I hit the wall today and crumpled. I sobbed harder than I can remember; I hurt worse than I have in many, many years.

I have encountered yet another freakish, unbelievable health problem that is confusing and scary and for which there is no absolute cure. It is very taboo, so much so that I am not comfortable discussing it publicly yet. I am too tired of being belittled, not taken seriously, and mocked with horrible stigmas to handle such hurtful ignorance and rejection right now.

Greg also collapsed under the sudden weight of yet another roadblock yesterday. It broke my already aching heart. In the last 6 years, he has dealt with continuous curve balls regarding my health. First there was an unexpected baby, which forced him to fling himself into work and support us while I was unemployable. Then there was my mental illness that continued to be undiagnosed until just last year. Finally, when it seemed I would finally be able to love him freely and spoil him with the unconditional support and physical attention he deserves, I am given another barrier, another thing to overcome, that is already driving us apart and forcing me to pull myself away from me because it physically hurts my body too much to interact with him.

In the last few months when I have felt better, he has finally allowed himself to feel all the emotions he’s suppressed over the years in order to plug away and keep our family afloat financially and emotionally. I saw him become debilitated with relief and the impact of the toll my burdens have taken on him. He slept for days. He had anxiety about being able to reconnect with us on an emotional level because he has become so insecure with himself. Because of his selflessness and inability to focus on himself, he has lost a sense of self and the ability to be happy with himself and his own company. This was one of his most appealing features when we met, and I can see that the lifestyle my presence has created for us has beaten this out of him. He has been seeing a therapist to deal with me and the effect I have had on him because he is unable to share his struggle with me. These things are not fabricated; they are hard evidence.

Greg has never hurt anyone deliberately or devastated anyone’s feelings in his life because of his own dysfunctions. I have, more times than I can count. I finally am in a mental place and in a relationship in which I can shower my partner with love and smother him with all the luxuries he has unconditionally given me. But because of my constant ailments, I am constantly unable to do this.

I am slowly breaking him. I see this. It hurts me worse than any guilt I have ever experienced. I know these health problems are not my fault; I know that I have been working defiantly to give him the wife and Chloe the mother they both deserve, but I am becoming disheartened at my continuous inability to deliver these things. I am seeing evidence that I am a drain on the person who has loved me the most fearlessly and unconditionally, and I cannot help but think that he will continue to give until there is nothing left of him.

I love him too much to let that happen. This I know as fact. I will not waver on this belief.

Greg deserves someone who will give him what he deserves instead of someone who will slowly suck every wonderful thing out of him. As I cried, he began to blame himself for sharing his emotions with me because he believed they were what was hurting me the most. I assured him that they weren’t; they were among the two things that kept me fighting for a better life when I was sick – the other being the fact that my beautiful daughter deserves an awesome mother.

If it had not been for either of these, I would not be here today. I mean that sincerely; I would not have had the courage or responsibility to keep working for a solution even when there was no end in sight and no hope that it would come. I was hospitalized a second time for suicidal intentions less than a year before I met Greg and conceived Chloe. Since then, I have had the worst mental episodes of my life, but, despite them, I have never once considered suicide. I fully believe things have played out this way on purpose.

I realized that the only better choice I have than removing myself from their lives is to control what I can while I continue to work for better health. I have been given the necessary gifts to continue this far; I am not foolish enough to dismiss them now, not when they seem to be aligning so perfectly. I feel so connected to God/Spirit/the Universe’s intentions for me.

I have this book I have been working on slowly for the last ten years that is almost finally complete. It is something I believe in more than anything I have ever produced. I believe it will be great. I believe it will bring us success that will relieve some of the burdens from Greg, as he is always preoccupied with our finances and the feeling that he has no room for failure. I believe that, right now, in this moment, working to get this writing work out into the market is the best use of my energy with the most immediate hope of helping us morally.

So I will continue to work to be physically better and I will continue to work at what I know I can do best and that I will flourish at, until there is a day when I can’t anymore. That day isn’t today. It probably won’t be for a long while. It may never come, but I can’t worry about that right now. I want to do what I can while I can.

Greg deserves that and so much more, because he has always given me exactly that. I don’t have any idea what this new obstacle will present to require changes in my life; I don’t know how this will affect our relationship or what potential it has to damage him further. I can’t worry about that or it will sap the energy from me, which is too valuable to jeopardize.

I am thankful for his love and for my mental clarity right now; otherwise, this would be impossible.

Today, the Bear accompanied me to a consultation with my OB/GYN, followed by brunch at Whole Foods (she had pancakes, bacon and a biscuit; I had sushi), and an hour trying out everything at the BeneFit counter at ULTA before dancing in the aisles while wearing hilariously oversized hair accessories.

During none of this was there any complaining, any need for a changed diaper, any miserable tantrums or outrageous demands. In fact, there was nothing but giggling and genuinely hilarious insights on her part and, when we got home, we were both ready for a nap.

It was perfect.

I feel like I’ve finally gotten to that part in parenting when she’s not just a cute blob who is completely dependent on me for everything and, thus, has become her own little person. She’s at an age where she hasn’t been influenced by the stupidity and meanness of other kids and she’s still young enough to think that I’m cool and wants to hang out with me all the time. (She also really likes Jimi Hendrix and the Black Keys, although she’s not that into 90′s grunge/alt. Ah well. Gotta start somewhere.) Although we definitely have tantrums when she’s just exhausted and her incessant curiosity has lead to an ongoing refrain of “Why?”s, she’s become far far more wonderful to hang out with on a daily basis than I ever thought a kid could be.

I know, that’s pretty domestic-housewife gross of me and, truthfully, I can’t even believe I’m admitting that out loud/in print, but her simplicity is therapeutic and her genuine curiosity for the mechanisms of society is refreshing and lends itself to pondering my own personal definitions of reality. And her joy – oh, it’s just infectious and addictive. It takes me out of whatever “problem”-that-isn’t-really-a-problem-but-is-just-a-stressor-of-adulthood-and-doesn’t-really-matter and demands that I return to the present, where there is dancing and hours of dress-up to be had. The gigantic hugs for no reason, the random comments about our day-to-day habits, the desire to be around me and cuddle as a means to cure whatever is ailing me… it’s impossible to feel alone anymore.

Which is a huge step from these last 3 years when, even though she’s been developing into her own person, I’ve still been exhausting myself with changing diapers and feeling alone during the day to the fickle demands of someone I barely relate to and like a faceless servant the rest of the time. Somewhere in there, there’s been a shift and now I have a friend who gets me out of bed and demands that I enjoy my life as it is immediately before me. She pushes me to researching where we can go ride horses and pick strawberries and she wants to help with any project I take on, from painting walls to “growing flowers” to folding laundry. She’s the sidekick I never anticipated and I want to freeze her at this age forever.

Tomorrow we’re going fishing and taking a canoe out on a lake close-by. And, no offense to the friends I have around here, but I’m looking forward to it being another day with just the two of us without any sort of adult/societal crap to get hung up on. It is, incidentally, more of Exactly What I Need.

