peanut butter and cigarettes

I'm gonna let it shine.

2011-07-03T16:05:00.000-07:00

I had a dream a few days ago. It was a doozy. All layered and vivid and filled with stuff my unconscious self apparently wants me to deal with. Including my fear of writing.

Ghandi once said that it was our light we were afraid of, not our inadequacy. What I'm discovering is that the light I shine tends to hurt people's eyes and they just want me to shut down. And so I did. But I'm getting tired of hiding within my own life.

It only took one person to tell me that I was acting ungrateful, ugly and spoiled to shut me down. It only took one person to tell me that what I was writing was hurting her feelings to stop me from heading to the keys for my own comfort. I have trouble letting others take responsibility for their own feelings and assume that I actually do have that much power.

I hold these fantasies that, someday, after this or that person is gone, I will be able to come out of hiding. I can tell my stories. I can share myself fully. I won't have to edit myself or maintain a facade that makes others comfortable. My life feels as though it is on pause until then. Which is the definition of enmeshment. Murray Bowen would have a field day with me.

It feels important that I begin here, again. Start the process again. Just sit here in this expressive space and just sit, if that's what I need to do again. Epilepsy and critical family members found my blind spot and sent me to the sidelines for quite a while. I'm limping back.

Patsy Cline on the Rocks, Please.

2010-05-10T19:19:00.000-07:00

I’m about to lose my head. I’ve figured out that the only way to manage is to start drinking. Heavily. I really need a long island iced tea, like, immediately.

I’ve developed a seizure disorder known commonly as epilepsy but less commonly as partial complex seizures with generalized seizures. It sounds pretty bad, and I suppose it is, but after watching my mom go through a life-threatening diagnosis of brain tumor, I am happy to learn that it’s just epilepsy. Treatable with meds, which I’ll start eventually, my diagnosis and I will go on to live a happy, healthy life. That is, if I can keep my driver’s license.

However my brain, as it is now, is still having all kinds of epileptic fits leaving me all fuzzy headed and dizzy. It’s as if I’m walking around underwater, all slow motion and blurry-eyed while everyone else is moving at life’s normal pace. The chronic fatigue and lack of energy has earned me the name “Narcolepsy” with my closer friends. As I type, I find myself wishing I could just curl up on the couch and drift away.

But I can’t.

Jack.

I’m still a mother. A mother who has a very energetic 3 ½ year old who, just this moment, came screaming into the room yelling “Kitty!” and jumped onto my head. And since I accidentally burned down my parent’s house recently, we’re living in a hotel without the usual grandparents and 2 acres of land to keep him occupied.

His toddler pace and my old lady pace are already unevenly matched, but this is getting ridiculous. I have absolutely zero interest in playing tag or going for a bike ride or role-playing Monsters Inc., and so I have come to refer to the TV as his nanny. Even making meals feels next to impossible. He and I have both survived on goldfish crackers and string cheese for the past few weeks. I’m lucky if he gets a vegetable or fruit in his body at any point in the day.

Fast-paced anything makes me dizzy and nauseated. It's almost like I'm drunk but without the fun lack-of-inhibitions and karaoke music. Most days, I have these strange moments where my entire left side goes numb and I sorta go away to a dream-like place in consciousness for about 20 or 30 seconds. I smell smoke when no one else does and usually this hallucinatory campfire gets so strong that it brings along it's friend Gnarly Headache and Vomiting.

After a long, nauseating day at work (nauseating because the seizures make me feel like I’m standing on a boat all day) I picked up Jack from day care and he proceeded to scream about a lost robot he wanted me to find. I found myself singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” as a coping device to drown out the child-abuse-inducing fit behind me. It worked and he’s bruise free and I’m still allowed to be within 100 feet of him without a monitor.

We’re doing alright. Everything will be okay. Everything is okay. I mean, in the midst of the house-fire and the moving into hotels and the EEG’s and the overdrawn bank accounts due to having worked only 3 out of 5 days a week since March, Jack is now potty trained. And obviously I’m writing again. I’ve even found a way to quit smoking.

I'm really happy to finally have a diagnosis that explains all of these crazy symptoms I've had and that justifies all of the help I've needed from friends and family. It's a life changing diagnosis, not a life threatening one. And so I suppose some days I’ll have to make it okay that the closest thing he has to a functional parent is Dora the Explorer. And I might need to learn a few more Patsy Cline songs to get me through the harder times, although singing the lyric, “…and I’m crazy for loving you…” feels really good to sing when I’m especially frustrated. In the meantime, I’m accepting meals and free babysitting services. Signup sheet is on the door. Best Western Hotel, Room 100.

Life in Reverse.

2009-11-13T21:59:00.000-08:00

I was a really odd teenager. I was terrified of drugs and alcohol. I was horrified at the idea of my parents being upset with me. I was even more worried about God not liking me and so the naughtiest thing I ever did was let my boyfriend touch my boobs under a houseboat on a family vacation to Lake Mead. And boy, did I feel awful about that. A good few weeks of repentant prayer, I'll tell you what.

I was really, really responsible. I studied hard and late into the night. I was in honors courses and took AP English. I was in the student body government for 3 out of the 4 years in high school. I took my job as a Christian very, very seriously and went through devotional books like it was some sort of spiritual porn. I prayed for those who didn't know the Lord, and I prayed for my friend, Amber Rady, who I found out had recently starting smoking cigarettes and who smelled like them after senior lunch last week. I prayed that I would always be focused on God, that I would honor him, that I would continue to grow closer and closer to him.

College wasn't much different. It didn't take long for me to become involved in the student ministries at my school and to be singing with the worship band in chapel. My 21st birthday went by without so much as getting tipsy and I created an accountability group to help rein in my crazy impulses to get naked with my boyfriend. When I walked across that stage and moved the tassel from one side to the other I had never been drunk, never had sex, never watched a porno, never smoked a cigarette, never smoked a joint, and never hung out with someone who was not a Christian. And I had never, ever, believed that it was okay to think for myself.

At 21 years old, I moved into a residential treatment facility for children who were victims of abuse and neglect to work as a houseparent. In short, I spent three years being a full-time mom to 10 boys who were in institutionalized foster care. At the age of 24, I became a licensed foster parent to raise one of these kids who I felt very connected to and whom I loved very deeply. My boyfriend and his two toddlers moved into my first apartment with my foster son and me and- literally overnight- I had become a wife and mother of three. By the age of 25, I had my first panic attack.

The weight of the responsibilities that I had borne were so overwhelming that I drove to a bar at one a.m. and drank 5 shots in a row, just before closing. When I called my boyfriend, I had no idea where I was. What I did know was that I felt like a little girl trying to take care of everyone around her. I was buckling.

The term "over-responsible" was new to me when I read about it in my graduate school studies a few years later. When I saw the word, it was as if it leaped off of the page and stamped itself on my forehead. I knew exactly what it meant. I knew without having to read about it that I would be defined in the sentences that followed afterword. And I knew immediately how it had set itself up in my consciousness.

My dad was a speaker and a writer for youth ministers around the world. He's kinda famous in the whole Christian subculture of America. As a kid and as a teenager, I spent a great deal of time at youth ministry seminars and conventions, surrounded by youth pastors and people like Tony Campolo, Duffy Robbins, Rich Van Pelt, and Mike Yaconelli. It was not uncommon for me to go to conventions like DC/LA or CHIC and have a staff pass so I could eat lunch with the guys from Jars of Clay or The Newsboys, or to have reserved seats with my name on them for the front row. Being my dad's daughter literally gave me a back-stage pass to the world of adults who make a living shaping teenagers into good Christian adults, and I found out really quick that I was hugely rewarded if I showed up as this uber responsible, well spoken, overly-devout, highly moral and on-fire-for-the-Lord teenager. These guys couldn't get enough of it! They would stroke me with compliments to my "maturity" and to my "heart for the Lord." They would soon realize that I was not like most teenagers who only care about sex and getting high and being angsty and hormonal.... no, I was one of them. I was this strange but amazing anomoly in the world of American teens. I was an adult in a teenager's body, not prone to the desires of the flesh but who's eyes were on the prize.

