he said yes. i rolled my eyes to the side and closed them again. we lived at dead end alley again. mike died again. laura suffered a car crash again. and, again, lori, the old man, spain, broken hearts. all over again. covered in ripples of james's sadness.

it is the most melancholy of seasons. the beautifully quiet and solemnly sad month of pumpkins, candles, witches, and ghosts.

the footsteps down the hall

2009-10-15T20:19:00.002-04:00

There were certain sounds, certain echoes, certain resonance to them.

When dad came to us every three years or so and explained that we'd be moving again.

The military life. People always ask if I liked moving all the time, liked living all over the world. Well, there was nothing to which to compare. I knew no different. And every few years, there he would come. I don't recall my mother telling us. I think she was left to the packing detail, while he often went ahead to establish something -- his work, our lives, a pattern?

It's the same, only different now.

I thought I'd love travelling, moving, carrying my life in a few suitcases and boxes. And, I do. I know very well - as much as my family knows I know, and joke with me that we'll grow annoyed with each other after a couple of months. I'm bred independent. I have no gut instinct for marriage, the house, the picket fence, the 2.5 children, the mortgage, the small city.

But this move. This change. Well, it comes with so much more to it, of course. I wouldn't be packing if my dad weren't sick. But what would I be doing? Who would I be now? We'll never answer this because of how things go now. Destiny? Karma? As it is. And this move, well, it's fucking hard. Hard with a capital H. Am I too old to live on my own without a family to sustain? Am I too tender to be so far?

Tonight, my father encouraged me in applying for certain jobs. All jobs. Anywhere. With travel as it is and internet, why not? But then, why didn't they visit me? Why did they never make it over here? Why did they not come for my graduation? They are building a last house, a house of self-sustaining proportion, of solar and water heat, of environmental friendliness. That could be the reason, although rumor has it that my mother wasn't interested in travelling.

She and I are too alike. We suffer anxiety. We suffer our go-go dancer tendancies. We adore newness but hate making it happen. I am more like my mother than I or she ever intended. I doubt she knows this, but I guess she has hints. After all, we fought like enemies for so long that I think she realized she had been cursed with herself re-born.

So now.

They are my footsteps. My decision to move. My destiny in making.

I don't think I've cried so much as an adult. I almost worry that I have early menopause. I see certain posturing of my parents on Skype and start to stop myself from crying. Yes, I know I'm delayed in development, in growing up, and it's only now, finally, that I realize the importance of family.

But ... well, there is such beauty in freedom, Paris, living.

Ugh. I'm too tired to finish this.

But it's why I find it hard to go outside my apartment. It's too damn beautiful. It's too damn free. And, now, well, now, it's time to be an adult. Grow up. Suck up. Suck it up. Get a pant suit and low heels, go to some big city, and make my payback. And I hate it. I miss my family but I hate the idea of US living. It will crush me. So far as I can see now.

Blah blah. I know this isn't true. I know I'm adaptable, flexible, and in so much love with humanity that I can do anything. But for now, for tonight, I'm crying over a lot of spilled milk that is called lait in French and is beautiful.

[no editing
oh, and a ton of new photos over on Tumblr.]

I am trying to break your heart

2009-10-14T19:27:00.000-04:00

a bunch of new, autumnal photos over on Tumblr.

re: Paris is snobby pt.2

2009-10-08T21:19:00.000-04:00

Paris is not insensitive or rude. Really, it’s true.

If you get on the metro, and sit down, at 7pm, and you’ve just uhm touched yourself to get off before going to visit your ex-lover, because well, you like him so much but you don’t feel like fucking him because you just fucked a great guy the night before and, while you showered, you want to remember the swell night you had, so you get off on your own, and then you get on the metro, and then, you’re listening - again - to great tunes on your headphones and you happen to smirk to yourself because you realize you still smell like sex, but then you realize that you should look at other things on the metro instead of realizing you smell yourself in all post-excited glory, and you look around, and up, and see… well, see a most beautiful man standing by the pole, and you love his striped sweater and think, “Damn, I love a man with a sexy half-shaved face and a prominent Adam’s Apple.” And then then he looks at you and you blush and smirk some more. And even giggle. And smile.

Well, I’ve heard that Parisians think that random smiling means you’re an idiot. Like, developmentally disabled. Like, retarded.

But you can’t help but smile. Because god he’s cute and shit, you’ve just cum, and life is good right now.

And then, at the next stop you watch him watching and smiling at you and then he moves to sit down over there, but re-directs and sits directly in front of you and says, “Bhalkdfowhfieowfhw” and you take off your headphones and say “Je ne parle pas français,” but you already knew what he was saying, which was like “Hey, what’re you smiling about? What’s so good to smile about? Anything in particular?” And you are too embarrassed to say, “You’re hot in that sweatshirt.” So you just smile and say “C’est la vie.” Which is a horribly over-used French phrase.

Then you find the words to say, I like your sweatshirt and he says something in French with a hand coming at you like a claw. But a sexy claw, like a claw that would tear your clothes off and make horribly fantastic love to you. And you get it - RIGHT! Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. And you say, “Freh-dee!” to convey your comprehension that you’re on the same level of what he’s trying to explain.

And he continues to talk to you, saying he only has 2 stops left. And, you’re blushing because you could have said, “I just came a minute ago. I’m on my way to my ex-lover. And you’re fucking hot. But I can’t make time to score your digits because I’m late already.”

So, he gets off the metro. The metro passes by and he’s nowhere in sight. You wonder if he knows what Craigslist Missed Connections is.