I’ve started penning my own eulogy. And I genuinely enjoy it.

Okay, right there I’ve come across like some zitfaced emo kid who’s obsessed with death and crying out for attention because all the girls just want to be friends and his dad is never home to play catch with him but I swear that’s not even close to where this is going. Just hear me out. I’m not dying, I’m not planning on dying, I don’t have a feeling like I’m going to be dying soon and I honestly don’t even think about death that often at all. I’m not going through another depression, either. I promise. In fact, everything is really wonderful right now.

But, since I’ve had my daughter, I’ve had to start taking into consideration that I’m probably not going to be on this physical plane forever and I’ve had to make arrangements to accommodate her needs once I’m no longer around – something that I really hope doesn’t happen until I’ve had a chance to travel the world with her and my husband. (Being a “grown up” means having crappy responsibilities like making game plans for after your demise. Gross.) Since I have nothing but a guitar given to me by a Grammy award winner/Broadway star and some jewelry to leave to her, my legal list of post-mortem gifts is pretty short. My list of demands for my carcass’s maintenance is equally short, merely requesting that it be cremated and disposed of somewhere pretty and non-urban. (And if anyone spends money on a piece of furniture and a hole to plant me in, I will haunt them in the most annoying ways possible, every day of their remaining lives. The same goes for anyone who puts an “In Memory Of” sticker on their car for me or puts flowers on the place where I bit it – roadside accident locations, etc. – or posts their sentiments on my Facebook wall instead of sending my family a note or pairs my name with the abbreviation “RIP” in any forum. I’m not even kidding. I’ll go through poltergeist training and wreak some Spielberg-quality havoc.)

And then I started thinking about funerals and getting weirded out. The whole idea of everyone getting together and crying over my remains (hopefully ashes at that point) and saying nothing but great things about me and acting way more reverent than they ever would in my presence just seems so incredibly pretentious and phony. Not to mention a total drag.

But what I hated the most about the idea of my own funeral/memorial service is the idea that I wouldn’t actually have any active part in the affair and, to be blunt, I’m not cool with that. If we’re going to sit around and talk about my life, I wanna be able to chip in a couple sentiments, too. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.

Now, a while ago I penned a letter to the Bear to tell her everything I want her to know in case I don’t get a chance. I’ve also written one to each of her potential caregivers, to relay a couple principles I desperately want my child to grow up with. I also rarely go a year without telling everyone in my life how I feel about them and I’m just one of those bothersome people who always has to come right out and say whatever it is that needs to be said so I never have to say “I should’ve told them when I had the chance.” (This makes me look unbelievably creepy and socially inept at times, by the way, as I’m often one who confronts old classmates with weird things like “Hey, remember that time you stood up for me in the 7th grade? I still remember that. It meant a lot. Thanks.” See? Creepy.) So, in writing my own eulogy, I’m not going to make it a big production of public gratitude like I’ve won an award or something – I’m dead, not taking home the SAG statuette for Best Supporting Actress.

I just want to be part of the party. I want to share memories and laugh about times I royally screwed things up and relate insane adventures I found myself a part of and talk frankly about my life, hopefully as a means to invite others to do the same. I’m not going to make it very long; I’m not about to make people sit through what I should’ve made a memoir, if I was really so intent on rambling about myself for long stretches. But I do want to have fun with it – I might make stuff up, just to see if anyone catches on and giggles – and I want it to make those who cared enough to congregate glad they did.

Actually, I’d really like the whole event – no matter the size – to be a celebration. I want one of my friends to sing Tenacious D’s “Dude, I Totally Miss You” and I want a New Orleans jazz band to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” at the end and I want everyone to wear anything but black and bring a covered dish for a potluck picnic afterward. (Ideally, I’d have enough money to leave behind to throw an actual bash with an ice cream bar and sushi and elephant rides and an 80′s cover band and bellydancers and hoopers and karaoke and a screening of “Amelie” and a bluegrass jam session, but I don’t want my family to have to deal with caterers and party prep, so I’ll just leave behind those four initial wishes and let them go from there.) I want it to be irreverent and I want people to talk about me realistically and I don’t want people to waste money sending me flowers (because I’m freaking dead. Hello? No olfactory senses in the afterlife.)

But, mostly, I just want to be able to share one last event with my loved ones and to be able to candidly reflect on my life and who I was as a person, since we’re already having a party all about me anyway. And, honestly, I’m not sure why more people don’t do that. I mean, I know it sounds a little conceited to want to be one of the ones that heaps praise on yourself but, if the topic of conversation is YOUR life, why shouldn’t you be allowed to give your $.02? And isn’t it a little conceited to want to sit back and let loved ones (and sometimes a preacher/rabbi they’ve never even met) stand in front of a crowd and tearfully glorify you as a flawless human being? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want people getting up and bringing up every single one of my faults and saying I was a horrible person (why would you go to a horrible person’s funeral anyway?) but I don’t want people who knew me painting me to be some perfect saint that I just wasn’t; that’s kind of gross, actually… and disrespectful as that sort of artificiality is something my whole life/self is opposed to. So, in writing my own eulogy, I’ll be able to set the tone of conversation and loosen people’s reservations (and make those who are obligated to be there and lean on the more reverent-and-conservative side reeeeally uncomfortable, which will also be entertaining.)

For me, writing my own eulogy isn’t about trying to take over the reins or clamor for power over a situation in which I ultimately have no control. It isn’t going to be a means of making a mockery of death or the traditions of memoriam, nor will it be about undermining or belittling the ways my family chooses to deal with my passing. I’m not doing it to rebel or buck tradition or make people uncomfortable.

Writing my eulogy is not only an attempt to act as a welcoming hostess/emcee for the gathering and to put at ease the wonderful people who were kind enough to come; it’s mostly a way for me to be a part of the conversations that will verbally sum up my time here on Earth and, frankly, I think it’s my responsibility to define my life, instead of leaving it up to someone else. Obviously, I can’t control how I’m remembered or what people think of me, but I owe it to myself (at least) to state and rejoice in my reality and identity, no matter how minuscule they may be in the grand scheme of things. Those are the only things I can ever truly call my own and I feel that the only person who can genuinely memorialize them is me. I can’t say what my life was or wasn’t to anyone else, but I don’t think it’s crossing any lines to proclaim what it was to me, for myself. In fact, I think it’s necessary.

Obviously, I’ll have to update this eulogy every so often, as it will have a bit of a shelf life and my perspective will hopefully continue to grow and shift as I age but, even then, I think summing up one’s own existence from time to time might be an incredibly healthy practice. Stepping into the role of “objective third party” and taking a look at my life as though the story is complete has been an amazing way to take personal inventory. If I’m disappointed with the storyline, I realize the need for change. If I’m happy with parts of the story, I’m reminded to take some time to express gratitude for all of it. I know it may sound sick and twisted but writing my own eulogy is a mental exercise I really benefit from, so long as I do it every few years and not obsessively. (Although I can’t imagine being obsessive enough about my life that I’d want to write a new one every week.) It gives me a chance to step back and look at the Big Picture and what’s really important versus what really isn’t going to matter in the end.