Now I know that the prize I was always seeking was approval from these men and women who were the leaders and celebrities of my culture. And I am also sadly aware that their attention and approval were filling in the space that was laid vacant by the perception that my own father did not see me or acknowledge me. To be seen and to be known, to be stroked and praised, to be acknowledged and recognized by these icons was an addictive salve for the wounded one inside. And so I became who they wanted me to be. I became the miniature adult, shirking the things of youth and vanity and play. I took in the sick and the wounded and the poor. I did mission trips and service projects and made it a point to sit next to the nerds and the weirdos at lunch, even if it meant social suicide. Jesus would have done it. Duffy definitely would have. The devotional I read last night said that I should.

In other words, I didn't have an adolescence. I didn't take any risky behaviors. I didn't experiment with drugs or multiple identities. I didn't get angry at my parents and tell them they didn't understand. I didn't become brooding and hormonal and lock mself away in my bedroom. In fact, I distanced myself away from all things adolescent and held a view of these behaviors as somehow weak, immature, and to be conquered. I didn't belong out there in the audience with the rest of the teenagers. I belonged backstage, here with the adults who were conspiring to wipe out the nasty adolescent bug that lurked in the hearts of the youth of America.

The effect is that I've lived life in reverse. I was a foster mother to teenagers in my early twenties, a stepmother to toddler/schoolaged girls in my midtwenties, and had a baby in my late twenties. And now, in my early 30's, I am finally doing the adolescence that I never had. Its a bit awkward, doing 17 at age 33, but as any psychology 101 student knows... one must complete and master each one of life's age stages. If not now, then you'll have to do it later.

I believe that this dynamic would be happening for me even if I didn't live with my parents in my childhood home, but the fact that I am living here makes everything just oh-so-much-more authentic. Like the fact that my parents walked in on me and a boy. Like how I just want them to leave me alone and pretend I don't exist. Like how I spend as much time as possible now locked inside my bedroom, listening to my music and watching my shows. Like how I hate that they want to know where I've been and where I'm going. Like how everything about them can drive me absolutely fucking nuts, like the way their breathing sounds or the way they scrape their fork across the plate. I want to sneak out every night. I want to punish them with a bad mood.

I find myself daydreaming and fantasizing about the day I can move out and be on my own, as if I didn't do that for 10+ years already. But to me, its as if I have traveled back in time to the Amber at 17 who drove away for college and never really came back until now. My relationship with my parent's didn't age even though I aged. I left at 17 and I am now back at 17, but this time feeling like the annoying, angsty, sex-crazed, wanna-get-high teenager in the audience who is just here to check out the boys.

My parents don't know what to think of me. I think they're worried. They see me taking risks and dating 22 year old boys and getting into trouble and having a bad attitude and they want to know what happened to their responsible, God-fearing daughter. I'm finally doing 17, that's what. Oddly, doing 17 at 33 makes sense to me. I think it actually makes more sense to do 17 at age 33. I can get into bars. I have a job and money. I have a car and can pass as an adult if I need to. But they won't understand that. Parents just don't understand.

Community, Intentional or Not.

2009-06-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't written much in a long time. I've been busy doing a lot of other stuff, mostly nothing, but nothing usually keeps me pretty busy. I did some other stuff too, like dated a guy for a minute and went to work on time a few days here and there and, oh- I ran a 10K. That was pretty legit. So, you see, I've been busy.

Mostly I just haven't been in the mood to write. I'm a fickle blogger. A ficklogger. A flogger. A blockle. Whatever.

But today I want to write some thoughts on community. I'm a fan of community. In fact, after I finish writing this I'm gonna go officially become a fan of community on facebook. I grew up in a strong, loving, motley crew-funky bunch, church community as a child. These people loved me and the loved each other and they were messy and weird and broken and wacky and brilliant and talented and odd and creative and committed to each other and to the thing that brought them together that was the church. They came to my homecoming coronation and to my school plays. I went to their children's piano recitals. We went to pool parties and church retreats and potluck dinners and weddings and Fourth of July fireworks together. In the days before cell phones, they were who I called when my mom was not at home and I was in the school nurse's office with a 103 fever. These people were family. Old home movies prove it.

I felt like I mattered to these people. And I felt useful. Being one of two teenagers in the church, I was the valued child care staff/nursery worker. I knew I had a role. I also felt like the things of my life were important to them, like when they announced in the service that I had been elected Junior class president. They knew who my boyfriend was and when I got a new dress and when I decided to change my hairstyle. They noticed me.

Years of social work have formed in me the opinion that we are all literally dying of lonliness. We live in these separate existences, in these separate homes, in these separate lives, not connected, not knowing our neighbors, not wanting to be seen or heard or known or touched by those around us. We go from work in our cubicles to home in our apartments, careful to not raise the volume too loud on our TV's lest we become aware of the other that lives a drywall sheet away from us. We wear our ear buds and avoid eye contact and mumble polite hello's to our coworkers in the kitchen as we heat up our leftovers. And we wonder why the hell we are all so fucking depressed.

I started investigating this idea of living such independent, isolated lives and realized that this is a strictly American, late-20th century lifestlye. Up until the last few generations, everyone lived in community. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, random friends and loved ones all lived in the home together. Before this, whole tribes lived in community and everyone was valuable and had a role. If you ran fast, you became a hunter. If you liked babies, you took care of babies. If you had a knack for cooking or growing stuff or figuring out what herbs cured things you became the cook or the gardener or the witchdoctor for the tribe. Births were celebrated because it meant another valuable hunter or warrior or gardener. From the moment you were born you brought distinct value to the tribe.

A great deal of the depression and anxiety that I see as a therapist comes from feeling separate or unsupported or alone or unloved. We don't feel connected. We don't feel like we matter. We don't know how to experience intimacy with ourselves or with others. Some of the kids I work with have no other conversations with an adult all week long until they come to see me. Their parents are busy working 2 jobs each to support the lifestyle that they live or are too depressed and undersupported themselves to be present with their children.

I started looking into what is now called Intentional Community several years ago. Turns out there are other people who siing the praises of community like I do and have banded together to form their own communes. Some are religious and some are not. Some are formed around the ideals of sustainable and organic living, some are not. Some live in communal homes while others live in seperate homes and share communal yards and pools and playgrounds. My friends caught wind of my commune intentions and said I should start my own, which we would call The Radish Commune where we would all grow our own vegetables and grow our armpit hair and take showers once a month.

The Radish Commune never came to fruition, so I moved home a year ago because I could not live alone. I was working two jobs to support my family and I had become a stressed out, maniacal woman. I was angry and sleep deprived and so stressed out that I could not enjoy the 900$ 2-bedroom apartment I was living in that was what my second job was paying for. I was hating my life, hating my son, hating my job, hating my neighbors, hating myself, hating the "rat race" that I had chosen but felt victim to. In a moment of clarity, I quit my second job and moved home so that I could live and breathe again.

Now, I will not lie and tell you that I love everything about living with my parents. There are obvious drawbacks, some of which have made me wonder how I can somehow earn an extra grand a month so I can get the fuck out of here. In fact, I spent the better part of the last year dying to move out again. However, I think I may have unintentionally created the commune that I was looking for. This community of me, my son, my mother and my father is a lumpy bumpy crew. We don't like eachother a lot of the time. In fact, we really drive each other all crazy. Jack writes on my mom's walls. My dad is just socially awkward. My mom listens to the TV so loud that I can hear it down by the pool. And I am the messiest person in the world and leave my shit everywhere.

But.