His fingers were solid gold.

re: Paris is snobby

2009-10-07T22:02:00.000-04:00

Just so you know, you’ve got it all wrong. The myth that Paris is cold, rude, insensitive is basically a lie. It’s a front. To keep all the tourists out. Sure, some still get in and have their honeymoon in Tevas and North Face, or worse, British old lady mums who gossip loudly on the metro about every little thing they see.

Regardless, it’s not true that Paris is insensitive or rude.

If you decide to walk home from your lover’s apartment - a good long hike of 5 miles at 1am - because it’s not raining and why not? And then you suddenly break down into tears mid-way through because the music on your headphones is so damn good and your dad is sick with cancer and you have ten boxes waiting to be shipped to the States and your lover has the best cock that you won’t see ever again and Paris is quiet and lovely at night and you can’t hear yourself snort and sob ‘cause the music’s just so good and loud…. There will be a guy who stops, and asks if you’re ok, and you’ll say ça va, ça va, merci, and he’ll reach out and hand you a nice little tissue from his pack.

And, he might even follow you some of the way home. Or, at least to the Seine, because he’s afraid you might purposefully drop yourself in - or maybe some other fantasy he has but never realizes because you keep on walking. Through the Tuileries. Up by the Opera. And up the hill. And up the 101 stairs.

And, my god, wasn’t that so nice of Paris to guide you home, leave you alone, not scare you with strange men or strange cars or strangeness. In fact, how sweet of her to show some kindness.

[posted on tumblr]

Cheating Death - v.1

2009-09-29T19:24:00.001-04:00

The Doors

Jim: I feel most alive confronting death, experiencing pain.

Pam: I think you're most alive recognizing beauty, seeing truth. Does death turn you on? You love death?

Jim: Life hurts a lot more. When you die, the pain's over.

I need somebody

2009-09-29T19:18:00.000-04:00

to find me

Between the cartoons and the threesomes

Along the lost highway with The Doors

There are explosions in the Vatican

and cheating lies in the hookah bars.

He rests, thirty pounds lighter, driving across open fields

now degraded with autumn.

He said to me on the phone, I need somebody…

I nodded to the Venus following the Moon.

Is everybody in?

I married myself

2009-09-27T16:49:00.000-04:00

April 9, 2003

So, it snowed last week Friday.
And iced.
And the streets were fucking ice skating rinks.
I did not drive anywhere.

"The paint's peeling off the streets again and I'll drive and close my eyes in Michigan. And I feel nothing, not brave. It's a hard day for breathing again... The heat is chasing off all of your friends and their scattered bodies part to the shore again. And I feel nothing, not sane. It's a hard day for dreaming again. I'm not going back to the assholes that made me, and the perfect display of random acts of hopelessness...."

I did not go back.
And once again, the weather came through for me. Roads and highways covered with perilous danger. Distraction.

This Friday I drank too much and still thought I could get dolled up for the bar. Go out regardless.
I told him to meet me there.
Got there.
Found a seat.
Had one drink and stumbled out.
Seein’ double, refusing to react to the taps on my shoulder.
"Listen, it's Lola. I’m calling from home. If you get this, don't go to the bar. Come to my place. I’m too drunk. Got too drunk to stay there."

He did get it.
And by then, I was passing out in my bed.
And I guess I talked like a doll.
Chatty Cathy.
"And I see ghosts... This one time in Virginia I saw so many. So many. I had to turn away. I had to go crazy."
"Oh, this album. Hang on, I have to sing." (Bright eyes turned up way too loud.)
And tears.
And then sleep.

He still gets up at 9am. That drives me nuts. Because once your guest is up, you should be, too. And if you aren't, then you can't, and then you can't go back to sleep because they are roaming through your kitchen and will eat you out of house and home because you forgot to shop for food.

When you do wake, they're by your side with a hard on. "I can't fuck, it's that time, it's the bad time of the month, the scary time, and I’m terrified." You know it's an excuse but you say it. Because you really don't want to wake up, you really want to sleep it off and fuck later – later that night, when the sun isn’t out, the lights are dim, and you're drunk again.

And he reads.
And then you wake up again.
And say, "no, let's fuck," because like a boy, your body rouses you from sleep and dreams of nakedness and the slow, wet entry of cock.
And he obliges because he's been hard for three hours now.

"You wanna get food?" he asks.
The last thing you want. What you want is to sleep again. Or to fuck again. But not food. And not the alone time with him in a public place, and not the time it takes to get dressed. It seems too hard on a typical Saturday for you, which is lazy typically and public radio and zoning out while recalling the night before.

"No."

You get restless because you're tired, but not tired enough to sleep with him. And you want to do something, alone. So, you start to clean. Pick up the leftover shit. Then, look at the dirty dishes in disgust without the energy to do them. So, you shower. While he still reads. Still sits there. Still lays there. And you don't have the heart to tell him to get the fuck out. And it's not really what you want to say because you like him being around, for company, for fucking, but not for intimacy or boyfriend shit. You are not going steady. You are not obligated to have lunch. Or hold hands.

Then, you crawl under the blankets, dressed, and wet hair. You read and he piles himself next to you. And you listen to public radio while you read Bukowski poems. And you just wish he'd leave because this, this is your solitary routine. But you don't say it. You don’t say it because you're a coward and afraid to hurt his feelings. After all, he cut himself in your kitchen and says he'll be fine with your non-monogamy.

So, you get up. You get up because you had read Bukowski saying he, when dining on one candy bar a day and getting drunk and beat up in the alley, wrote 5 short stories and 20 poems a week. You pause to figure that amount out in your head. 7 days. 5 stories, 20 poems. Ok, I work 5 days a week. I could come up with that number. Fuck. Fuck. I gotta start now. I don't have the guts to quit my job and move and live in slums and fuck up like that. Fuck. I got a long way to go. Fuck. I gotta start something now. So, if I start with old stuff and submit that for a while, then I can catch up.