So, yeah, it sounds a little Emily Dickinson and it really freaked my husband out when I told him about it, but it’s something that seems a little common sense-y to me, now that I’ve had time to think about it. Why wouldn’t everyone want to be part of the greatest, most definitive celebration of their own lives, even if only through shared words and memories? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Honestly?

I don’t even know anymore.*

*Not that I really did, although I was convinced that I did up until about six or seven years ago. But now I’m certain that I don’t. And I don’t know where to start or if it’s even worth starting and it’s not bad and it’s not good and what it all boils down to is that I’m a giant wuss and no amount of begging the Universe for a pair of white-gold-dipped balls is actually changing that at the moment and that’s frustrating on top of everything else slowly stacking itself on each other. So, even though there’s a lot going on, there’s really nothing happening.
Because of me.
Being chickenshit.
And then hating it.
And then hating myself for hating it.

… And I’m tired. I think tired is coming in at a close second. Like, really long-term, weary, worn-out tired. It’s like I’ve spent since I was 13 overanalyzing and oversentimentalizing everything and then I ramped that up in the last few years with the mental workout of recovery and now something in my brain just finally powered down and now I don’t want to do any of it which doesn’t really help me because I’m pretty lazy when it comes right down to it but I kinda felt productive in my inactivity before now because at least I was dissecting and understanding everything but now that I’m not even doing that I’m really just not doing anything at all.

I really miss being able to blame my ineptitude on being completely out of my mind.

~ I have my first audition in five years with a professional theatre here in town. While I’m excited to be getting back into theatre, I’m petrified as I haven’t acted in about 3-ish years, I haven’t sung anything except karaoke since my vocal register changed (pregnancy wreaks havoc on EVERYTHING) and, after thorough review of every performance I’ve ever given, I’ve pretty objectively realized I’m not much to look at on stage, nor do I have any level of awareness or implementation of any techniques I may have learned in my 5 years of arts school education. I’m afraid I’m going to look like one of those idiot ‘American Idol’ contestants who’s too deluded to realize they should stick to something else.

~ I just got back from a seriously blissful weekend in Atlanta. While the trip was primarily to visit with my husband’s family, I spent about half the time visiting with my own family and friends which was just incredible, almost to a degree I wasn’t expecting. The Bear and I drove my mother’s behemoth 1998 Suburban down for the 6-hour trip a day early (we had piles of babythings to return to my cousin who gave them to us mistakenly believing they were through with having children) and spent a night and an extra evening visiting with one of my oldest and dearest friends (it’s interesting; I haven’t known her longer than any of my other childhood friends, but she’s the only good friend I can say I’ve been close to the longest.) in her AMAZINGly posh little neighborhood in the Highlands area of Atlanta. The Bear and I stayed with her and her poor, unassuming fiance who was so tolerant of Chloe’s incessant excited squeals while he was recovering from a very very recent oral surgery that I feel I owe him a kidney or something. Anyway, being able to catch up and spend some actual “hang-out-and-talk-about-stuff-other-than-general-catch-uppery” time with her was a rare treat and then being able to see her again the next night at her family’s Football Marathon Extravaganza was even cooler. (Best meal I’ve had in years. Literally. Her brother smoked melt-in-your-mouth barbecue and this crazy Bacon Explosion – we called it the Coronary Log – that was woven bacon wrapped around sausage wrapped around bacon and smoked into a magical, life-shortening log of majesty. And then her dad provided home grown Georgia peaches for homemade peach ice cream that almost made me start speaking in tongues.)
Aside from getting to have a social life with real, actual friends who aren’t obligated to be around me for familial or occupational reasons, I was able to visit with my siblings one morning for a mind-altering breakfast at the Flying Biscuit where I devoured an organic pumpkin pancake stack drizzled with maple syrup and pralines that, also, made me consider going into the priesthood or taking Jesus as a groom. We hit the Decatur Book Fest which wasn’t nearly as cool as I was expecting (I was hoping for book sales galore and only got indie authors hawking their wares en masse) but I did get to meet the guys from Mental Floss and yell at them for monopolizing all of my productivity and spare time with their addictive informative site and intriguing trivia. Plus, I got one of the founders to sign a book for me! Whee! The highlight of this whole thing, however, was that I got to spend some time with my siblings who I always just assume want to be around me to see my daughter. However, when my brother seemed genuinely excited to hang out with us sans Bear later on that evening I’m not sure I’d been so touched in a very long time.

And THEN, as if my weekend wasn’t emotionally rich enough, I got to stop off at my cousin’s incredible little bungalow in Roswell, Georgia where he and his wife made us lunch and their daughter spent two enamored hours bringing the Bear into hysterical giggles I haven’t heard other than when she’s being tickle tortured (Always go for the feet with little wet wipes. Works every time, even during frantic sobs of age-associated protest.) I tend to gravitate toward my cousin as a means of shared sanity as we both have been the ones in our families who have absorbed that swept-under-the-rug dysfunction and have had the residual emotions manifest in our mental states. Because of our shared experiences with years of therapy and learning how to implement those tools into the sanity surrounding us, we have a lot in common in that we look at things objectively and are often the ones accused of being melodramatic or just insane by those who would rather blame and ostracize the “crazy one” for familial craziness instead of beginning a process of self-evaluation and transformation themselves. (::Sigh::) Nonetheless, while both of us have reached a point in our lives where we’re emotionally self-sufficient and no longer willing to sit around and whine about being victims or other cowardly shows of general laziness, we have a mutual understanding of the ability to look at dysfunctional insanity and disassociate with it on a personal level, which is something I often feel very very alone in. It’s always nice to be able to get together with him and compare notes although sometimes I feel bad that our conversations usually go that direction before moving on to anything else, simply because we see each other so rarely and it’s such a sense of relief to have someone who understands who is also within the family. (Luckily, both of us have fantastic spouses who are objectively level-headed but still always on our team… even if we’re wrong… That being said, there’s something to be said for having someone who can understand and relate to my exact situation because he’s witnessed and experienced the exact same things from the exact same people. There’s definitely a sense of validation there.) And he’s always the first family member I send an email to when I’m dealing with great emotional upheaval or conflict in my personal, family-related life as he’s distant enough to deal with the situation objectively but close enough that he can make observations about the usual participants and the roles and persuasions they embody within the family dynamic.
All this being said, that poor guy has gone through far faaaarrr more family insanity and mental fuckery than I eeever have (selfishly, I’m unbelievably thankful for this) so, while his life experiences are always to caricature-esque extremes, I feel like I can really learn a lot from his journey to self-realization and his ability to emotionally liberate himself and find happiness in his own life. It’s very inspiring, although heartrending to hear, let alone to physically observe.

