Vicarious Rising

Because I am So Superspecial -- All About Me

The other day I declared myself positively boring on this very blog, so maybe I can debunk my own claim by filling out this self-absorbed meme. The amazing Lea Jacobson of Geisha, Interrupted tagged me. For those of you who haven't been to her blog, you should visit her droll diary of experiences as an expat in Japan. Also, Lea's memoir, Bar Flower, will be published in a few weeks. Click here to order it from Amazon.com. I pre-ordered mine ages ago.

Lord knows why Lea'd want to know anything about my upstate New York mom-of-a- teen-boy life. But, hey, I'll take any compliment I can get because I am that deprived and pitiful. Now that I have sufficiently lowered expectations, here are the sordid details of my secret life as a horny housewife:

What I was doing 10 years ago

Living off crazy South Street in Philadelphia and attending the Wharton school for my MBA. My son was 3-years-old and I was one of only three mothers in the grad program. This was out of a total of 750 enrolled. We three were the most exhausted of any of the students, and I am not saying this for dramatic effect. All the men with kids had wives who stayed at home with the kiddos during the program. My husband and one of the other mother's husband was also in the MBA program. The other woman commuted daily from Princeton, NJ so her daughter could stay in school there and her husband could keep his NYC job. Some days we three ladies would just bleerily eye each other and mumble, "no one else understands."

I hated, hated, hated business school. My drinking became an increasing problem. Everyone kept telling me I would never regret getting an Ivy League MBA, that it was a terrific opportunity and my ticket to the big time.

I should have listened to my inner voice that wanted out. Ten years later, all I have is the student loan payments (although those are nearly done, but Ivy League tuition? Pricey. Especially when you follow it up with quitting your first job out of school within 3 months and not ever stepping foot in the corporate world again.), an impressive diploma and dubious bragging rights that I drag out every so often to remind myself that everyone else does not know better than me what is best for me, no matter how pretty the credentials look on paper in the eyes of people who don't see through mine.

I did love Philadelphia, however. I miss the food there. Not the smell of South Street on Sunday morning, though. And I missed the Easter Zombie Pub crawl this year. Bummer.

Later in the year, went for a semester abroad in Milan, Italy. Was the only thing that made going to grad school remotely worthwhile.

5 years ago

Living in the middle of New Jersey (shoot me) and selling US made handbags to vendors in Japan, Taiwan and Korea on eBay. Was a surprisingly entertaining venture, although I spent all my earnings. Had stopped drinking for a year, but not in a program. Buried up to my eyeballs in pretending normalcy. Would pick up again in about a year.

1 year ago

Probably about what I am doing now, hanging out in West Palm Beach, Florida and blogging. My son keeps asking me to play games with him and I keep refusing despite the massive guilt trips. Yep. Same scene. Not a bad scene.

Yesterday

One change in this year's agenda was that I got to see my husband's grandmother from Iowa, who is visiting. That was a treat. She's a phenomenal person. She still handwrites letters, writing things as simple as: "It's 5 a.m. and there's still frost on the ground. The brown squirrel has been searching for nuts, but has given up for the morning. It might snow tomorrow. Made a batch of snickerdoodles and thought I'd send some to you. Made a pie too, from some cherries Wendi and I bought at the Barnes store, but pie wouldn't ship well, now would it?" I adore her.

5 snacks I enjoy

1) Popcorn (not microwave popcorn)
2) Wint-o-Green Lifesavers
3) Rolds-Gold Pretzels
4) Swedish Fish
5) Cheese and fruit - all kinds, even if I can't pronounce it - either the fruit or the cheese. I'll take jams, jellies, compotes, crackers and fancy breads too

5 books I like

1) My big, old dictionary that my husband rescued from being recycled or trashed (sacrilege!)
2) The Stand, Stephen King
3) Drawing from the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards
4) Any fairytale or mythology book from any country, especially by Andrew Lang, Ruth Manning Sanders, the Brothers Grimm and subsequent updates by Neil Gaiman, or any books with gorgeous illustrations, plus Roald Dahl
5) J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books (this feels like a cop out, but I did love them. there are many, many other books I have loved. I have a rather large library)