So you get up and sit there, head in hands, and finally he says, "you're going to write" (because you've turned on your computer), "so I’ll leave." But it's that weak, hesitating kind of "I’ll leave if you say so, but ask me to stay, please.” You kiss him goodbye and thank him for sitting through your drunk bullshit the night before.

You don't write. You can't write for some reason.
So, you start to drink and check emails.

And then it's nighttime.
And you're tired at 6pm.
So, you take a nap until 10pm.
Get up for Saturday Night Live and try to sober up.
What world are you in? Where are you? Tired. Drunk. But can't sleep more.

So, you go out to the bar. But now you feel sober after the nap. After the few drinks that you had when you got up. You feel so sober. And you find a seat at the bar, start writing, and the annoying barman looks over your shoulder and tries to kiss you. You refrain. And keep writing. And it's good. It’s good because you can still read your writing and still make out the reasons you're writing. And you drink for a few hours (daylight savings, bars close early tonight). Then, you get kicked out. "Lola, you know you can stay until the last person leaves, but... We really want to close up." I know. I know. Thanks for letting me stay this late. I know you want to go home.

Walk down the street.

To the Orpheum, where I used to work. Where I only stop in when I haven't had enough for the night and want a last one (a free one) for the road. I knock on the glass door and the door guy says we're closed and I say, I used to work here, is Steve or Alex here? I know the names and he lets me in.

Little Steph is here. God, how I had wanted to talk to her in January. We shared the same pain of abortion but at different times. I had wanted to find a time to tell her, ask her, console, but it never came up. Steve gets me a drink and I go behind the tall velvet curtains (where we hide our after-hours drinking from the cops on the street). Steph comes over to sit with me and the handful of others.

"Oh my god," she says in her college speak with her big, round eyes popping out even more. "So, guess what?!"
What?
"The other Stephanie – remember, my roommate? – is getting married."
No way!
"Yeah. To Javier. He wants a green card and she's in love with him. I’m not sure about it, but whatever... But guess what?"
What?
"I’m gonna marry them!!!"
What do you mean, Steph?
"Well, Stephanie asked me to marry them!!"
And, like, what? You got a license off the web?
"Exactly! I’m an ordained minister!!" (She’s Jewish.)
Wow, cool!
"So, like, this Sunday I’m gonna marry my first couple!"

I’m drunk. I’m kinda drunk. And I’m thinking... well, nothing, but I say....

"Steph… Steph… Steph! Hey, what about... So, who have you married already?"
“No one,” she says.
"So, wanna marry someone tonight?"
“Who?” she asks.
"Me!"
“What?” she smiles, knowing I’m drunk, knowing she’s drunk.
"Will you… marry me to myself?"
“You're crazy.”
"C'mon, Steph. Marry me to myself!!"

I give her my hand.

She says, "Will you, Lola, take you, Lola, to be your lawful wedded self." She giggles drunkenly. "For better or worse. For richer or poorer... I forgot the rest."

"In sickness or in health..." I prompt her.

"In sickness or in health... through pizza or boys.." She adds.

"..or girls!!" I say.

".. or girls… Through shit and bad times, through fat and thin times! ‘Til death do you part? Yes? Or is it ‘I do?’ God, I can't remember." She giggles.

"Yes! I do!... Yes! I do, too!"

"Well, I pronounce you married to yourself!"

I kiss my hand.

I got fucking married to myself. I am married. I am married to the hottest, smartest, sexiest, most amazing woman in the world. And I married her. Good goddamn!

Cindy comes up from around the corner of the theatre. "Hey, you guys wanna go watch the Rocky Horror Show? They aren't getting good turn out tonight."

We go to the theatre with fresh drinks and watch Rocky Horror acted out by obese kids in lingerie.

After our last drinks I say, "I’m gonna go home and honeymoon with my woman!!"

Instead, I’m stalled by a bartender who wants to take me to a manager's party – three floors above my apartment. And I forget...that I just got married. That I should carry her over the threshold, or take her garter off, or fuck her silly. I’m just like a frat boy: a party? Yeah!!!

Good part of the party: I get to see what the penthouse of our apt building looks like. Bad side: the liquor finally hits me and I’m drunk. I have to leave. Stupidly tell a boy to follow me and give my apartment number.

I end up passing out on the bathmat again. Knock Knock. I don't get up. He'll go away.

I’m sorry, but me and my wife are puking. Passing out.

I forget all about it on Sunday.
I wake up. I read Bukowski. I listen to the radio. I do the dishes. I nap.

And then I remember.

I am married.
To myself.
Forever more.
Not a bad bond.
This kind I could like.

The secret conversations I have in my head

2009-09-25T20:38:00.000-04:00

When Flickr is uploading and/or I've had sufficient wine.

My neighbor man knocks on my door:

Man: I'm sorry, I really need to sleep tonight. Could you keep the noise down?

Me: [You can't always get what you want - Rolling Stones - is playing in the background] You know those times when you tap tap tap your fucking razor on the wall of your bathroom and it tap tap taps my wall? Well, that's fucking annoying. And, the times when you plug in that fucking amplifying speaker cord into your goddamn computer or whatever and there's that horrible loud zap sound? Or, how about your fucking teenage daughter has parties late and loudly? Or, how about the loud ping ping ping of your goddamn online chat? Or when you come home and jingle jingle jingle your fucking keys? Or, when you always slam your fucking door? Or, how I hear your moan moan moan of fucking? ... Well, I never said a goddamn fucking thing because I remember back when we ran into each other in the bouglangerie and you pretended that you didn't hear my cough cough coughing. I base our relationship on a fooling of secrecy and silence. So, fuck you. You don't hear a goddamn thing tonight.