So yeah, it was a great weekend for me and a surprisingly emotionally refreshing one to boot. Granted, the Bear has gotten to an age where she’s really selective about her choice of activity and hates being redirected with a passion (It’s so bad that if we try to pull her off a staircase she’s been playing on for ten minutes in public, she’ll fling herself on the ground and begin screaming and kicking. This happens no matter what personal agenda goals of ours conflict with hers, even to the more minute detail, like changing her diaper when she would rather sit and play with her toes. It’s EXHAUSTING.) so it was really hard to go along with the adamant plans of the in-laws without flat out refusing. There were a few times that they were intent on doing a certain thing at a certain time and were inflexible about it, which is perfectly fine and honestly completely understandable and even relatable to us as people who used to have lives with plans and agendas but, being that we have a child who often restricts our freedoms and abilities to do anything according to regimented plans we were constantly trying to assert our inability to participate, which was taken more personally than intended. We were adamant in insisting the group go on without us and enjoy their time in town while we joined them while we could but that usually backfired on us as well. So we found ourselves stuck in awkward positions such as the Sunday morning incident when we took the Bear to a hot, overcrowded zoo filled to the brim with Labor Day Family Vacationers during which she only showed interest in – again – climbing stairs, running after her peers and… that’s about it, actually. As predicted she showed little to no interest in the animals who were barely visible in their tiny but hilly entrapments and, after realizing that we had plans different than hers, began fussing about everything. She didn’t want to be carried, she didn’t want to walk, she didn’t want a juice box, she didn’t want anything in particular but to scream and insist on pushing the stroller up and down a massive ramp and then scream more at us when we tried to thwart her plans. In addition to battling an oncoming migraine that lasted the rest of the evening, I was practicing breathing techniques to restrain myself from angrily reminding everyone that I did say this would happen and that we would definitely have been better suited for her to have visited in the early-to-mid afternoon, after her nap when all the other kids were still taking theirs and she could have a little more breathing room like my husband and I said at the beginning. (I’m sorry to sound like a ruthless bitch here but we do, after all, spend all our time with this little person. We do have a general idea of how she functions and her inability to adapt to anyone else’s plans. It’s a flexibility we’ve been forced to learn in order to keep screaming meltdowns to a minimum and maintain some semblance of sanity.) When the Bear fell asleep in the car before we left the parking lot and was awake by 1:30 p.m. within an hour of us laying her down for a nap, I was even more frustrated by the validity of my prediction. (It was the one time in my life I honestly wished I could have been wrong just to avoid more of the I-told-you-so’s-and-why-doesn’t-anyone-listen frustrations.) ::sigh:: And, of course, when we insisted that the rest of the group stay and get their money’s worth out of their visit, we were met with genuinely well-intended “of course nots!” which were appreciated but not out of character and was even more of a reminder that this often happens in such situations that could easily have been avoided. I’m definitely not saying that it doesn’t royally suck to have a child who is such a prima donna and demands her way on schedule all the time (it totally does), but, knowing that this is the sort of person who is often among the most popular in this sort of family gathering, I would think that those around us would try to accommodate that for the sake of everyone’s sanity at the least. The weirdest part of all of this is that it’s beneficial to EVERYONE involved when concessions are made to keep her happy as we are all given more time to enjoy ourselves and nobody’s having to run off to quell her fussiness, so, again, the insistence on ignoring our always-accurate warnings is beyond me. Especially since there have been a surplus of consistent examples to back my assertions’ accuracy. Still, though, we’re frequently ignored when we attempt excuse ourselves from late-night public dining ventures (again, always from the best intentions from this group of people who just want to include us) and other out-of-synch plans that inevitably end with elevated stress during an epic meltdown.

However, I was incredibly grateful at the offer to take the Bear off our hands for an evening while me and the hubs enjoyed a night out on the town (Don’t go see “Extract”, by the way. Not much to talk about at all and I’m not even sure it’s worth a DVD rental in six months. Seriously disappointing with a protagonist story very similar to that in “Office Space” without nearly as much relatable humor and sense of direction or varied levels of emotion. Everything just felt hollow and forced and, while the cast was full of individually appealing personalities – Mila Kunis is funny, quirky and hot, as always. Jason Bateman is handsome though a bit bumbling and uncertain… as always. Beth Grant is a particular highlight, returning as one of the most hilarious obnoxious bitches imaginable which, despite her real-life sparkling personality, is what she’s simply genius at. – , together they were just like an eclectic collection of thrift store furniture “finds” that are divine by themselves but look like an apartment in a schizophrenic’s mind when flung into the same room. Not an ounce of chemistry in the whole group. So there’s my mini review.) And I was secretly relieved that the in-laws were the victims of Poopocalypse II later in the evening as I’m not sure my heightened exhaustion and end-of-day stress could have handled such an involved event while keeping myself from breaking into tears. (Again, a 6-hour trip with someone who loathes confinement more than myself is taxing of multiple days’ worth of energy and emotion.) Greg and I went to an actual party with real adults that had other stuff to talk about than having babies and then we went out to a movie and stayed out until midnight. I cannot remember the last time we did that together. 11:30, sure. But midnight? Not since I was pre-pregnancy. Amazing.

~ So I’m gearing up for a big week here. Recovery laundry and babycare from this recent trip, a last-minute monologue cramming session, a trip back to Myrtle to return my mom’s car this weekend… it just don’t stop, apparently.

I’ve often heard and have grown to believe that the best way to make God laugh is to make plans. Apparently, I needed a refresher course.

Since the Bear is adamant about spending as much time as possible outdoors, I thought I’d change up the scenery and take her out to a local park while my hubs did some stuff around the house. It was mostly cloudy with a generous amount of breaks which was great because it meant we could spend the middle of the day outside without burning alive.

So we get down to the Kiwanis Family Park, one of our city’s beautiful playgrounds with big fields and running trails and grills and the whole bit.

Chloe is ecstatic and tears off at a dead run (which only translated as an effortless trot for me) and flailing her arms while screaming “WHEEEE!” I decided to take her on one of the trails as she’s not spent much time in wooded areas. She couldn’t have been more excited and, in the first few minutes she’d already picked up the words “creek” and “bridge”.

We’re hiking along and Chloe is loving every minute of it, pointing at birds, scampering down the trail, waving to every person that passes. I try to get her to turn off onto the paths that would lead us back to the starting point, but every time she screamed and cried, pulling my arm to let her take the long route.

Although I knew it was a .75 mile trail, I kind of shrugged and laughed about it thinking, “Well, I guess the worst that could happen is that she gets exhausted and I have to carry her back.” Plus, we were still around people in that I could see houses and major roads through the trees, so if we were bitten by a snake or something awful, we wouldn’t be far from rescue.

We get to the end of the trail and I have to pick Chloe up, screaming and kicking, to get her to turn around and go back the way we came. After a few minutes she gave up the fight and we were off. About five minutes in at Chloe-walking-speed, we started to feel a little bit of light rain but were under a thick canopy of trees, so Chloe really enjoyed it. As we walked, the rain gradually got a tiny bit heavier and I was still chucking to myself, thinking, “Ah man, we’re going to get so wet.” But still, Chloe was enjoying herself and even though I’d picked up the pace and was keeping us toward the edge of the path for more cover, we were having a good time.