What I'd do with 100 million dollars

1) Pay off all my debt.
2) Finish doing all the stuff to my house and yard that I want to get done.
3) Get a new car. Probably a Mini Cooper. My 1999 Toyota 4-Runner has over 100,000 miles and is great here in snow country, but the CD player died about a month ago. That won't do.
4) Set up some sort of investment to live comfortably on and possibly generate some extra money to continually....
5) Give the rest to various charities and environmental concerns, local farmers, small business loans to developing nations, etc.

.....because $100 million won't be enough, but maybe in perpetuity I can do some good. But a girl's gotta live.

5 places I'd love to run away to

1) My Dream House (of course!)
2) Emilia-Romagna, Italy
3) Provence, France
4) Fiji - why not? Actually, I'd probably rather go some place in Asia or maybe back to Turkey. But not permanently.
5) Someplace beautiful I've never seen, but I'll know it when I see it. It's there. I know it. I need to travel more.

5 bad habits and pet peeves I have

1) Pet peeve: bullies
2) Pet peeve: people who write the word "then" when they should be using "than"
3) Pet peeve and bad habit: people who interrupt/interrupting people.
3.5)Pet peeve: being poked to get my attention
4) Bad habit: staying up too late and sleeping too late
5) Bad habit: picking at scabs

5 things I like doing

1) Writing, reading, learning
2) Drawing and painting
3) Cooking and gardening
4) Torturing my son
5) Just being

5 things I would never wear

1) Lilly Pulitzer clothes
2) Fur
3) Birkenstocks or Tevas
4) A blouse with a big bow at the neck
5) A t-shirt with hateful images or sayings

5 TV shows I like

1) Buffy the Vampire Slayer
2) Burn Notice
3) House
4) Angel
5) Dexter

5 movies I like

1) Moulin Rouge
2) Gladiator
3) Heathers
4) Jaws
5) Casablanca (anything with Bogie)

5 famous people I'd like to meet

1) Freddie Mercury
2) Joss Whedon
3) Angelina Jolie
4) Queen Elizabeth I
5) Jesus (and not because I am a believer, but, man, am I ever curious)

5 People I'd like to see fill this out

1) Confessions of a Serenephobic
2) Mantramine
3) Pat of Child Lost
4) Slutty McWhore
5) Syd of I'm Just F.I.N.E.

I Swear It Wasn't Because of a Baule Fetish

I've never been one for small talk. When I was a youngun, my best manner of survival was being as quiet and unseen as possible. So, while my interior world was usually quite busy, it was rare for it to crack my exterior.

When I drank, of course, there was leakage. I became more likely to share what was happening in my head. I don't know if this was to the horror or delight of my companions or anyone within 20 feet of my viscinity, but in general I don't think it was a bad thing. I was a congenial drunk, cheerful, very smiley and a bit of a smart ass. I think. At least that's how I remember it.

My therapy session have been more and more of a strain for me because I don't really have anything to bring up for discussion. In my mind, therapy is for, well, problems. Since I don't feel any particular angsty things I need to talk about, I am left wanting to ask my doc about his personal life. Which of course isn't appropriate. Well, I do ask in the most polite of manners and he'll small talk and it's all so... dry and dull.

Today he brought up that maybe we could talk about why it is so painful for me to just talk about how I am if nothing is happening. Now, you tell me, but this seems sort of stupid to me.

Yet at the same time, I get this weird niggling feeling, like I get when I read posts like the one Slutty McWhore wrote the other day about an intense meeting with a stranger. I get this feeling that I have all these plate tectonics moving around in the lava under my skin, ready to erupt, but it just isn't coming out at the surface. And for some reason, that mask of steel I've got on my outside still isn't budging. But I feel fine. I really do. But I can't say I feel connected to anyone else.