Like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.
I could totally marry someone if we promised to live without open relationship drama and shared a housing situation wherein we each had our own apartments. I could stop by, rub his back while he painted. He could stop by, rub my back as I wrote. We wouldn't have to talk while we were in the same room though. It would be a shared appreciation of physical shared space. Just because I was there, he wouldn't have to talk - or engage me or ask my opinion or ask for my help or even acknowledge my existence. But we'd know we were there for each other.

Does anyone know an easy way to compress an MP3? Because I have a kick ass song I want to post online. Fuck Audacity - it's too complicated.

I really shouldn't have emailed that guy back last night. I was too manic to sound sane.

I dreamed I was pregnant. I know I'm not. I know this bloated belly is just PMS. But I dreamed the Spaniard knocked me up. I sent my sister an email. We started chatting on Skype and I asked her if she wanted it. We swore never to tell the child that I didn't want it. I would have to go into hiding for the 9 months. There would never be any photographs of the pregnancy. I would treat it like a niece or nephew. I would enjoy eating whatever I wanted to and lazying around the house. Childbirth would bring no feelings of regret. .... My cousin had a baby a couple of days ago. My younger cousin. The one I grew up with playing "store" in our grandparents' house. The one I told about cool music and gave mixed tapes to. The one whose brother I drunkenly sucked off in the entryway to my hotel room the night of her wedding (and who won't speak to me now - I fear I've damaged him). She's had a baby. My baby cousin. She doesn't look like she's grown up enough to do so. I can imagine her, when thinking about making the baby, giggling to her husband, shrugging her shoulders, and childishly goofing as she says, "So, whaddaya think about makin' a baby?! Hahahahha!" And then she'd do a little goofy kid dance where she'd kick up her feet a bit and square-dance her elbows out. She's a successful pharmaceutical marketer rep or something. He makes the internet buzz with interactive activity at football games and such. They live in a top floor apartment of a high-rise in Chicago. Their dog is named after a park nearby that sounds like Jackoff. They are not old enough to have a baby. Their baby does not wake my ovaries, but it makes me feel more lost. Am I really missing something? What's wrong with me that I'm not even the slightest interested in this for myself? I'm beginning to think I'm slightly developmentally slow. I mature slowly. I am only now realizing the value of my family. Will I realize the value of making my own too late?

It wasn't nice that Tall Tom didn't invite me to his party tonight.
The reason I brushed him off was for his random insistence that we hang out. I'm not "on-call" for him. He has no idea what's happening to me. He has no idea what good information I could impart to him for his second year. I feel like I'm 15 again and rejected. It's all very silly.

Yeah, that's all the conversations I've had for tonight. Or, at least those that I want to write out.

Shhh don't tell.

Entertainment for today

2009-09-24T13:08:00.000-04:00

I am going over 8 years of Cheating Death Once Again and cataloging all my posts. The count on my dashboard says that since 2001 it's been 937 posts. The count I have between half of 2006 and today is 487 posts - including this one. I guess it makes sense.

I haven't stopped to read them, as that's the next phase. But in glancing and not remembering what I wrote three years ago, it looks damn interesting. I made some really quirky titles for my posts. And, as of now, I've yet to come across two of the same. That's encouraging.

I really like this McSweeney's 2006 entry that has nothing to do with cuteness:
SILLY THINGS MY 3-YEAR-OLD SAID THAT I'M CERTAIN THE REST OF THE WORLD WOULD FIND SWEET
AND CUTE.

And, then, because I need a silly break:

I AM: sitting cross-legged in a horrible chair.
I JUST NOW: poured the last of a bottle of Merlot.
I SAID: nothing to anyone today.
I WANT: to keep the big tits associated with PMS, but not the bloating belly balloon.
I WISH: sometimes when I see a star, sometimes on my birthday, and then whenever the hell I feel like it.
I HATE: nothing really, but sometimes I use the word for emphasis.
I MISS: daily newspapers (for the crossword), Wired magazine, Newsweek.
I FEAR: fear.
I HEAR: way too much on this street: scooters, motorcycles, horns, cars, buses, babies crying, people screaming, and random birds - usually pigeons.
I WONDER: all the time, and it's a great activity.
I REGRET: nothing - still - and that's a great thing.
I AM NOT: a man, but sometimes I feel like I have penis.
I SING: the song of freedom - but only in the shower, and only in my head.
I CRY: when I cut fucking leeks; and then, not enough.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: pretty.
I MADE: dookie this morning.
I WRITE: when inspired, since 1986.
I CONFUSE: memories.
I NEED: sunshine or Vitamin D daily.
I SHOULD: do and be so many things, but I'm not Catholic so I don't care too much.
I START: books and often never finish them.
I FINISH: when I have to.

The bathroom blow job

2009-09-20T11:04:00.002-04:00

Found.
Written March 1, 2008.
I suppose I didn't post this because of shame. I should have used a condom.
But I'm posting it now because I feel shameless. Because I am Popeye.

&&&&&&&&&&&

I'm at least 25% lesbian. It's true. A soft pair of girl lips and a nice rack resting just below mine. I cave. I should stop trying to tell people I'm not gay. I'm gay and happy and straight and curvy and not well defined at all.