AND THEN THE EFFING BOTTOM FELL OUT.

Regardless of how long this summer storm was going to last, I knew Chloe would only find heavy raindrops pounding her body for a few minutes, so I scooped her up and began to run while yelling, “Whee!!” Now, I think it’s important to note that, because I was prepared for a leisurely day at the park, I was wearing a skimpy camisole, a flowing hippie skirt, and cheap leather sandals that I’ve had for a few years and have completely worn the tread off of. Also, I’d left the diaper bag back in the car but was hauling around my big leather purse with my wallet, keys, camera, juice boxes, etc. Still, though, we were giggling and I was kind of enrapt with how funny this all was and what a ridiculous story we’d have when we got home.

But about five minutes up the road, the rain somehow increased to the point where we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us and Chloe became hysterical. The fact that I haven’t been exercising recently was already a factor, but add to that the fact that I’m carrying an extra 25 lbs on one arm and trying to run in sandals in such a way that I don’t fall and hurt both of us, and I was working harder than I believe I have in the last ten years.

I was torn between trying to run fast and trying to keep my balance while soothing Chloe’s terrified screams so the .65 mile I was running took literally 10 minutes to cover (I could easily walk a mile in that on a normal day.) And then, just as I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude upon seeing the clearing up ahead, a bolt of lightning hit a tree less than a mile away (we saw it as we were leaving the park later on) and elevated our level of panic to outright terror. There hadn’t been any signs of lightning before that moment so, even though we were soaking and Chloe was really upset, I was safe in the knowledge that we weren’t in real danger. When that was snatched away, my adrenaline kicked in and I somehow sprinted out of the woods, into the clearing, and another 200 yards to the nearest shelter.

Just as I hit the slick floor of the shelter, my treadless shoes became worthless and I hit my knee harder than I think it’s ever been. However, because of my wildly flying hormones and emotions, I didn’t even notice it until a few hours later. As a few dry families watched, I sat on the floor right at the edge, rocking and soothing Chloe as best as I could while she wailed and shivered.

Even though the shelter was lying elevated on a hill, it began to flood and I realized I was sitting in a slowly spreading puddle. I moved us to one of the picnic tables and kept rocking and clutching the Bear. I was terrified she’d get hypothermia or pneumonia or something and it’s honestly the first time that she’s screamed in public and I did not give a shit what anyone else was thinking, although I hardly think that’s praiseworthy or unnatural given the circumstances.

After about ten minutes, I noticed one of the men in another family come running back from their car, soaking and clutching a bag. He handed it off and his wife and her daughter walked over and handed me a clean, dry set of little boy’s clothes and a new diaper. As I tried to tell her how much I appreciated it, it became obvious that she spoke no English at all and I was reduced to pitiful, broken Spanish and an idiotic redundancy of “Gracias”es. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and, to be honest, as I’m writing this, my eyes are welling up with tears, (although that could be the residual effects of the day messing with my emotions.) While I changed an increasingly chilled and frightened Bear, the woman calmly stabilized Chloe as her daughter spoke softly to her and tried to get her to smile. Realizing that I couldn’t hold the Bear up to my chest to warm her as my clothes were soaking, the woman made a gesture to ask permission and, after I nodded, she picked Chloe up and held her for a few minutes. When Chloe finally settled a bit, we sat her down and I became pathetic with gratitude, probably driving the woman insane with my relentless thanks. She held up a hand to tell me it was no problem but ran back over to her purse and handed me a small bottle of Bio Salud!, a revolutionary Mexican dairy beverage that is loaded with live cultures and nutrients. Suffice to say, I was floored.

After Chloe calmed down, she went back to her normal self, sitting beside me while I wrung out my skirt a few dozen times and babbling and pointing to the rain and smiling at me with wonder. I even took the opportunity to get a few pics, because I’m pathetic and thought I should have evidence of the story when I tell her one day.

The rain died down and the woman and her family stood up to leave. Even though I hated the idea of stripping Chloe of warm clothes, I knew we had some clean ones in the car about 200-ish yards away and could make it work if we had to. I made feeble gestures to tell the woman that she could have her son’s clothes back but she adamantly shook her head and patted me on the back with one of those “knowing mother” smiles.

It took me about an hour after we left the park to settle down and realize how exhausted I was. I just felt deflated after the intensity of the emotions plus the unrehearsed running.

I’m sure, though, that this is one of those days I’ll remember. Not to oversentimentalize things but the culmination of the fear that was so easily diffused by one family’s simple generosity made the whole experience remarkable. I know, it’s not like I was a refugee taken in by strangers, but still the lessons here are twofold:

1) ALWAYS prepare for the worst when out with children. Al. Ways.
2) Don’t be so cowardly or cynical as to doubt the existence of real, good people, no matter how much you see evidence to prove otherwise.

On New Years Day, I sat down and did a New Year reading with my Tarot deck. I made sure to write down what card I received for each month on my calendar and have been paying attention to my happenings to see if they’re synching up. So far, they’ve been synchronized only in loose interpretations and retrospect.

It’s no secret that I’ve been over the moon in these last few weeks. Aside from being on a high from us finally moving forward and finally getting away from a town I loathe and finally feeling rewarded for our efforts to change our situation, I’m just in love with my new home. Aside from Sanford being a genuinely wonderful little town, I’m back in North Carolina again, which has always been where I call home, even though I was away for half of my life. (I don’t think I could ever be in South Carolina long enough to consider “Carolina” USC or automatically think that the State Fair is in Columbia. Even after being gone a decade, I still told people, “Well I live in Myrtle Beach now, but I’m from North Carolina.” Kinda pathetic, I guess.) And, although I knew all this time that there were things I missed about North Carolina that South Carolina and/or Myrtle Beach simply doesn’t have, I’m finding that there are dozens of traits about the NC that I’d completely forgotten about altogether. A part of me feels like a kid again, running around in my acre-sized backyard with my brother and sisters… it’s incredible.

Chloe and I drive out of town while Greg’s at work, riding over rolling hills on country roads and gazing out over beautiful farms that all seem hand-selected from a decorator who said, “Okay, the theme here is classic, rural Americana. But I want extra charm!” There are old farm houses pushed back away from the highway, nestled under sprawling oaks with oversized ponds and self-sustaining gardens in the backyard. After years of driving through dusty, flat, dilapidated countryside, I’d forgotten how much I missed that. (Plus, I do love the knowledge that these little farm towns are literally 15 miles away from the state’s biggest, most prestigious cities. It brings it all back down to earth, really.)

We also go on walks around our little neighborhood where Chloe waves to every person we pass and yaps back at every dog. We sometimes walk down to the waterfront of the large pond that sits at our subdevelopment’s entrance and skip stones or point at ducks. (These are days I wish I had my own kayak, even if it’s just to take her out on the water for 10 minutes.)