Does any of this make sense?

I think that I am still in a place where I am not able to relate to other people well at all. The only way that I ever feel truly connected to others is when I write. And I don't just mean blogging, I mean when I write fiction, I feel closer to human beings, when I am relating to made up characters. I wonder if there is something inherently mental about that. Because I also know whenever I try to make a character similar to me, she is the singularly most boring character on the planet. And she has absolutely nothing to say.

Much like me in my therapy sessions.

It's almost like there is a part of me that thinks the world is interesting, what I observe in the world is interesting, but I, alone, am not enough to hold interest.

Swell.

I started this post because I was on the hunt for a chair for my new office. I'd bought one, but it is too short for my desk. I'd done a search on eBay for "cane chairs" because I was liking some French chairs that featured caning in the backs. Inexplicably, the search turned up this Fine African Art Senufo Zoomorphic Stool pictured (you can click on the link to see the listing on Ebay). Some of the description mentions some yadda yadda about baule fetishes and somesuch, but I don't see the word cane or chair. I sort of like the critter, but I don't think it's a suitable desk chair. A little out of my budget too, at $2,350.

I decided to post because absurdities make my day. I don't know why something like this, finding a piece of African Art while I was looking for a French chair, tickles my fancy so much, but it is part of what I love about life. And one of the things I genuinely like about myself. Maybe just the brief thought of me sitting on that bugger, too low to see the computer screen, typing away whilst trying to look serious gives me the giggles. I'm never too old to giggle.

That's my small talk for today.

Can I Have Pasta Instead of Bacon?

"I had rather be shut up in a very modest cottage, with my books, my family, and a few old friends, dining on simple bacon, and letting the world roll on as it liked, than to occupy the most splendid post, which any human power can give."

~Thomas Jefferson, letter of February 1788

We are finally going to spend our first night in the new house. We now have cable and internet and have deemed the place habitable. I'm sure that is what Jefferson had in mind when he spoke of the simple life at home. After all, he certainly would not have done without his pen and paper and books were quite pricey back in the day. His idea of roughing it was probably on par with mine.

Salute to the Cosmos

Of the single digit sort. I should know better than to underestimate the Cosmos.

The house closing will not be happening tomorrow. The engineer who needed to write some silly memo about the percentage of artificial lighting required in each room was on vacation last week and wasn't able to submit his memo in time for the inspector to review it for his inspection on Monday as scheduled. Would you like to know what this memo consists of? Glad you asked. Basically, the engineer is going to take the number of canned lights we actually have in the ceiling of each room and use that to calculate the percentage of light required for each room. Then the inspector will come back and count the number of lights to be sure we have the number of lights that the engineer put in the memo that he freaking based his calculations on.

Don't get me started on the window in my son's bathroom which is a half an inch too low by code standards. It's in the shower stall and is about 5 feet off the ground, give or take. The alleged danger is that someone could slip in the shower and fall out the window. The likelihood he or any other human will fly up and out of said window is about as likely as the house dropping down and ejecting him out. We missed the half inch because the cast iron tub edge was raised slightly higher than we expected.

Argh. In theory, these building codes are to protect us, the homebuyers, from unethical builders and bad construction practices. However, these zealots with excess power and too much time on their hands...

Alright. I can live. We did order new mattresses and found a great sofa. It'll be fine. It'll be home sweet home and one new household catastrophe to fix after another before I know it.

On the upside, I've come up with my story submission idea for this summer's workshop (the workshop being the New York State Summer Writer's Institute). For those of you not with me last summer, part of the deal with the workshop is to work on a piece of writing. I'm going to go for an intermediate class this go around (this crazy risk-taker, me). I've been lackadaisically working on a novel idea for about a decade about a young woman who inherits a bed and breakfast in a middle of nowhere town in Iowa. She's a northeastern city gal with a wreckage of a past looking to escape, but doesn't exactly fit in. Another character is an older dude who is hiking is way across the U.S. and decides to stay in this nowhere town for a bit and befriends the girl (sound like anyone, David?). There's other stuff going on, some small town mystery type things, but it's mostly a character study about finding camraderie, trust and home in strange places.