I'll finish the Craigslist story, I promise. (If there's more to what happened weeks ago I promise to tell. If there's not, I'll tell what happened back then [with the Royal Air Force].) But since then, times have been dry. Mojave Desert. India in between and then period-ville. Bad timing and bad backburner boys to choose from. I've been holding out, but I already know that holding out is automatic punishment. I shouldn't wait for people.. despite the prize possession I would offer them (renewed virginity - after a month of not fucking I can be so tight).

So to break the spell, I went out to the club on Wednesday to see Tapes 'N Tapes (from Minneapolis). Chatted it up with the bartender. Ended up with too much Jack and not enough Coke. Kisses, and found films on my digital camera with his face and whispers. He called the next day and I met up with him Friday afternoon. Class in the morning, buy some hand weights - gotta get back in shape!, run them home, eat lunch at 3pm, change clothes, meet bartender boy.

We meet in a café in a neighborhood I'd been in before. I had to get my study visa in this neighborhood. I had an x-ray of my lungs and was given an identity card. We settled into a booth in a nook.

"Boy" was man and he let us make small talk for only so long. He pulled out the bar napkin with drunken scrawl: "Lola-Chicago - I don't want <3 - I want fuck." I remembered this before he reminded me, but this was confirmation. Well, at least it's out on the table now.

He leaned in and rested his steady hand on the back of my head and kissed me. Almost trance-like, I was pulled into his lips and tongue and boldness. Directness is a drug for me.

He pulled away and smiled. He pointed out that he would not blush, but would I? Of course I would. It's not a question of modesty, it's a question of realizing my reality. If I stop and think about it, I see myself from outside and feel on stage. If I keep kissing though, I will have no rouge cheeks. His hand on my bare knee and up under my skirt at the thigh. Do I like what he's doing? Yes. His hand up under my skirt moving my cotton thong apart from my skin. I didn't shave. I want to tell him I'm a bit more hairy than usual because I didn't foresee this. I should start foreseeing more.

"I'm going downstairs. You should follow me."

I hem, haw, read my French-English dictionary, and follow. As I walk across the café, I make my face look like, "Hm, he went to the bathroom. That's actually a good idea. I think I will, too, real quick. La dee da. Nothing to see here."

I head calmly down the stairs and see him washing his hands at the basin. We kiss. He tries one bathroom door but it's locked. He tries the other one and we duck into it. We kiss again, and he pulls my tit up through the low neckline of my shirt. I ask if he has a condom. No. He fingers me inside my panties.

I could just kiss the whole time but I know that time is of the essence and something's going to happen with or without condoms. Bathroom. Short time span. What to do. I unzip him. He leans back against the wall and brings me with him. I kneel. He bends over and reaches into my shirt and bra and oohs at finding my nipple pierced. He's sensitive, he says. He wants to go slower. I could make him cum, he says. I suck his balls while he jacks himself. He gets

&&&&&&&&&&&

And that is the end of what I wrote. I remember he came.

The brain reconfigures memory, reorders events, resets them among other events to form narrative, causality: it creates sense. The mind tells itself stories about what happens to it. So me saying that I did X because of Y rests on thousands of assumptions about who or what I think I am, how I thought of myself then—transmuted into how I think about myself now.

...Any sort of attempt to sort meaning from the past is fraught in thousands on thousands of ways, exponentially splintering. The more you think about it the more it asymptotically approaches impossibility.

This is not to suggest we shouldn’t attempt it. The attempt is glorious, and attempting rewires the brain. It moves the circuitry around, attaching a new conclusion to an action, reconstructing self. In a way, thinking about the self hacks it. [Essay as Hack - Ander Monson]

I have a fleeting idea that I either puked or spit in the toilet. Or, perhaps I simply wiped my mouth with toilet paper and avoided the streak of semen on the floor as I walked out.

He had to leave for work shortly after that. He bought the espressos and called me several times after. I never saw him again.

My thanks

2009-09-16T17:14:00.003-04:00

Dear Lola,
I just read your blog for the first time in a very long time, and I wanted to give my regards with respect to your father's health. I know this is a very belated, 'out of touch friend' type of email, but I hope everything went okay and that he is doing well, and that you are doing well too. No need to reply if you're busy, just wanted you to know I am here.

&&&&

I almost had a baby with this man. Well, not almost. Well, not even close. But we could have. And it wouldn't have been a bad decision. I mean, considering his wonderful personality. I'm so happy he has his own family now. He really deserves the best of life.

She would have been a red-haired fiery demon. She would have been six years old now, this month.

Making a mood

2009-09-14T13:49:00.000-04:00

The last time I had sex was the 21st of July. It was with the Spaniard. I was drunk and took a cab to his place. I remember drinks, smoking, music, talking, him listening, talking, me trying my hardest to swallow his cock, us in his bed, he trying to go down on me, me pulling him up, begging for his cock.

I saw the Butcher last week. We drank whiskey and I smoked at least a half a pack of cigarettes -- after I'd quit so honorably and so well prior to the trip to the US. We drank wine and ate some and talked. At some point he was talking and my eyes started to lose themselves. His face was resonating louder than the rest of the scene. His face zoomed out at me like a 3-D movie. I went over to his couch and started kissing him. He was too drunk to fuck me and I was too drunk to want to suck him for a long time. He left me in his bed, thinking I'd sleep. I couldn't. I got up and he walked me to a cab.

I am in a strange place now. No sex for almost two months. Cloistered again up in the tower of my apartment. Growing weary of Paris. Growing more fearful and blaise about life. I'm in some between wasteland. Killing time. Seeing the sights I haven't seen yet in Paris. Trying not to spend much money. Feeling fat from sedentary living and my trip to the States. Too shy to make eyes with a cute guy in line at the grocery store - who clearly made moves on me.