In the evenings I feed Chloe dinner, give her a bath, and then sit with her on our couch while she watches a Disney Sing-Along-Songs DVD my mom converted from the original tape she bought us in 1986. As she sits, mesmerized and enrapt, I enjoy the way the setting sun shines through the thick leaves off our back deck, breathe deeply in complete relaxation and always, without fail, fight the urge to sob with gratitude and bliss.

I’ve not been bashful about admitting that this is easily one of the best moments of my life. I know, it’s all painfully overdramatic and pretty gross in my gloating of how awesome I feel and how things are going wonderfully for me. I’m even kind of getting repulsed and bored with myself and my own Mary Tyler Moore cheerfulness to an extent, so I’ll be literally amazed if anyone – frequent reader or not – has made it this far. And I also know it can’t last in the ebb and flow of life’s cycles, so I’m absorbing and milking every moment while I can. Although I’m on the edge of my seat with excitement about having a real autumn for the first time in 12 years (not counting my semester in Melbourne, AUS) I know better than to waste my days looking forward to the next thing coming.

But right now, for this one moment, everything is exactly what I’ve dreamed of for us.

Anyway, as I was unpacking more boxes, I came across the calendar that had my 2009 Tarot predictions on each page. When I went to hang it on the wall of my office I flipped to August and abruptly gasped with amused surprise and recognition, feeling my heart swell with even more blubbering, gushing gratitude.

At the beginning of this year, I drew the upright XXI Major Arcana card – better known as “The World”

Of course.

————————
In case you’re not into Tarot meanings here are some good definitions in addition to the one hyperlinked above:

A Brief Description

A Longer But Less Action-and-Foreward-Movement-Based description

And the Wiki Description

It’s one of those Fridays where I’m going to share random thoughts. And I’m not in the mood to argue about any of them.

~ I’m going to visit my Gran next weekend. I’m unbelievably excited about this and the chance to watch her interact with Chloe on a one-on-one basis.

Gran’s amazing. She’s one of those women who used to be a beauty queen and still adheres to those standards of beauty, always going to the gym, always worried about her weight (and everyone else’s), never leaving the house without makeup. I kind of hate that trait in anyone else but in Gran it’s so endearing. When we go to the country club, she’s the kind of woman who’ll see her peers (or even women 15 years younger) hunch-backed in 30-years-outdated housedresses and pincurl perms and lean over to slyly state, “I hope I never look like that.” And really, she’s a remarkably beautiful woman, even at 85. She has Christopher-Lloyd-white hair that comes down to her shoulders in soft waves and these bright blue eyes that have slowly lost most of their twinkle in the 9 years since my grandfather died (the man was a dream husband, which is why I get so touched when my Gran tells me my own husband reminds her of him) and the most beautiful, unrestrained laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. She’s totally a pistol but she never diverges from her Southern, dignity-always mentality.

Alright, here’s a ridiculously cool testament as to how remarkably rad Gran has been her whole life: When she met my grandfather, she was engaged to this big Texas oil tycoon and had a rock the size of my face to prove it. Anyway, she was in the beauty pageant for the Greensboro May Day Queen and her escort was a no-show. One of her friends ran over to this group of soldiers in uniform and asked, “Hey, will one of you guys escort my friend?” When she pointed over to Gran, apparently the group was slack-jawed until one little guy from a poor little town in the mountains of NC offered to do it. That was my granddad. Like something out of a movie, she won the pageant (of course) and had Grandaddy walk her home, during which she asked him to take her to dinner (pretty forward for the early 1940′s) When he came back to pick her up that night, he was a little early and she answered the door apologizing for not being ready yet. My cousin did this amazing interview with my grandfather before he passed and recorded the whole thing that he gave to us on CD. On it my grandfather talks about that evening and he closes the story by saying, “When I got to the door, she was wearing her engagement ring, but when she came back downstairs she wasn’t. I remember thinking, ‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

So yes, they were married a year or so later (she wore the dress she wore for the May Day pageant) and they had five kids and he was a wildly successful man who was loved by everyone in his county and they were at the top of their social ladder for manymany years and it was all just splendid and perfect.

But hold on. It TOTALLY gets better. After my grandfather died in 2000, we were kind of worried about Gran but knew she’d busy herself with meeting old friends (she’s been in the same bridge club for 50 years) and going to the gym, etc. In 2005 I was in Australia and was talking to my dad about how Gran was doing and he kind of got this amused tone in his voice and said, “Well, she’s kind of seeing someone.” and went on to tell me about this guy who had been sending her flowers and talking to her on the phone for hours a few times a week and was flying in on his private jet to visit her.

Yeah. That Texan she broke up with 60+ years ago to marry my grandfather called her a few years ago and is still trying to win her over. I hope to God I have game like that when I’m 85. (Although I still wouldn’t date most of my exes even then. This is not up for debate.)

Anyway, that’s Gran. She’s the kind of woman who told me to walk 2 miles and drink one cup of black coffee and one glass of wine for every day I was pregnant. (She also told me that if I gained more than 20 lbs. during my pregnancy, my doc wouldn’t deliver my child. Heh… Old people and their crazy ideas.) She offers beer to everyone who visits, unless it’s still morning and then she’ll offer a Bloody Mary or a Screwdriver.

A few years ago we had this family reunion and before she went on her walk one day, she found me and showed me this headband I’d made for her when I was in the 1st grade. (It was made out of Hot Loops. Remember those things?! And you wove them together using this weird finger-weaving method?) She mentioned that she’d always used it to work out for the last 20-ish years and always thought of me when she did. I was touched.

Later that evening, she and I sat out on the porch talking and watching the ocean. Before she turned in for the night, she mentioned how much she loved talking to me and how she always felt we were kindred spirits. I reciprocated the sentiment and told her how much it meant to me to have a grandmother who loved me so much. To which she replied (and I may never ever forget this as long as I live), “Of course I love you honey. Why else would I have kept that tacky headband all these years?”

Awesome.

~ The fact that Cathy Guisewite still has an active career with national syndication crushes my optimism for the modern human spirit more than anything else in pop culture. At least reality television is deliberately idiotic. Nobody cites the “Cathy” comic as one of their guilty pleasures.
And I’ve never been one of those angry feminists who gets mad about stupid shit. I really only get passionate about important causes like the government getting out of our bodies/relationships and women getting paid the same as men, etc. But why in hell isn’t she receiving hate mail every single day for actively perpetuating these abysmal stereotypes about the overweight, ever-”victimized”, middle-aged woman who’s adept to society and malleable to public influence? Personally, I think it’s worse than anything Hefner of Flint has ever done.