I've been kicking this around a long time and have written various parts. I figure it's time to get formal about it. I would think that after last year's positive experience my fear of writing without alcohol would have subsided more than it has, but it still hovers over me, like a nasty cloud threatening a downpour.

So, maybe I ought to sit on my hands rather than give mean-spirited salutes to the Cosmos for foiling my home closing. Or even better: get my fingers typing.

Tunnel Vision

It looks like we have the closing of our house scheduled on Wednesday afternoon. Knock on wood. We have to pass inspection tomorrow.

Everyone cross fingers for me. The inspector is a bit of a (ahem) stickler.

Meanwhile, I found out I don't qualify for the writing scholarship because I am not a full time student in a writing program. Oh well. I still need to get off my bum and apply for the summer program regardless of whether I pay for it or not.

My therapist and I decided it was time to cut back therapy to once a week. I'm thrilled, but feel a bit like I did when I first left rehab: ready but a little wobbly on my feet. I told him it felt like he and I have more of a regular parent/child relationship that I never had with my own parents. That I want to break free and be on my own, but a part of me wants to stay in the safety of a loving parent too.

Lately I feel like such a cheeseball because all I can do is grin. I probably ought not admit that. Isn't that when the Cosmos punishes you for your good fortune?

Or maybe it's just time for me to sabotage myself. E-mail the old Ass Clown or do some other self-destructive ill-advised thing. How about I don't do that? Making things harder on myself's an old bad habit I could do without.

I hope you listen to this song from the late 80s, Dream Kitchen by the Brit group Frazier Chorus. I couldn't find a single upload of it online and only a scant few references, so I uploaded it myself. Can't even Google the lyrics as far as I can tell. It's a gem, imho, and especially appropriate for today's post.

Author! Author!

I got an email today from that summer writing program I was in last year telling my that my teacher had nominated me for a scholarship. The catch is I have to get off my ass and apply with some sample work before March 15.

Uh, I don't have anything remotely close to entry-ready. But it sure would be nice to not have to pay tuition for the workshop this summer.

If I were one to look for God Signs in things, I'd say:

This Is One.

The World We Live In

Just a quick update on my nieces: my ex-brother-inlaw unexpectedly agreed to the change in jurisdiction for the custody hearing from Kentucky (where he lives) to Massachusetts (where my sister and the kids primarily live) and also to the Guardian ad Litem being put in place for the girls. He also agreed to the guardian of my sister (and, it should be said, my parents') choice, which is a woman and a psychiatrist and from what I hear, quite expensive.

So, all of these things were approved in court, which is very good for the children and my sister's lawyer says is in my sister's favor. Personally, I am rooting for the kids, whatever that ends up meaning. My therapist says these Guardian programs usually are quite effective at looking out for the needs of the children. I am praying this will be the case here.

Thank you to all who left comments and made kind thoughts and prayers for these little girls. They are sweethearts caught up in the middle of a clash they should be being protected from.

On another note, I feel like I have a bunch of huge blog posts inside me, but not the time to flesh them out. However, I would like to direct people to Slutty McWhore's blog (formerly The Judgemental Whore, which I was kind of partial to, but she can be Slutty if she wants). Part of what's been going through my own head lately is what is feminism. In part, I've been trying to come to grips about what it is to be a woman, which is partly tied in to my romantic and sexual needs and how it relates to my marriage and even how it related to my failed friendship and the politics of my relationship with my parents. I shied away from my feminine side for most of my life, and I am trying to understand this better also within the context of society.

For those of you who have not met Slutty, she is a Scottish woman living in the US working on getting her master's degree and supporting herself as a erotic masseuse. She is a wonderful writer and quite outspoken, and I consider her a strong feminist voice, maybe not because of or despite of her job. Frankly, I haven't decided which. Maybe I just think she breaks the mould. And, perhaps, maybe that's what I think feminism should be about.