Jack has three playmates instead of one. I have dinner cooked for me every night. Mom has her own personal kitchen cleaner upper. Dad has someone to play baseball with in the backyard. Jack has two other laps to snuggle into when his mommy is mad at him. My mom has someone to vent to about her annoying coworker. Dad has a buddy to keep him company at the lawnmower every Saturday morning. I have built in babysitters for almost any night of the week. Jack and I also get a HUGE house with a HUGE yard with a pool and a sandbox and a big driveway for bikes and a swingset and a garden and treefort. Jack can actually go outside and play, whereas most kids I know have no outside and so they stay inside and play videogames all day. Why would I trade this for an apartment with a yard that can barely fit a platic kiddy pool? Because my mom fusses at me for not getting enough sleep? Because my dad makes bacon every morning that smells up the whole house? Because I can't have boys over? Because it FORCES us to be in relationship and to work through shit that we haven't had to work through sinceI moved out at 17?

Well, yeah. That's a big one. But that's the stuff of community. We are forced to deal with one another. We are forced to live with eachother, even though it's uncomfortable. But there's comfort in that. They know I'm annoying. They know I'm messy. They know I have a certain set of values that are vastly different than theirs. This has created conflict - which we've had to WORK THROUGH. And it's been ugly and uncomfortable and has made me want to move away from it all on more than one occasion. But somehow I find it comforting. It's the real life stuff of unconditional love.

Tonight my friends all came over and cooked burgers that we topped with bacon and guacamole and grilled onions and cheese. My dad played with the kids while my mom and my girlfriends made the food. I (of course) was mixing margaritas. The dads sat chatting and rocking babies. I realized that The Radish Commune had come to life, here, at my childhood home except that it's more like The Guacamole Bacon Cheeseburger Commune, which I would much rather be a member of anyways.

It's not cool to tell people I live with my parents. But it works for me. It allows me to breathe and slow down and actually enjoy my community. It allows me to feel supported and held and contained. It allows me to give my son a yard and a open sky and a tree fort and solitude that comes from being able to get space away from his mom if he wants it. Is it easy? No. Does it make me miss solitude and personal space like CRAZY? Yes. Does it force me to stretch into giving and receiving unconditional love like I never thought I was capable of? Yes. Does it make me have to grow up and be an adult around my parents? You bet. Was it awkward when my parents came home when they were supposed to be away and found my having sex on the living room floor? Umm... yeah. Would I want any of this to be different? Not right now.

It's worth the 22 minutes.

2009-05-18T20:27:00.000-07:00

FREEDOM TO CHOOSE WINS
AT THE AMERICAN PAVILION EMERGING FILMMAKERS SHOWCASE AT THE 2009 CANNES FILM FESTIVAL

I'm so proud of my classmates and professors who made this film- and the healing experience at the womens' prison- possible. Congrats on your win!

"This uplifting film chronicles the extraordinary triumph of the human Spirit. Freedom to Choose shares the story of 46 graduate volunteers from USM's Master's Program in Spiritual Psychology and 160 inmates at Valley State Prison for Women who came together for a radical experiment that would change them all -- forever."

Freedom to Choose short form from University of Santa Monica on Vimeo.

Whining is my kryptonite.

2009-01-14T09:38:00.000-08:00

Jack just might be the most valuable asset to the United States Department of Defense, but they don't know it. He might just be able to solve the whole Middle Eastern crisis if the US military would just tap into his innate skill as a torture device. Waterboarding? Bah! Who needs waterboarding? We've got Jack Rice! Ten minutes left alone in a room with him whining about milk or Thomas or juice or the sandbox will send anyone, ANYONE to give up even the most important of national secrets.

The first thing I hear every morning is his whining. He wakes up grumpy and fussy and crying and goes to bed doing the same thing. He doesn’t know how to ask for anything without whining for it and it is driving me CRAZY. I want to grab a roll of duct tape and wrap it around his mouth and not take it off until he’s five and can ask for things in full sentences.

I totally understand that he is just doing what he knows how to do. I know that I should ignore the whining and tell him to ask for things in a nice voice. And I do. About 47 times a day. And I begin to lose my patience with it at about time 16. It’s getting really old. Really, really old. Lately all I can think about is taking a vacation to a land where toddlers don’t exist.

Most of the time, including right now, I feel pretty lame about how little patience and tolerance I have for the stuff of motherhood. I have to bite my tongue, every morning, when he refuses to get dressed and all I want to do is throw my own little tantrum. I have to force myself to remain level when he stands at my legs begging, up up up, after I’ve just stepped out of the shower. Never mind the fact that he stood at the door of the shower crying for me the entire time I was in the shower. Or that he opened the bathroom door and now my mom, dad, and their guests now know every curve, roll, and dimple on my body.

It feels as though his level of need for me is beyond what I can give. And I am starting to resent him. I know that his whining and needing and clinging and fussing is his way of letting me know that I am not present enough with him but the truth is… I’m not. I don’t want to be. I want to get as far away as possible from that black hole of need and not-enoughness. It is exhausting. It is so draining. And so I sort of stiff arm him, energetically, and he goes insane with fear and abandonment.

It hasn’t helped that he’s been sick for two weeks which just amplifies all of the icky stuff like the whininess, lack of sleep, and generally fussy mood, and leaves very little room for fun. I need to have fun with my son again. I want to enjoy being a mom with him instead of feeling like its all chore, work, and annoyance. I want to share a moment with him where we’re both surprised and delighted and enjoying the company of one another. I don’t expect every day to feel this way and I certainly don’t expect to like everything about being a parent. But I am ready to like him again. And like me around him.

Moms? Dads? Tell me you’ve been here and tell me what you did to get out.

I'm sorry, but this just makes me giggle.

2009-01-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

Indulging myself.

2008-12-12T00:10:00.000-08:00

I'm feeling like connecting with you, my huge readership, but not feeling like writing anything poignant. Usually I like to have a point, but right now I just want to be a pretentious blogger who thinks that you, my huge readership, wants to be updated on my life. So, indulge me. It'll fuel my ego.

1. My TV has made it's way out of the hallway closet and back into my bedroom. I'd really like to be one of those people who thinks that mindless activities are useless and embraces life with such fervor that they refuse to waste time in front of the boob tube. But I'm more of a think-Real-Housewives-of-Atlanta-is-ridiculously-good-TV kind of person.

2. I am really freaked out by being back in touch with old high school acquaintances and friends on Facebook. In fact, I have had to found myself wanting to censor what I would normally write on here because I am afraid that these high school people will find their way here from Facebook. Christian High School creates a certain type of person and I was one of them for many years. And I know what I thought then about people like me now. (see number 3)

3. I have been getting a lot of booty lately. Like, a lot. My libido has returned with some kind of force similar to that of Hurricane Katrina. I went on a three year hiatus after Jack was conceived, and when I say hiatus I mean Sahara Desert. No interest. None. Zilcho. Howevah... four guys in one week may indicate the winds have changed.

4. I have lost over 30 pounds since August 1. Which is awesome. I'm hoping to have a super svelte body by this time next year. And run a marathon. And have a nice relationship with my body instead of a mean, abusive one.

5. Awesome thing number 2? I quit smoking. Well, mostly. I might indulge in one while sipping on a long island every once in a while.

6. (did I really admit to having sex with four different guys in one week?)

7. I love this song and I can't explain why. However, every time I listen to it I feel sorta sad that Cher isn't the one who wrote it and performed it originally. And not because I think she would sound better or anything, but because in my mind she gets pissed (and then sad) that it is not her song.

8. I have finally decided that I am a messy person. I just CAN NOT keep a room/office/desk/house clean. I clutter things up in a matter of hours. I am tired of trying to hide it from you in fear that you will think less of me. I'm messy. There.

9. I have been harboring a grudge about the fact that I don't get the same kind of admiration, acknowledgement and benefits that military personnel get. Now, before you decide I am a total bitch, hear me out. I have been working for the county of San Diego for close to 10 years now providing mental health services to children and families. The work that my coworkers and I have done have most likely prevented many children from becoming drug addicts, criminals, from repeating the patterns of abuse on their own children, or otherwise becoming a drain on taxpayer funds and resources. Instead, what we have done is create healthy, contributing members to our community. I have two masters degrees. I make 17 dollars an hour, which is the most I have ever made in this field. It is the most I will make as (due to my extensive experience) I have reached my salary cap with the county-funded program I work for. I know I am a valuable asset to the country. And yet, I get no recognition. No housing allowance. No health benefits. No college tuition. No tax-free groceries. I am bitter, I know. But for once, I would like someone to say to me, "Thank you for your service." And then give me $1000 a month to pay the rent.