~ You know, I used to think that Peter Dinklage had to be the bravest man in Hollywood. Here’s a man who is incredibly talented and went to the most superficial place on the planet to pursue a career in which he doesn’t use his size as a gimmick. Okay, sure he’s been given roles that were written for midgets but he’s never resorted to stereotypes and cheap sellouts in those roles; he’s always portrayed as a normal person with real emotions and intelligence (Like the literary genius he played in ‘Elf‘ or the Liz Lemon suitor on ‘30 Rock‘.) However, he’s also been given roles in which his size had absolutely nothing to do with the part. For one extremely impressive example, in 2006 he portrayed a lawyer in the true story of Jackie DiNorscio (Find Me Guilty) who, in reality wasn’t/isn’t a small person at all. That, to me, is pretty incredible. So, I’ve been a fan because of his incredible talent, integrity… and smoldering eyes… and deep, authoritative voice… ::shudders with arousal:::

But then I realized that if I was to name the Bravest Actor in Hollywood (and I’m not even going to get into the absurdity of the notion that people “take risks” in roles that require them to be “brave.” Give me an effing break. Yeah, I get the concept behind that, that a poor portrayal might destroy someone’s career or the director’s vision but please… Don’t flatter yourself by acting like you conjured up some deep, ancient courage to play a public figure.) it’d be Steve Buscemi. Hands down. Think about it. That guy looked in the mirror and said, “Yeah, dammit. I’m going to be in films.” And he never got any plastic surgery, he never fixed those crowded teeth, he didn’t change a thing to try to fit into any of the aesthetic requirements of modern cinema. And now look at him! He’s, like, constantly employed and he’s practically a household name. Sure, his roles are limited to the “skeezy” category, but he’s been given the chance to move around in that field during his career. There was “skeezy renegade hero” in the dreadful ‘Armageddon’, there was “skeezy psychopathic killer” in ‘Con Air’, “skeezy drunken black sheep/broken spirited brother” in ‘The Wedding Singer’ and then there was “sensitive skeezy older-man love interest” in ‘Ghost Town’. You really have to admire the versatility there.

So, bravo Buscemi. You’ve shown us that in life you can chase and obtain your dreams if you really honestly believe in yourself. The message isn’t lost on me.

~ The knowledge that people are arguing about health care changes based on the singular fact that they’re too greedy and too selfish to help people who can’t help themselves is disgusting and heartbreaking to me. Alright, I don’t necessarily agree with the health care plans in question at the moment and I know that there are going to be people who take advantage of any system, but the idea that so so many people really believe that poor people or people with disabilities who have no way of improving their situation actually enjoy taking government handouts and being powerless over their lives is just ridiculous. Again, I know those people exist but can’t we give the majority the benefit of the doubt?
(And yes, the knowledge that all these people whining about not sharing and acting like uneducated morons in courthouses are primarily upper-middle class, white, privileged citizens is somewhat embarrassing.)

~ I’ve just sort of gotten into Hunter S. Thompson (I is a late bloomer) and, while I get that the man was a genius and a literary revolutionary and had that sort of Crazy where his thoughts were “out there” but somehow made a lot of sense, but mostly I think he was just an asshole.

The thing is, while I think everyone admires/envies the type of person who says “Fuck society!” and lives by their own agendas and sticks strongly to his convictions of idealism, when it comes down to someone who lives a life proud of his substance addictions and constantly in a state of inebriation (admittedly pretty appealing to some people), no matter how functional he’s able to be in his professional life, he’s still going to carry all the classic traits of an addict. And that’s how it was with this guy. He was unbelievably selfish and manipulative, he had nothing but abusive relationships, he treated his friends and coworkers like shit… it’s really a wonder anyone hung out with him at all after a while. Sure he was revolutionizing the media and I get that guys like Jann Wenner had him around to sell magazines, but I’m kind of astounded that there were enough people who loved him to have written an entire biography constructed exclusively of personal anecdotes from friends. (‘Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson’ if you’re interested)

My daughter is awesome.

And even though every parent on the planet says that about their kid, I’m lucky enough to have one of those kids who inspires other people around her to say that too, even if they’ve only known her a few minutes.

She’s 19 months old now and just unbelievable. She’s always cheerful (unless I’m redirecting her from something potentially harmful that she wants to do anyway), always elated to meet and be around people, always exploring and interacting. It’s perhaps the best anti-depressant I’ve ever had.

A few days ago she picked up my camera and started taking pictures. The impressive part of this is now that she could mimic my actions but she was actually looking through the viewfinder, setting up a shot, and then taking it as opposed to just randomly hitting the button and pointing the camera at nothing in particular. She got down on her tummy to get a portrait of the cat and then, after taking a couple, she changed positions to get a different angle on him. She even took one of her stuffed animals and put him up on the couch to get a “portrait” of sorts. I was really cool to watch.

We were on vacation last week on a small island in SC and naturally, she loved spending everysinglemoment outside in the sun. She loved pointing at the seagulls and pelicans and screaming “Kak! Kak!” (this is her arbitrary word for any bird because she can’t yet differentiate between the individual types and thinks they’re all ducks) and picking up seashells – “shah-shoo”s – but what she loved most of all was being around dogs. She ran up to literally every dog we saw during the entire week regardless of size. She would always want to engage them individually so often she would come up and sit down in front of them to be on their eye-level. Sometimes it looked like she and the dog were in their own little world, actually. And there was one little dog who was a schnauzer-type mutt that the owner was carrying in her arms and was snarling and growling until the Bear came up and petted her nose. I was starting to wonder if she’s going to inherit Cesar Milan’s gig when he’s ready to retire.

She has a whole arsenal of words and she’s so so excited to be able to communicate with us. When she recognizes something that we have an established word for (“Ar! Ar!” – Dog “Fjooo” – Food “Ah-pay!” – Airplane) she is so so excited to run over and tell someone about it and it’s really cool to see her confidence in herself during those moments.

So, once again, if there was any doubt: Yes. I am one of those pathetically child-obsessed parents.

Because I have so much to cover in a very very short amount of time (We still don’t have the Internet at our place so, again, I’m doing all this from the Lee County Public Library where they limit my compy usage to 1.5 hours daily. That’s just inhumane…) I’m going to give you a bulleted list of topics and you can scroll down to the one that interests you the most. See? I keep my readers in mind. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.

Also, I’ve been having blog-and-Internet withdrawal so please excuse me if this is rather rambly and self-indulgent. 

1) The Move
a) Elated
b) Nervous
c) Confused
d) Kinda Wistful
2) Meeting People
3) The New Projects

1) The Move
Oh man, it’s like I’ve said before: I’m positive there has never been a single human being more excited about moving to a small town in North Carolina than I have in the last couple weeks. I’m sure the novelty of it all will wear off but, Holy Crap, I feel like I’ve wandered into Pleasantville. I ventured out last Saturday, got myself a little cup of coffee, and checked out the local farmers’ market which was really more of a Stuff Old People Grow in Their Backyards Market, which is actually even better in my book. Anyway, while I was wandering around downtown buying a local paper and taking pics of the town for this here blog, I was delighted to find that every single person who passed me bothered to engage in mini conversations. Not just “Hi, how ya doin’?” but “Good morning! What on earth are you taking pictures of?” type conversations. I’m one of those people who thrives on getting to know local, grassroots culture so this was particularly exciting to me.