And, the Spaniard invites me over tonight. Part of me wants some semblance of romance. Scratch that. Some semblance of respect. The TV Producer has sent an email inquiring about me, ending his note with xxx in bisous. There is no satisfaction there. I have not replied. But the Spaniard has always seemed gracious, friendly, respectful. Example: he tried to go down on me. That counts for something.

See, I have lost mojo again. It's September, the Monday of all months. The wistfulness of summer, the warning of cold, slow days. I feel October around the corner more than I did last year, I think. I'm floating. I'm lost. I'm between before and next. I want someone to hold me. I want the Spaniard to open me up, peel me like an expert culinary artist. I want his hands to feel my obscenely soft skin. I want him to guide my mouth to his hard cock and pet my fine hair in his fingers. I want to be on my hands and knees when he enters first. Or, do I want him pushing my legs open and apart, watching my face as he enters? I am a virgin again.

Tall Tom has called for the past couple of days. And I remember when he scolded me for not moving while he fucked me. A person is not a fish. And every tiny movement of my muscles - face, mouth, legs, cunt - they all move in adoration and relief and hallelujah. He just couldn't see them through his frenzy.

I do not want to be a sad sack tonight. I do not want to cry for mercy. I do not want my eyes to moisten over thinking of meaning that isn't there. I just want to be less of a fuck and more of a freedom.

I only cried once

2009-09-08T12:28:00.000-04:00

When I walked out of the Customs and Immigration area, I spotted my sister coming toward me from behind a column. I could have sworn I saw my dad there, and that he'd leaned back behind the column so I wouldn't see the surprise. But, she and I hugged and walked toward the parking area, and he wasn't there. I almost cried from the made-up surprise and my need to hug him.

My sister and I had even planned a good ol' cry-fest, which sent her fiancé looking forward to an evening work event. We made some guacamole, turned on the TV to some modeling show where people get criticized and voted off at the end, and drank some white wine. I needed to cry so badly. We'd half-jokingly planned this night after she'd told me she didn't cry at dad's cancer diagnosis. Even when she'd Skyped me about it, neither one of us did. We processed the news with red eyes. We considered the next steps. We questioned and answered and shared information. We moved forward.. calmly.. toward the exit signs as flight attendants signaled the procedure of crossing our hands over our chests. We went feet first. We took command of the lifeboats - hers in the white and grey hospital, mine in the grey and yellow city. She only cried when she got back to her fiancé, holding it together over the long, sad, free distance of the highway. Now, it was my turn. It was my time to let it out. But the TV moved images and the wine sank feelings. It was nicer to go outside than inside.

After the surgery, on the last day with my parents in the small hometown, I had packed the car, we had lunch and I was waiting for a friend to call so I could swing by on my way to Minneapolis. We waited, with nothing new to say. Dad wondered why the reading chair was pulled so far away from the wall. Mom, curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her, said it didn't need to be. There wasn't anything much to say. He'd showered. She'd already been to the pharmacy the day before. She and I both had been to the nearby farmers' market - the first test of leaving my father alone in the house. And, we all knew I was leaving. It was kind of a drawn out silence. I always hated those. And their house is always that kind of bored silence. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Dad had gone upstairs for a nap. Finally, I got the message that my friend was free. It was getting late. I ran to the bathroom for a last pee. Ran upstairs and hugged my dad, we'd already talked about my promises to come home in a couple of months, and he was already dozing into a sick man's rest. I wanted to cry but it would have cost too much energy. I jogged down the stairs quietly. Put my arms around my mother's shoulders and smelled her sweet, soft skin. When did her skin start changing into an old lady's? I still couldn't cry. Pulled away from the house and waved out the window for the full block, even after I'd turned the corner. It's just tradition. Wave until you can't see them anymore.

The only time I cried was the day of the surgery.

Another role I'd taken on was the documentarian. The first photo: of my sister's face as she drove us away from the airport, along the US highway to her house in the 'burbs. The photos of my aunts, uncle, grandmother, and parents at dinner. The photos of my parents in the hotel room. As my sister had described it from her living room, "There's no modesty. Mom's changing into her nightgown in front of you. Dad's using the bathroom all night. That's why I asked for two separate rooms the night before surgery. It's just too much, really." I'd already brushed these things off. Maybe it was working in health care (albeit the politics of it, but I still learned how to answer imploring, semi-public questions about "What do I do if [insert 'I find a red rash' or 'my boyfriend forgot a condom' or 'I've got this kind of itch' or 'a friend of mine - ahem - thinks she might be pregnant']?"), but all of this stuff didn't really phase me when I imagined the hospital or the hotel room. It was like we were kids again, staying in some chalet at the base of the Alps. Dad and mom sleep in this bed, we sleep in the other one.

And it was just like that. Dad was already in his pjs when my sister and I arrived to the hotel. (After all, I had to wait out a tornado eating a veggie sandwich at the Subway in Hastings. My sister had to hide in the basement with her dogs and cats. And the traffic was miserable between the Cities and Rochester.) He shoo'ed us out for dinner, which he wasn't allowed to have the night prior to surgery. It was a miserable dark, drab, yellow restaurant on the first floor of the hotel (although I did just now almost type 'in the basement' because it was that miserable). The waitress must have been in her mid-twenties, and she shouted everything. I imagine she did this because most of the customers are elderly, although I could tell by the hush in the place that the customers were just fine of hearing. Maybe she imagined the opposite. Or, maybe she couldn't handle the silence of the sickly and their loved ones. Either way, the place was fucking freezing and I had to run upstairs to get a sweater. The wine was already on the table - a horrible white. My sister and mother sat opposite me and we toasted, a little like strangers, a little like family, a little like a family of strangers really. My mother a beedy-eyed, wrinkled, pink and burnt rust, twitchy mess. (I'm sure my ADD comes from her side. I'm still grateful she refused the doctor's orders to put me on meds when I was a tyke, but I often wonder if she couldn't use their assistance. At least I got my father's genes to balance out the mania.) My sister, god, looking at her, I can see the amazing genes of youth in our blood. We don't age. She more than anyone. No one would know she's close to forty. She's a bit more plump than years ago, well, she's leaning toward fat, but it's still a controlled, Aphrodite, roundness. But her skin! In that dark, yellow haze, she looked angelic, Cherubic, like Rubens' Venus.