10. I am irrationally refusing to get into the whole Twilight phenomenon. I don't know why I do this. I did it with Sex and the City, too, and now I own the entire series on DVD, plus the movie. And those are the only DVD's I own. So, I know I'll eventually get off my weird issue, whatever it is, and be swooning along with the rest of the nation before long.

Right on, sista. Right on.

2008-11-07T12:27:00.000-08:00

"Okay. So Prop 8 passed. Alright, I get it. 51% of you think that I am a second class citizen. Alright then. So my wife, uh I mean, roommate? Girlfriend? Special lady friend? You are gonna have to help me here because I am not sure what to call her now. Anyways, she and I are not allowed the same right under the state constitution as any other citizen. Okay, so I am taking that to mean I do not have to pay my state taxes because I am not a full citizen. I mean that would just be wrong, to make someone pay taxes and not give them the same rights, sounds sort of like that taxation without representation thing from the history books.Okay, cool I don't mean to get too personal here but there is a lot I can do with the extra half a million dollars that I will be keeping instead of handing it over to the state of California. Oh, and I am sure Ellen will be a little excited to keep her bazillion bucks that she pays in taxes too. Wow, come to think of it, there are quite a few of us fortunate gay folks that will be having some extra cash this year. What recession? We're gay! I am sure there will be a little box on the tax forms now single, married, divorced, gay, check here if you are gay, yeah, that's not so bad. Of course all of the waiters and hairdressers and UPS workers and gym teachers and such, they won't have to pay their taxes either.Gay people are born everyday. You will never legislate that away.Oh and too bad California, I know you were looking forward to the revenue from all of those extra marriages. I guess you will have to find some other way to get out of the budget trouble you are in.…Really?When did it become okay to legislate morality? I try to envision someone reading that legislation "eliminates the right" and then clicking yes. What goes through their mind? Was it the frightening commercial where the little girl comes home and says, "Hi mom, we learned about gays in class today" and then the mother gets that awful worried look and the scary music plays? Do they not know anyone who is gay? If they do, can they look them in the face and say "I believe you do not deserve the same rights as me"? Do they think that their children will never encounter a gay person? Do they think they will never have to explain the 20% of us who are queer and living and working side by side with all the citizens of California?I got news for them, someday your child is going to come home and ask you what a gay person is. Gay people are born everyday. You will never legislate that away.I know when I grew up gay was a bad word. Homo, lezzie, faggot, dyke. Ignorance and fear ruled the day. There were so many "thems" back then. The blacks, the poor ... you know, "them". Then there was the immigrants. "Them.” Now the them is me.I tell myself to take a breath, okay take another one, one of the thems made it to the top. Obama has been elected president. This crazy fearful insanity will end soon. This great state and this great country of ours will finally come to the understanding that there is no "them". We are one. We are united. What you do to someone else you do to yourself. That "judge not, lest ye yourself be judged" are truthful words and not Christian rhetoric.Today the gay citizenry of this state will pick themselves up and dust themselves off and do what we have been doing for years. We will get back into it. We love this state, we love this country and we are not going to leave it. Even though we could be married in Mass. or Conn, Canada, Holland, Spain and South Africa, this is our home. This is where we work and play and raise our families. We will not rest until we have the full rights of any other citizen. It is that simple, no fearful vote will ever stop us, that is not the American way.Come to think of it, I should get a federal tax break too."-Melissa Etheridge

Happy Halloween... A little bit late.

2008-11-06T00:15:00.001-08:00

Motherhood Smotherhood.

2008-11-01T12:54:00.000-07:00

You all might find this totally shocking but, according to Google Analytics, one of the phrases that people enter into a search engine that eventually results in them visiting my blog is, "I hate motherhood." I have to admit that I find this to be both disturbing and awesome. It's disturbing because it forces me to realize that I really do hate motherhood. It's awesome because it means that I am not alone! Yeah!

I don't hate everything about being a mother. Take Jack. I like Jack. He's actually an incredibly cool kid. He's funny and entertaining and sweet and cuddly. He's engaging and intuitive and he laughs easily and heartily. And I like other stuff about being a mom... I like the cute stuff about it. Like making Halloween costumes and getting to peruse the toddler section at Target.

But there's just so much about it that sucks. Like never, ever, ever getting to sleep in. Ever. And holding down a second job just to be able to afford a babysitter. Or, in my case, watching each one of my friends start avoiding my calls because they know I'm calling for free babysitting. And there are these moments where I fully believe that the insides of me are going to come shooting out of my mouth in a firey blaze of rage. This feeling usually happens at about 8:45am when I'm running late to work (due to having a toddler stuck to my leg all morning), have no makeup on (due to melt down about a bug), have no food in belly (due to melt down about lost choo choos), and I'm strapping a kicking child into a car seat. RAHHHHHHHHHHH!

Motherhood and I just feel a little bit incompatible right now. I'm craving social interaction and staying out late and sleeping in until noon. I'm irritated that I can't stay over at a friend's house, have too much wine, or take a weekend road trip. I'm frustrated that I can't go running when I get home from work because that three hours of time is all we have together before his bedtime. I know it's not about Jack and I really, really make an effort to not take my own stuff out on him.

It's really weird to equally loathe and love something so much. He can, in the same moment, fill me with rage and pride, annoyance and adoration. These pictures are from this morning when he woke me up (an hour earlier than normal) and screamed and cried and whined for a good 45 minutes or so. By 7 am, I had decided that I was going to hate today. I pulled out my laptop and googled, "I hate motherhood" to see if there was anyone else out there who could share in my misery. Turns out there aren't a lot of people admitting to it. But, it was in this moment that Jack hugged me around my neck, kissed my cheek and (in the most adoring voice) said, "Mommy!"

In case you were wondering, Jack was wearing his Halloween costume here. I don't usually dress him as a sailor. And don't be jealous of my morning hair.

Kissing a lot of toads...

2008-10-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I can go through an entire week and never talk to a man. Excluding my father and the one or two gay teachers that I interact with for 10 seconds when I pick up my clients out of the classroom, I have absolutely no contact with men. Every day I wake up to my son and my parents, go to work to women and children, pick up Jack from his all-female staffed daycare, and drive back home to my parents.

The weekends might offer an opportunity to interact with a male as I usually spend the weekends playing poker or other games with my friends, some of which are men. However, all of them are married. Or related to me. So..., yeah.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not necesarily complaining. I absolutly love the women that I work with. My office is filled with fantastic, brilliant, beautiful women who I feel completely honored and lucky to work with. And, surprisingly, I really like living with my mom and dad. Usually I like my son, and my friends are all incredibly loyal, loving people who are like extended family to me. I live a charmed life and I am damn grateful for it.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I found myself flirting with a lesbian coworker and wishing we could go make out in the file room that I realized that I am missing masculinity in my life. (Or, that I might be gay, which would be the other obvious conclusion.) This need to interact with male energy was potent, so I did what every girl who needs to get her flirt on would do: CRAIGSLIST.

So, I'll preface this "bad date story" with the statement that I have actually had some really good dates in the past few weeks. It's been great to get out there and remember what men look like and remember what it feels like to to be a girl around a guy. I've even been able to play kissy face with one or two of them. So when I found an ad with the title, "Margaritas at the beach," on the same night that I had a babysitter lined up, I responded with gusto!

His name was Mike. He, too, was feeling social this particular Monday evening and wanted someone to join him at the bar. We decided to meet near his house at the beach, which was within walking distance to the bar. I knew within seconds of meeting him that this was going to be a bad date.