Sanford is a pretty cool little town, to be honest. It’s not one of those places that dried up once a Wal-Mart came to town and has one of those downtowns where people actually patronize and enjoy. There are tons of cool old houses where people throw block parties for anyone who wants to swing by. There are two local theatres, including one that I’m auditioning for in the next week but I’ll get to that later. Plus, the whole city is only 45 minutes from the Research Triangle area (Chapel Hill, Raleigh, Durham) and the Triad (Greensboro, Winston-Salem, High Point) so we’re close enough to the awesome forward-motion of city life without having to deal with the traffic and higher rate of crime, etc. (I was jazzed when I realized that we get the free weekly Independent Arts newspaper all the way down here! Culture! Life! Things happening! Whee!)

Also, in talking with some of the local people, this is one of those rare towns where kids are still kids. In Myrtle Beach it wasn’t uncommon for 11 year olds to be talking about giving blow jobs and where to get drugs, but here the kids still believe in Santa Claus until they’re 10 and don’t have cellphones until they start driving. Obviously, they grow more aware of the world as they get older (there’s drugs and sex everywhere) but it’s at a more traditional pace, which I’m a big fan of.

Again, I’m sure the novelty of small town life will wear off eventually but at the moment I’m loving the relief of not having to deal with godawful tourist traffic, not having to look at rundown outlet malls and shady strip clubs everywhere I go, not having to be blinded by neon signs and hideous billboards en route to EVERYWHERE. Getting to be around people who take pride in where they live and strive for better educations than a GED. It feels like I’m back where I started from originally and strangely, that’s exactly what I want right now.

So we’re in the process of unpacking everything in this cute little 2-story, 3 bedroom house in a quiet little neighborhood and are feeling unbelievably optimistic about the whole thing. I like it.

2) Meeting People
It occurred to me that, while living with a small child who isn’t in school, I have the potential to spend the next year in almost complete seclusion. Knowing my history with depression, this sounded like a good way to sink into a state of lonely hopelessness, which is something I prefer to avoid at all costs.

SO! I’ve taken it upon myself to push aside all my weird social anxieties, actually reach out, and meet some people. First, I emailed a local blogger who writes a lot about living a green lifestyle while being a mom. I just wanted to pick her brain about what Sanford life is like, if there were any places she could recommend in the way of preschools, family physicians, etc. Knowing that it’s totally weird to send a probing email to a stranger, i wasn’t really expecting much in the way of a thorough response. However, a few days later I received a 4 page email detailing everything from her preferred childcare centers to where not to get my hair done (apparently they employ drunk stylists). I was doubly impressed that she withheld any discussion of religion or spirituality because she didn’t like to push that sort of thing on people but if I wanted to know more about her church or what sort of spiritual gatherings are in the area, I was more than welcome to ask her about it. Even more impressive was the fact that she picked up on my mention that I wrote in my blog about depression and alcoholism and she casually recommended a psychiatric facility that members of her family had found success with. I was touched and refreshed with the knowledge that there are people here who don’t mind going out of their way to help complete strangers.

Additionally, one of my good friends takes an acting class once a week in Charlotte with a gal from Sanford and sent me her number. Once again, I pushed all my weird insecurities out of the way (By the way, it’s come to my attention just how unbelievably awkward I am, but I’m planning that as a post later on.) and just called her. She and her husband had me and mine over for cards and drinks last night and I was really relieved at how good of a time I had. We all seemed to get along, seemed to be like-minded, seemed to have a lot in common (although her kids are significantly older than mine) and, even though I don’t think we’ll be connected at the hip or anything, it’s so so nice to know someone else in town.

Although this merges into my next bulleted segment, I’ve also made it a point to join a couple Meetup groups and will be attending a tribal bellydance party in a couple weeks. I haven’t been part of a bellydance community in about 2 years but I miss it a lot and would love to meet other people who are into it and may be interested in traveling to events, etc. I’m thinking once I get settled I may attempt a book club in the area but that’s a few months off. Anyway, the point is that I’m trying, dammit.

3)The New Projects
At the moment, I’m having so much momentum from the move and the possibilities of new opportunity that I’m not sure where to put my immediate interest. The thing is, I’ve been wanting to get my writing career back on track and pay attention to working on a byline and getting a portfolio under my belt. (I just picked up an old Playboy from my collection a few days ago and realized that Sloane Crosley has been getting published WAY longer than I’d originally thought. Since she’s around my age, I kind of strangely consider her a peer and a bit of a pace-setter, although this usually leads to unnecessary comparisons between her career and mine and then the ensuing frustration that I’m not anywhere close to where I’d like to be.)

And then I just decided to do my first theatre audition in like, 3 years, so I’m preparing a monologue and short song for that. I’ve really wanted to get back into theatre but was really hesitant with the knowledge that it will eat a LOT of time and evenings with Greg. After talking about it and getting his encouragement and blessing, I’m going ahead with it and I guess we’ll navigate through our schedules if I’m actually presented with an opportunity for a role.

After taking the GRE, I’ve been looking at psychology degree programs and/or counseling certification programs. I’m ELATED to be in North Carolina as the university educations accessible from my location are incredible and seem ideal for what I want to do. This is something I probably won’t have the freedom or funding to get into for another year or so but I know I need to start working on applications and financial aid sooner than later so I’m not crunched for time.

And then there are countless extraneous things I’ve just been putting off for various reasons like working on scrapbooking these hundreds of photos from the last year and getting this website up and running and following up on my applications for grants for this book I’m writing. I don’t know how I plan to actually do all of this but I know I want them all to fit into my 5 Year Plan (such a ridiculous stereotypical idea…) and I know that means I actually need to do them. It just feels like everything’s been on hold since we’ve been waiting around to see if we’d be moving, so I hope that I can actually get back to living once we get settled in.

And THEN I noticed that there’s this old movie theatre for sale in downtown Sanford that flickered back to life that crazy dream I have of opening a mini multiplex that would consistently feature 1 indie/foreign flick, 1 children’s flick, 1 old film and 1 recent film and lend itself to a plethora of audiences. (I’ve written about it before but can’t seem to find the entry about it at the moment.) I’d love to do stuff like have a “Wizard of Oz” week where we play the movie all week and then have a big “Wizard of Oz” party on the last night. Same with “Rocky Horror” or “Tommy” or “Grease” or “Sound of Music” or any array of cool cult-y classics. Anyway, I’m going to call the realtor in charge to ask what the going price is…
… A girl can dream, right?

So that’s life in brief. Again, I’m using a compy that’s not my own so I don’t feel right posting pics at the moment. It’ll happen soon but I’m sure isn’t pertinent or urgent to anyone’s well-being so I’m not terribly worried about it at the moment.

In brief though: We’re happy. We’re optimistic. We’re relieved. We’re grateful.

These are all incredibly refreshing feelings.