We got up at 5am and met our parents at 5:35 at their room. Dad was in his track suit. There's a photo of my sister as we're leaving the hotel lobby. A blurred photo with her eyes wide and tongue kind of sticking out, like we're off on a skiing adventure. I suppose that's really the last time we were all a family together, as opposed to angry or hating each other, or adolescents, or for a funeral, or a quick lunch. The next photo is of my father, facing us, explaining something and moving his hand in a hard, chopping motion, as if trying to show he was still in charge, at 5:35am, without any food in his system, facing a full day of surgery, about to lose a major part of his manly innards. I can't remember what he was saying. I think we were debating crossing outside or using the underground tunnel. The hospital entrance was literally across the street.

They weighed and measured him. He'd lost half an inch from his standard height. He's starting to shrink. God. He was changed into a light blue gown. People always write that, don't they? No one really knows what the hospital light blue gown is unless they've seen it. My sister's right. There's this side of the game and the other side. When you're on the non-cancer side, the cancer side seems very, very far and foreign. But once you've landed into the cancer club, there's a secret understanding. It's not a cool place to be, not a club with discounts or two-for-one cocktails. But everyone in this club does, at least, get you. Yeah, the light blue gowns. Sure. I know what you're talking about.

I took photos as we sat there. My mom and sister looking at their iphone or blackberry. My dad talking to the pretty lady nurses, trying to charm them. (Of all the 20 or so nurses over the 9 days only 2 were men, although almost all the techs who irrigated and aspirated were men.) Then, we walked down the hall. He and the nurse turned the corner, and he almost kept on going, but I stopped him. "Hey, give us a hug." "Yeah, Dad," said my sister, "you gonna leave without a hug good-bye?" He hugged us both, kissed our foreheads, and kissed my mom on the lips.

I can't remember how that first day went for food. At some point, my sister or mom went and got coffee for us. Then, at some point, we left for lunch all together and came back and they'd crossed our names off and written "See Desk." He'd now been assigned a room on the 5th floor and we could go there to wait. He wasn't out of surgery and recovery until 8pm. His face was as puffy as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, tucked up over the hospital blankets. At about 9:30pm I offered to call and order in pizza for delivery. Not much would happen the first night. He was too drugged up and wasn't even moving.

They met me over at the hotel room. My sister's fiance had - in his wonderful wisdom - packed us like 3 bottles of wine. My mom - not one to be without her own - had brought 2 small boxes and a couple of bottles. Strangely, she still followed her routine and stashed the wine boxes under the sink. Alcoholics don't change much - anytime, anywhere, I guess. Even after I told her she didn't have to keep it under there. They still never moved until we packed up and left the hotel.

We toasted, a simple toast, "Yay!"

We ate the unimpressive pizza.

We turned on the TV.

I went to the bathroom and was just completely overcome. He hadn't died in surgery. (I had asked him nicely not to slip off into anesthesia land ne'er to return.) The doctors had said he did well. They'd gotten most of the tumorous cells. He was going to be fine. My sister and I hadn't killed each other. In fact, I loved her more now. My mother hadn't driven me crazy. In fact, I was finding myself pitying her less and accepting her more. Things were going to be fine. But I just couldn't help it. Out of nowhere I was sobbing and I unlocked the bathroom door, walked slowly over to her bed, and curled up next to my mother in a ball. Like a little girl.

She patted me and asked what was wrong.

"I'm sad," I said. I didn't know how else to explain it. I wasn't really sad. I wasn't all that exhausted. I wasn't too terribly overwhelmed. I was actually relieved. But that's not how I could explain it.

"Oh, don't be sad, sweetie." She said he was fine. He'll be fine. Why am I crying. There's no need to cry.

My sister, from the opposite bed, said, "It's okay. She's just got to do it. She's finally letting it out. It's not that she's sad really. She's just got to cry.... You know, mom, the day I left the hospital last time, it took all my energy not to break down in the car on the way home. It took Alex hugging me to let it all come out."

She was still patting me. But it was as if she was stroking a dog. There was no movie-style embrace, where the mother rolls over and engulfs her child, shielding them from the world. She kind of kept on watching TV. I know, it's not all her fault. After all, there were many times before and even at least once during this trip that I told her to stop staring at me. But, maybe, she could have been a bit more gentle or caring.

I asked her if she'd cried yet. Or, had she gotten comfort yet. "Well, Jackey and I talk. And Pamela and I meet for coffee and talk. But..." I can't remember what she said between my sniffling and deciding to stop crying. That was enough. That was good enough. In her explanation though, I'd sensed she didn't really either want to talk about this with us or didn't know how. I sat up. Finished for now. Looked over at my sister. "Thanks for interpreting."