I wish I could pinpoint what clued me into the fact that this guy was a wackadoodle, but I really can't. Maybe it was the statement, "Amazing things happen to me every day," followed by a story filled with syncronicity and coincidence about how he happened to win a local radio station's "Stupidest Tattoo Contest" received a free trip to Vegas where he ended up on stage with Pink, or his off-handed (or, I should say attempted off-handed) comments about his "career" as an actor, or the way every statement that came out of his mouth was an attempt to elicit a reaction from the listener. As in, "Yeah, my family couldn't believe who I was in a shoot with the other day..."

The man loved to talk. THe man loved the sound of his own voice. And he loved to share "his philosophy" on things (which, by the way, were so ridiculous. Like his "philosophy" on sex which I will spare you from). And what's worse is the way he would (very poorly) feign interest in what I had to say. It's as if he was allergic to eye contact and the social skill called reciprocity. It felt as though his idea of the purpose of my talking at all was to find something in what I was saying in which he could interject his opinions on.

Mike never once asked me a question about me. He did, however, at one point say, "Man, I've been talking a whole lot and haven't really heard a lot from you. What's your opinion of what I just said?" He went out of his way to tell me about how sensitive and sweet he is, and how he has a hard time finding women who can handle how much attention he gives them. He shared about his "problem" of being the one his friends come to for advice ("...you understand, being a therapist and all. God, we have so much in common!") and how it "annoys" him how they are constantly calling him and sending him emails asking for help.

Which brings me to the Blackberry. Oh God. How socially ignorant does one have to be to actually pick up one's mobile device EVERY TIME it goes off- even if the person you're on a date with is in the middle of a story (even if YOU'RE in the middle of a story)- and return the text, email, phone call? Internet, this man's phone was blowing up and it did not matter what the context of the moment was... he had that stylus out and his eyes glued to that 2" x 2" screen. And when he was done emailing or texting (or looking at porn or whatever the fuck he might have been doing), he would turn to me and ask, "So, what was I saying?"

To say this man was a narcissist in one of the hugest understatements I have ever made. He was the classic "one-upper." It didn't matter what I was doing, he had already done it or was doing it now or had invented it. I thought about saying, "Dude, I have the worst menstrual cramps right now," just to see how he would have responded. Probably with, "Yeah, my appendix is bursting as we speak."

One of the best (weirdest?) stories of the night was when he randomly interupted me to show me a picture on his (goddamn) Blackberry. He thrust it into my face and said, "Who does this guy look like?"

"Uh, the anglo depiction of Jesus," I answered.

"The story behind this picture is totally amazing. I spend the weekend with a friend of mine. You might know her. She's an actress? On (insert lame sitcom here)? No? Okay, anyway, I was spending the weekend with her a few weeks ago and we went out for drinks. She was talking to this guy (points to anglo Jesus guy) and asked me to take a picture of him because she was so astounded by how much he looks like Jesus Christ (!). While she was doing that, her boyfriend, Dan, called but she missed his call. He was out of town but was flying home that night. She tried to call him back but he was already on the plane. So, a few hours later I'm crashed out on her couch and she's in her bed and she wakes me up and she's crying. She says, 'Dan's dead.' I was like, 'No, he's not.' She was like, 'Yes, he is. I just got the phone call. He was killed in a plane crash.' You know that plane crash that killed Travis Barker? Yeah, well Dan was his body guard. Anyways, don't you think it's just totally amazing that she missed his last phone call to her because she was talking to a guy who looked just like Jesus Christ?"

No. No, I don't. I don't think that's amazing at all. In fact, I think it's just plain weird that you think ANYTHING of it at all. And furthermore, what is amazing is that I AM STILL ON THIS DATE.

So, I tell him I need to go. He tries to convince me to come up to his place, that we "don't have to do anything at all although (eyes scanning my body) I am totally attracted to you." I decline, and he says, in his usual manner of pontification, "You know, I never meet women like you. Women who are intelligent and spiritual and attractive. I want a girl like you, a girl with some meat on her bones (!) and who wears converse and who isn't teh usual Hollywood bimbo. I mean, I get that we're not going to do anything tonight. I get that we're either going to be really good friends or we're going to end up fucking each other's brains out (!!). We're just so much alike, you and me. And I'm curious... what's your opinion of me?"

You'll understand when I tell you that I threw up a little in my mouth at this point.

I answered that, if he was asking if I wanted to see him again the answer was no, and given that we are no more than strangers my opinion of him doesn't matter. The entire way back to my car, he was begging me for my thoughts on him, explaining that "I really respect your opinion," and that he knows that I've been "psychoanalyzing him all night" but (dramatic pause) "...I've been psychoanalyzing you, too."

Brilliant. Just what I need: his analysis of me. I thanked him for the drinks, got in my car and sped away.

The next morning, I got a text in true Mike form:

"Thanx for last night, figured out what my problem was..."

along with two emails that said the same thing.

Blurg.

It could be worse. He could love Barney.

2008-10-14T21:12:00.001-07:00

My life has been taken over by Thomas the Tank Engine. Jack has found the love of his life and it is a blue steam engine. Jack eats, breathes and sleeps Thomas the Tank Engine, and due to our close proximity, I now do, too. The first thing out of Jack's mouth every morning is "Choo-Choo, Mommy," and it is apparently now a requirement that I kiss Thomas, Percy and Stanley along with my son at bedtime. He has a meltdown every day when I drop him off at daycare not because I am leaving, but because he had to leave his choo-choos in the car.

So, today while suffering under almost intolerably boring and painfully nerdy videos of model trains (to which Jack was glued), I was relieved to find the following video as it was the only one that Jack and I both enjoyed.

Online Dating Photo.

2008-10-06T19:45:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, my brother was showing me the features on his new iphone and it didn't take me long to a) decide I have to have one right now and b) develop a sharp stomach cramp from laughing hysterically. Anyone who owns a mac knows that they have this fantastic feature that lets you skew photos in the most marvelous way, resulting in hours and hours and hours of fun. I don't care how bad of a mood you're in; messing around with this feature on a mac will have you guffawing uncontrollably in moments.

It didn't take me long to go from "Ha, these are hilarious," to "Let's post one on Craigslist in the personal ads!" After perusing the personal ads in the Casual Encounters for a bit of inspiration (and to get some of the native lingo), Nate, Tam and I came up with this ad:

Sweet girl looking for NSA relationship - w4m

I am a sweet girl who craves tenderness and passion. I am longing for an night of romance, maybe starting with wine, moving to kissing, and where it goes from there is up to you and me. What I don't have in looks I make up for in flexibility. And I've got a killer rack.

Only serious replies, please.

Please send a photo and I'll send more.

Tam and I giggled nervously as I posted the ad. I was actually kind of scared at the responses I might get, thinking they would be horribly vicious and mean. Something like "You must be out of your fucking mind!" or "In your dreams, Fatty Mc Fatterson!" I thought that my ad would get removed, ignored, laughed at.... but what I didn't expect was this:

~hi I saw your post and would love to give you hours of fun tonight. I am a 31 y.o. construction worker with a nice 7" (bleep), a talented tounge and plenty of stamina. I would also love to see how flexible you are. If you are interested reply back and we can set something up.

~wanna have that drink of wine with me tonight?

~wow. i'd love to meet and see that killer rack.

im a motor boatin sob and i would love to motor boat you right now.should i host or you?let me know.here is a pic.

And one, sent without a photo, simply said, "wish i was younger... bummer." Along with about 35 others. Most of them I can't post because the photos are close up shots of their junk (which, on a side note, I find to be so simpleminded. It's like these guys think, "Hells yeah, she'll LOVE this. I'd love to see hers, she DEFINITELY wants to see mine." To which I say, "Um, no. No we don't."). 42 responses total, peeps. 42.

So this whole thing has got me all discombobulated. My brother is convinced that these guys aren't for real. My friend thinks that the guys who responded knew it was a joke. I think they're for real (Well, maybe not the motorboating S.O.B., but I really hope so). Clearly they read the email, clearly they saw the photo.... and they want to hook up, tonight. It sorta blows away everything I've ever been taught about men, sex and attraction. Which, granted, was a really lame education from the culture at large and my ex, who stopped having sex with me after I gained some weight and said my body was "deformed." So, I can accept that I may be... a little bit skewed.