Disgruntled Patron of the Arts or Malingering Lollygagger

I'm struggling for a title for today's blog. The problem is (amongst a myriad of many), I want to write and nothing is coming. I've got an overall peevish feeling, although I can't put my finger on why.

One sign that all is not quite well is that I want to shop as a distraction. There's an artist, Edouard Martinet, whose sculptures I stumbled upon in November who takes commonplace items and fits them together into a menagerie of creatures. If you look closely (please do click on them for larger views) at these assembled structures, they will blow your mind - or they did mine. Allegedly no welding is involved in the creation of these transformed every day gadgets, whozits and flotsam. I can see a sink drain, a fingernail clipper and a small fry pan, just for starters in these pics.

I had visited his website edouardmartinet.com last year, but the past few days it's been coming up a big blank on my computer. Probably a good thing since I have a major urge to buy or commission one of these masterpieces that I have an inkling that are a wee bit out of my price range.

What I really ought to be doing with my time, instead of hunting in Craig's lists for Martinet junque insects, is figuring out why the sudden burning obsession to spend money on something fantastical.

Argh. Recovery work. A growth opportunity. Yuck.

The fact that my son is turning 13 in less than a week couldn't have anything to do with it. I'm way too young to be the mommy of a teenager.

Low Tide

My sponsor sometimes gets in funks that she terms "low tide." She describes her state of mind as the water being out at sea and all the little bits of crap are laying exposed on the sea bed out for anyone to see. I rather like this analogy. It also is how I have been feeling the past several days.

I've been working on some writing, although it has been clumsy and unfocused. It still feels good to put words on paper, but the effort hasn't been terribly cohesive. I fear I've been a bit of a couch potato and in need of exercise. Lethargy and general disinterest in doing anything that involves getting out of bed or my favorite chair weigh down my day.

I have to thank Scout for tagging me for a meme that involves gratitude from things learned in recovery. (My twin sister, I will get on it. How did you know I needed this? Oh, nevermind ;) I love you to pieces.) I will need to meditate on it, but I seriously need to focus my inert ass on something positive. My spirituality is definitely flagging. I don't want to drink, but I don't feel like the most sober person around these days.

So, I'll get busy on my homework and hope that it changes my attitude for the better. I really like Thanksgiving as a holiday, so I ought to exploit that for everything I can.

Although, all my favorite foods at dinner won't exactly get me on track with an exercise plan, but, eh, gotta start somewhere and I am not going to pass on the chestnuts, cranberry sauce or pumpkin pie.

First Hand Vivification

In thinking about how to encourage my son's endeavors in school, I realized that my own inner fires are in need of tending. I should thank my walking buddy for the reminder. I think I've been straying and a little bit low on fuel these days.

My mom e-mailed me the other day because my grandmother, her mother, has some health issues that need to be checked out. My grandparents are in their 80s and naturally have medical things going on, but I always feel like my parents use some of these as an emotional whip to manipulate. However, for some reason I feel pretty ok with how my mother presented this news this time. I really think I've passed a hurdle with her and she and I are doing alright.

But even as I am getting comfortable with my role with my mother, as kind of a paper doll daughter, I am still too caught up in trying to find my "proper" place among everyone else. This is where I always get stumped and unhappy: when I try to fit what I think people want from me rather than what will fit me best.

I don't know why I always default back to that position, but it's probably because it is what I was taught and the easiest way to survive. I'm getting closer to where I want to be, but my passion is lacking. I'm still holding myself back. I don't know why or from what. I wonder if this is what I am afraid of - the full realization of who I am.

A friend of mine in AA back in NJ described me once as simmering. I think this is an apt description and still true. But I feel stymied about how to move from that slow boil to a real burn. And how to I manage a beautiful, steady flame and not just explode and supernova out?