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Thinking back on it. If it hadn't been that my mother was in the room. If it hadn't been for some kind of pride. If it hadn't been for her forever thinking that she was more of my mother than my own mother was (although she might be right), I would have gone to my sister's bed to cry. And, I know she would have rolled over, engulfed me, stroked my hair, hugged me hard, and told me it was ok. Or, not said anything. She would have just been there.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

inspiration from The Easter Parade by Richard Yates

"I don't know. He said once -- this was when I was engaged to Donald Clellon -- he said that a man ought to be happy in his work before he got married, and maybe it was partly that. He was never happy in his work, you see. I mean, he'd wanted to be a great reporter, somebody like Richard Harding Davis, or Heywood Broun. I don't think he ever understood why he was only -- you know -- only a copy-desk man."

And that did it. They had been holding back tears all evening, all night, but that phrase was too much. Sarah started crying first and Emily got up from the floor to take her in her arms and comfort her, until it was clear that she couldn't comfort anyone because she was crying too. With their mother lying in a coma twenty miles away, they clung together drunkenly and wept for the loss of their father.

La vie en rose

2009-09-08T06:36:00.000-04:00

Yes, well.

I'll need to detail it soon or I'll forget everything, but I've also told the story enough times now that I've temporarily grown bored with it.

A few things I haven't told:
I've never loved or appreciated my family as much as I did for those 3 weeks.

I've finally seen their quirks and annoyances as delightful details of personality.

It was hard to see my father in pain for a full night, as my sister and I alternated between sleep and awake in his hospital room.

I think my mother may have taken it to heart when, as she poured her fourth glass of wine in the hotel room, I said "Mama? Please don't drink as much as you did last night 'cuz you fell into the TV and it scared me."

Yes, we all magnify a specific part of our personality under extreme stress. My sister became the project manager (researching whatever procedures or words the doctors said, memorizing the time line, digging more deeply with questions to gain understanding). My mother became the friendly neighbor (to everyone - little kids, old ladies, hotel managers, cashiers at Jimmy John's). And, oddly enough, I was the tough cheerleader... or the parent... or the companion... Dad had to walk every day to encourage circulation to heal. He'd beg out of it sometimes, but I'd bargain or trick or tease or mandate he get up. "C'mon, old man, up we go. Remember, it's not the distance but the frequency. After the walk, we'll see how you feel for a shower!"

Almost every day, minus the day he was high on dilaudid, we'd do some portion of the newspaper crossword puzzle together.

On the 7th day at the hospital, my temperament started to shift. I was growing bored and annoyed. But it was also a celebration that I was feeling irritable, since I'd skipped August's period entirely (due to stress) this was a good sign.

I didn't have sex the entire time while in the States, although I tried.

I had the most vivid and strange dreams, despite still taking the 1/2 Tylenol PM a night and drinking at least one glass of wine.

Dogs and cats are pretty awesome. I hadn't realized I longed for touch so badly.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

And so. For now, I'm back in Paris. When I left my parents, my father was successfully showering on his own and had peeled back the bandage on his abdomen, proving that I was right: "Dad, you're freaking out. You do not have a gaping hole from where they took the tube out. The body doesn't work that way. Skin heals. I bet there's a bit of gooey scabbing over, but you are not leaking or oozing or going to squirt all over the floor when you remove your bandage." My mother was dropping everything for my father, which he was recognizing and thanking her in abundance. My sister was losing trust in her fiance after he neglected the dogs for a day and one of them peed on the bed. But, she also found out from a visit to the eye doctor that her retina was detaching. This put her in 3 days of respite (face parallel to the floor with a bubble in the back of her eye), and dependent on the finance. I think they probably had some truthful words shared over that long time.

Everyone's doing just fine, in other words.

Still, I didn't much like going through tragedy so far from my family. And, I've been considering the meaning of 'community' much more. Mine seems to be attached to people, not to places. My people are scattered all over the world. There are some of them congregated into a region though and I might just like to stay there for a while: Midwest, USA. The thought of that idea in the long-term terrifies me, although I'm pretty sure that it's not possible. I'll start to drive my family nuts and they, me. So, I'll consider it a temporary community residence until I find a job.

Thus, for now, I'm searching for a cheap one-way flight back, finding out the costs of shipping books by boat, and checking out the Parisian sights I haven't yet seen.

Oh, and I've been mini-posting over on Tumblr.

Missed the tornado by 6 miles

2009-08-20T00:44:00.002-04:00

Dad heads in for surgery tomorrow. He checks in at 5:45am. Who on earth gets up that early?

noman, I've got both the books you sent me for distraction. Thank you so much again! the Richard Yates comes with its own bookmark ribbon. Swoon!

More comments on the days of late on tumblr.

Hello there...

2009-08-10T11:50:00.001-04:00

Dear USA,

I am coming to visit tomorrow for three weeks. Mostly, I’ll be in the Upper Midwest bouncing across the Mississippi (4 esses 2 pees). Please do not scare me with your Metrodome bigness, Mall of America gobbling consumption, and passive agressive politeness. But mostly, as I’ve forgotten the schedule, please do not let it be deer hunting season.

Yours in trepidation, hesitation, and slight repulsion,
Lola (who is now mostly European by accident)

[posted on Tumblr]

What to say?

2009-08-10T11:46:00.002-04:00

I met the subletter who will take the apartment for the next 3 weeks. She stayed here before, when I was traveling with my sister around Europe, but we didn't meet before.

"You look different than your photos," she said.

"Oh. Well. I dyed my hair brown and got it cut."
or
"Well, those were before I started sulking in Paris with no clear direction for my life. Before I found out my dad's got cancer. Before I decided to drink a ton. Before I decided to stop drinking. Before I decided to stop smoking. Before I had an erratic bed-time/wake-time schedule. Before I started sitting around my apartment for days. Before I got fat."

Instead
"Yeah, well, you know, photos never really reveal the whole person." [Bitch.]