Those of you who know me are aware that I am the very first person to advocate that we do not have to meet society's standards of beauty to attract a loving partner into one's life. I fully believe that, if the girl in that photo were real, she could and would absolutely be worthy and deserving of a wonderful lover and friend. I also believe that she would not be the kind of girl that a man would want to randomly hook up with. Develop a fantastic relationship with after one gets to know her and falls in love with her sparkling personality and charm? Yes. Send a photo of one's penis to and get naked with having never spoken to her before? No.

So, help me out people. I want to hear your explanations. One friend said they're all sex addicts. That makes sense to me. Another said they're all ax murderers. While somewhat believable, I think we'd be hearing about a lot more Craigslist murders on the news and Dateline would do a "To Catch a Casual Encounters Murderer." Tam thinks these guys have a fetish. For... big chins.

Typical.

2008-10-04T18:48:00.001-07:00

Fall Equinox

2008-09-23T22:58:00.000-07:00

Every fall, three of my friends from USM and I commit to a year of personal growth through the completion of a personal project. Each of us decides what that will be for us- whether it's learning how to play the guitar, moving into private practice (we're all therapists), or losing 25 pounds- and then we support one another through all of the crap that comes up along the way. We commit to a two hour conference call every other Sunday, and to being available to one another in the less scheduled, call-in-the-middle-of-the-week-because-I-want-to-give-up moments. This will be our third year together and I am so excited to get the project going.

I've decided to take on a writing project. I'm going to finally write my book. I have set aside Thursday nights as my writing night, sending Jack to Aunt Melissa's for the night and even leaving work and hour early. I'm hoping that I will be able to create other pocket of times throughout the week for additional writing, but for now Thursdays are what I know for sure.

What I also know for sure is that in setting this powerful intention I have created something much larger than myself. It is as if the book is being born through me and it is only my job to show up and be the vehicle through which it is delivered. Knowing this, feeling this, allows me to relax into the process and let what shows up on the page show up on the page. It's not about getting it right... it's about letting it come forward.

What's in you? What wants to be birthed through you? Commit with me to create the space to let it show up this year!

I have no words.

2008-09-13T00:03:00.000-07:00

I can't tell if this is cute or scary.

Back on the Wagon.

2008-09-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

So, I just got rid of my TV. Again. It took a great deal of energy to push through the resistance screaming from inside of me, but I did it. It's in a cabinet in the hallway, out of my bedroom.

I cannot be trusted with television. Really, I can't. I'm like an recovering alcoholic who thinks to herself, "Oh, I can have just one beer." Three hours later I'm glued to the TV, watching the all day marathon of Project Runway, all intentions of writing or otherwise being present totally out the window.

I have been listening to the voice within that has been begging me, urging me to WAKE UP. Live. Fully. Embrace the moment. Drink in the day. Taste it and swish it around. Love each moment. Love each person who walks by. Show up. Your life is here, now. Breathe it in! The TV is like a lullaby, gently rocking me back into snooze mode, numbing me out, lulling me off to sleep.

Here's another thing TV does to me: it makes me feel bad. I mean, there aren't a lot of commercials that send the message, "Hey! You're fantastic just the way you are! Really! You've got everything you need within to change your outer reality! Take a moment to reflect on all of the beauty around you and be GRATEFUL!" No, no. When I pay attention, I see that the main message that's getting subtly but powerfully lodged into my consciousness is "You're not enough," and "You're unsafe." Not good. And not true.

So, bye bye TV. Again. I'm back on the wagon. Now it's time to go make my bedroom a sanctuary where I am daily inspired to wake up and be in the moment. And to love it, fully.

Throw it All Away.*
Music by Glen Phillips and Toad. Lyrics by Glen Phillips.

take your cautionary tales
take your incremental gain
and all the sychophantic games
and throw 'em all away
burn your tv in your yard
and gather 'round it with your friends
and warm your hands upon the fire
and start again
take the story you've been told
the lies that justify the pain
the guilt the weighs upon your soul
and throw 'em all away
tear up the calendar you've bought
and throw the pieces to the sky
confetti falling down like rain
like a parade to usher in your life
take the dreams that should have died
the ones that kept you lying awake
when you should've been all right
and throw 'em all away
with the time i waste on the life i never had
i could've turned myself into a better man
'cause there ain't nothing you can buy
and there is nothing you can save
to fill the whole inside your heart
so throw it all away
won't fill the whole inside your heart
help me empty out this house
the wool i've gathered all these days
and thought i couldn't do without
and throw it all away

P.S.... While looking for images for this post, I found this picture. Ewww.

The Plunge.

2008-08-28T21:21:00.000-07:00

My friend and coworker, Jalene, facilitated a workshop for our staff at my home on Tuesday. This workshop was entitled, "The Plunge," a play-on-words bridging the pool party theme with the diving into inner awareness she was hoping we would engage in throughout the workshop. Her encouragement to us was to make this year the best year of our lives, and she did so by sharing her own enthusiasm about her commitment to making this year the best year of her life. She spoke with passion and excitement about what it means to plunge into your life, to say, "This is the year that I'm actually going to do it!" She encouraged us to sketch out what our life will smell like, sound like and taste like, to really flesh out the feelings and sights and sensations that we want to be experiencing. She has us write down the colors and the aromas and the feelings of this future vision, this someday experience that we can see ourselves having.

And I saw it. I saw myself living vibrantly, in full, authentic expression. I saw myself unafraid; in full acceptance of who I am and the choices I have made. I saw myself proud and inspired, awed and humbled at the beauty of Life. I saw myself dancing out of a spontaneous desire to feel my body move and to celebrate the fantastic-ness of the moment. I saw myself totally present, totally aware of my own Divinity and to the Divinity in others. I saw myself radiating this love and receiving it back. I felt the inexplicable joy that arises out of authentic awareness and the complete calm and peace that comes from trusting that Life really wants what is best for us. I saw things just working out for me because I am in congruence with Life, not resisting it, not needing it to change.

But then I got scared. I realized that if I were to live this brilliantly, this fully, this expressively then I would no longer be anonymous. I would no longer blend in and be safe. I would be seen. I would no longer able to control how I was being perceived. It would be balls-out, full blown visibility.

And then it occurred to me: I am using my weight to stay hidden. I am using my weight to, literally, weigh me down and keep me from having the energy to be seen. It's as if the weight has served me by keeping me small and limiting my expression to certain expressions. Its prevented me from taking risks and stepping up into the fullness of who I really am. It's created a fog, a sludge, through which I can stay hidden.

The quote by Marianne Williamson comes to me, again.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

I have created the weight as a means of resisting being fully present in my life. It slows me down. It makes me tired. It tells me that I can't do this or that or this. It is my excuse for why I can't step up to my potential and live it now. "I'm to heavy," I say to myself. "Maybe when I'm thin and wiry then I can be energetic with Life." Who wants to see a fat girl in love with life, anyways?

But the weight is going away. I've lost 14 pounds since August 4th as a result of this new fuel I'm giving my body. And while I'm excited about that, I'm also scared. This means I'm really doing it. I'm stepping forward. I'm taking the Plunge. Am I ready to be seen? Am I ready?

Yep, he's my kid. No doubt.

2008-08-26T22:09:00.000-07:00

My coworkers spent the day at my home today for a team-building retreat. And, while most of you may be rolling your eyes and throwing up a little bit due to images of corny, awkward, Office-esque team building games, it was actually a very lovely, heartfelt experience. Seriously, you really wish you worked at my office. The women (and one man) that I call my coworkers are the most loving, compassionate, funny, inspiring, diverse, and authentic people that I could ever dream of working with. Could you imagine working with a bunch of other therapists all day and feeling BAD? Heck no.

Anywho, during the lunch break we busted out the karaoke machine and I took some video, which I am very tempted to post, but I want to stay working where I am working. What I will post, however, is what I stumbled upon when I left Jack alone for two minutes:

I love this kid.

Update on the diet...

2008-08-26T00:10:00.000-07:00

Alright, so I really thought I'd be posting a lot more during this whole diet experiment. And I thought the posts would look like

SONOFABITCH, I hate this fucking diet. I hate everything. I'm so damn hungry! I need icecream, NOW! Why did I agree to do this? My insides hurt. I want to go eat the entire Taco Bell menu. Fuck Marla. Fuck this diet. Fuck the dead people who told me to do this. I want a Frosty.

But, instead, I've only had minor bouts of frustration and angst. I didn't have any serious cravings until recently, when I was home sick with a 102 degree fever. I wanted a quesadilla like you couldn't believe. And when I told myself no, myself argued back, "Okay, how about some icecream." And when I said no again, she said, "SHIT, then how about some nachos?!" I said no again and she said, "I hate you and I hate your ass face!"

It's a new idea to take care of my body. I've always taken pride in NOT caring about my body. It's like I didn't want to be like all of the other depressed, insecure, body-loathing girls who obsess every day about the number on the scale. So, I spent my life rebelling against this idea of caring about one's body. Instead, I shunned anything that looked like body care: gyms, health food, diets, counting calories or carbs or pounds. And (I admit it, shamefully), I looked down on those around me who DID care and who were cutting out carbs and not eating after 8pm. Look at them, I thought, all obsessed about their bodies. Tisk, tisk.

So I'm relearning what it means to take care of my body. To care about my body. To care FOR my body. It's new and I kind of like it. In fact, I'm thinking about taking a nutrition class so I can understand what my body does for me and what I can do for it. Who knows. Maybe by the end of this thing, my Body and I will be friends again.

Seriously, can he be any cuter?

2008-08-12T17:18:00.001-07:00

The answer is no, he can't.

These videos were taken over the weekend at my great-uncle's birthday party. My dad (on the right) and his brothers started playing for the guests and Jack couldn't resist. Luckily, his smart mom had packed his guitar for the long car ride up. He grabbed it, threw the green ribbon strap over his shoulder, and joined the band! Prepare for CUTE!

If you listen, you can hear Jack singing in this one, too.

I'm Coming Out!

2008-08-05T12:38:00.000-07:00

So, I just outed myself at work. Up until now, everyone here thought I was your average single mom therapist whose only interesting or alarming features are her love for karaoke and weakness for cigarettes. They don't know that I'm a closeted woo-woo. But today, at our potluck lunch after treatment team, they all noticed that I had forgone the carnitas tostadas and rice for my own tupperware container of brocolli and edamame.

"Are you on a diet, Amber?" one of my coworkers asks.

"Well, yes," I say, reluctantly. I really don't want anyone to think I'm dieting. I've never been on a diet before because I hate diets. I hate people who diet. I have so much resistance around dieting because I watched my mom struggle with diets my entire life and I swore I would never be caught up in that energy. I watched her loathe herself as she ate out of the tiny plastic trays and I felt her shame as she swallowed the Fen Fen. I felt her judgment of herself with every Slimfast and every weight watcher point she consumed. I was witness to her silent but bloody battle with the Diet and I have resisted anything that looks like that war ever since.

In the end, I have just as unhealthy relationship with food as she does. She is restrictive with food, I am indulgent with food. Food is her enemy while food is my comforter. However, we're both food-obsessed women. And our similarities don't end there. We are both anxiety prone and avoid conflict like it is the plague. We underestimate how loveable we are and esteem ourselves lowly. While we're both fantastic at a party or in groups, we both fear rejection and mask it with humor and charm.

But its in how we deal with these feelings of not-good-enoughness that brings forward yet another difference. I go straight for the deep healing, submerging myself in childhood memories and exhuming the ghosts of my past. I try to erradicate my conditioning and give my inner child new messages about herself. I write and meditate and cry and feel it all, believing that once I remove the source of the deep, inner pain I will be free. My mom, on the other hand, resists inner work as if she's allergic to it. She'll often say to me, "I'm just not that deep of a thinker, Amber." She goes for the physical level of reality. Feel anxious? Take an anxiolytic med. Gaining weight and feel bad about it? Go on a diet.

I'm beginning to see that we both have something to learn from one another about healing. She could get over her resistance to inner work, I could get over my resistance to getting on the treadmill. In our mutual attempt to bypass what we percieve as challenging or too hard, we have stayed stuck. So it is true: What we resist, persists!

But back to what just happened.

"Oh, which diet? Is it weight watchers?"

"No!" I say, with a little too much disdain in my voice.

"Are you just trying to lose weight?" another coworker asks.

"No, not really." They all give me confused looks.

"Oh, then what is it?"

"It's just this thing I'm doing." Yes, I really said that.

"It's a medical thing?"

"No, it's not medical. It's kind of a weird thing I'm doing." Yes, I said that, too.

My coworkers looked at me, not used to this lack of self disclosure coming from me.

"Alright, it's kind of a spiritual thing," I say, scanning their faces for reaction. "My spiritual teacher (yes! I called her that!) told me that I need to eat from a restricted diet for four weeks. She says that the way I have been fueling my body is keeping me stuck in negative patterns in consciousness. So, I'm dieting."

"Oh, cool," one woman says and they all turn back to their food. They are totally satistfied with this answer. This was not a shock to them, at all. The conversation moves on and I feel strangely liberated.

I see you craving icecream in your future...

2008-08-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

So I just returned from seeing Marla, my psychic medium friend. "You have a psychic medium friend, Amber?" you may ask. Yes, yes, I do. Come on, are you really surprised?

To say that she's my friend might be a misnomer. It's actually like she's the person I pay to talk to dead people I know and to give me messages from Spirit. My friend, Pam, turned me on to her while I was pregnant with Jack and- mostly to get Pam to shut up about me going- I dragged my sister-in-law with me and had my first psychic reading. What happened in that first session was truly one of the most amazing and life-changing experiences I have ever had and I have been dragging groups of my friends to go see Marla ever since.

Last weekend, I dragged one such group up the winding road to Marla's home in the hills of Los Angeles. I'd been told before that I should set an intention for the session prior to it, inviting those in spirit I'd like to communicate with to bring messages and to answer any questions that I may have. In other words, you have an audience with God. Show up prepared.

As I sat with what I wanted to chat with God about, a few things came to mind. I wanted to know about my next steps as far as living in community are concerned. I wanted to know how I was doing as a parent and if God had seen that orange-throwing incident or if he was busy in Iraq that day. But mostly, I wanted to know about a spiritual teacher. In the past month or so, I've been visualizing myself as a gigantic magnet, pulling my spiritual teacher to me. I'm not sure where this idea came from, getting myself a teacher, but it's been a strong, clear, energizing visualization that I've been doing several times a day now for several weeks. (I know that I may have lost some of you already, what with the psychic talk and now the spiritual teacher stuff, but it's time I just come out of the closet and say it: I'm a woo-woo, new-agey, stuff-that-Frank-Peretti-warned-us-about-in-Piercing-the-Darkness-kind of person.) (And if you get that reference, HIGH FIVE!)

I've been somehow aware that I am about to enter into a new place of learning in my life. It's as if I graduated from Self Awareness High School a few years ago and now it's time to go to college. Will my next step be moving to a spiritual community somewhere, like Esalen in Big Sur or Kashi in Atlanta? Or will it be in living my life here, in San Diego, with the assistance of a spiritual teacher who help me break free from the limiting chatter of my mind and the distractions of my ego.

It turns out that my next steps involve... a diet. Wha...?

Okay, so let's get back to last weekend when I went to go see Marla with my buddies Donavon, Billy, Don, and Lynette. Don's childhood friend, Steve- who had passed away many years ago- came through immediately with stories and images and messages for Don. Billy's parents came through after that, telling us that he was "such a joy, such a joy, such a joy to raise." Lynette's grandmother came next, along with an ascended light being who told her that she is much more capable than she allows herself to think that she is. I was next. My heart beat loudly in my chest and I breathed in, saying, "I am open to the message you have for me, Spirit." Marla looked at me and said, "You don't feel very good about yourself, do you?"

Blink. Blink.

"But you put up a good front."

Ouch.

"You need to break this dynamic. The only things you can control is what goes into your mouth and what goes into your head." OUCH. "Your head is noisy. And you need to STOP it."

I feel tears of shame and anger burning behind my eyes and I want to scratch her face off.

"You have a large pain body and you are arrested in your development. You've been wounded and you're stuck in your woundedness and you like being stuck there. You are like a fourteen year old in how you feel about yourself and how you are hormonally. You have to make a choice about what is going to source you. You have to get a handle on this."

I feel like screaming, "What the fuck do you think I've been doing for the past 25 years of my life? I've been in therapy and in workshops and dedicated my life to Jesus and then rededicated my life to Jesus. I went to USM and have two masters degrees and, at one point in my life, basically lived in the self-help section at my Barnes and Noble. My entire LIFE has been about finding inner peace and feeling connected to Spirit. Don't you fucking sit here and tell me to get a handle on this."

"You have to be mindful in your choices, Amber. This is what they're telling me. You must live a conscious life and consume things that are good for your soul. No more tabloids about Britney Spears so you can feel better about yourself. No more junk food and no more junk for your mind. You have to make a CHOICE. You have to control what goes into your head and into your mouth."

"Well, I obviously have a problem with controlling what goes into my mouth," I blurted with a good helping of sass. Marla didn't miss a beat. "You have resources, Amber. You need to get unhooked. It's up to you. It's time to grow up."

I stare at my hands, feeling exposed and incensed. I wanted Marla to be impressed with me, to look at me awestruck and say something like, "You've done a lot of evolving since I last saw you. Your chakras are really open and your aura is shimmering. And I see you changing the world with your brilliance!" Instead, I like the Emperor who has been exposed by the little boy in the crowd who shouts out, "You're NAKED! You have no golden robe. You FOOL!"

"I want to work with this with you later, one on one. I want you to come back and we'll work on this. We need to grow you up. Okay?"

Fast forward one week and here I am, sitting at my computer, wanting to write down what just happened an hour ago. I want to write it down because I believe that what I'm embarking on is the start of a powerful journey of healing and ascension and I love reading stories like that. I've never written one, but I've always wanted to. So maybe this is my Traveling Mercies. Or my Road to Daybreak. Hopefully more Traveling Mercies and Road to Daybreak than Bridget Jones' Diary. Although, that did get optioned.

I knock on her door and she invites me into her home after introducing me to her husband. He leaves and I sit down in the chair she leads me to, a comfortable leather chair that sits facing hers. "They were talking to me about you while I was grocery shopping today," she says while finding a box of Kleenex and turning off a kitchen light.

"Oh, it's nice to know someone was talking about me today," I say, lamely. I'm nervous, afraid of another rough scrubbing like I got last time. I'm aware that I feel a little like I'm standing in front of a firing squad and the gunmen are making small talk with me.

"Yes, I was walking up and down the aisles and they showed me this cycle. This crazy-making cycle that you're in." She sits down and places the kleenex box in front of me. "They tell me that you need to get out of that cycle." Her eyes glint with what looks like mischievousness.

"So, it's like this." She picks up a pen and starts drawing a circular spiral. "It starts out with you. Then," she draws an arrow along the spiral, "it goes to you looking at your life and having all of these expectations of what your life should look like right now. House, education, yard, dog, marriage, kids, career... and you don't meet the expectations. Right?" Right. She draws another arrow. "Then, it goes to your family, who support this notion of you not meeting the expectations. Right?" Tears. Right. She hands me the kleenex. "And then it goes to food, which is what you use to manage the bad feelings. And so you stuff yourself with food, and then you feel even worse, and then you go to Jack to try to make yourself feel better. But then," she draws more arrows, "the old bad feelings about your life choices come up again and you're in it all over again. It's crazy making, right?"

Right.

"So, you need to find a way to stop this crazy-making cycle. If you could ask any question to God right now, any question at all about anything, what would you want to know?"

"I would want to know how to make the Eckhart Tolle book make sense to me," I answer. "I would ask God to give me the experience of no longer identifying with the ego but with my true Self. There are times when I feel like this is happening but is scares me because I feel like I am disappearing."

"Well, yes, but would it really be a bad thing, or a scary thing if the ego disappears? And you are no longer bought into the image of you? The image that you are your job, you are your body, you are a mother, you are your feelings, you are a...?" And instead you were able to say, 'I am not this image, I'm just.... I'm just.' It is time for you to dis-identify with the image of you, Amber, that you are a thirty-something woman who lives here who has made these choices..."

Choices. Every time she says that word, shame and self loathing wash over me. "I have a lot of judgment about the choices I've made," I say.

"Yes, you do." She goes on to tell me about a client of hers who makes unconscious choices out of her woundedness and doesn't stop herself and say, What is it that I really need right now? "When we're unconscious, we get ourselves into trouble. Look at America! America is desperate for fathers and so we make ourselves sick so we can go to the doctor and get some nurturing. It's crazy, Amber. So, you have to make a choice to live consciously, to see yourself going round and round in this deadly pattern you're in and get the hell out. But you don't. So, what's the pay off? What is this giving you? What are you getting out of living this way?"

Tears burn in my eyes. I picture myself making good choices for myself. I picture myself choosing fruit instead of a bowl of icecream. I pictures myself declining a cigarette. I picture myself balancing my checkbook and overwhelming fear comes over me. "This way, I can stay victimized. I can stay wounded. I don't have to feel responsible for my life and I don't have to take care of myself. Because I feel too small to take care of myself."

"Okay, that's honest. But here's what's going to happen. Spirit is going to have to drop a huge brick on your head, like cancer or diabetes, to get you to stop all of this nonsense and then you'll be flat on your back in the hospital. "

"I know that," I say to her. "And sometimes I think I want that Spirit to throw that brick at me so I'll be forced to stop."

Marla looked at me. "I know you do. And this scares me. Because that brick could be deadly. That brick could be debilitating. That brick could leave you unable to care for that beautiful baby of yours and leave him totally devastated that his mother is gone. Seems to me that it would be smarter to simply choose to leave this deadly pattern than to have to end up in the hospital." She went on. "What do I have to say to you today to get you to realize that I am the brick. Do I have to slap you? Spirit is saying, 'STOP!' Spirit is saying, 'I will stop you if you don't.'"

I felt the resistance to begin to lose it's grip. I realized that I was being given an opportunity here to step fully into life. Which, quite frankly, scares the shit out of me. Marianne Williamson understood this fear when she wrote:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

So, I'm on a diet. It's The Perricone Weight-Loss Diet, although Marla swears this isn't about the weight. She even made me take the cover off of the book she lent me so that I won't be focused on the weight part. Four weeks, I've committed to. Four weeks of no sugar and no corn and no rice and no bread. Four weeks of no icecream, among other things. Marla believes that this process will be lifechanging for me, and she's offered her help. She and I will talk over the phone throughout the next four weeks and she'll guide me as I detox my body and learn how to take care of myself in a whole new way.

I can't help but wonder if she's the spiritual teacher that I've been drawing to me. I can't help but think that she is, if only for the next four weeks. But I feel her commitment to me and to my healing and it makes me want to be just as committed to me as I am. I realize that I have been given an opportunity here and I am not going to snub my nose at Spirit and miss the boat. I am going to drop everything and take advantage of this big gift.

Toward the end of our session, Marla said something that I believe. It scares me to admit it that I believe her, but I do. She said, "Amber, this is not from me, this is from Spirit." Pausing, she closes her eyes, and listens for a moment. "Whoa," she says, opening her eyes and looking intently into mine. "This is why you are here. You have to do this because you are going to help millions of people. This is why you chose the family you chose, this is why you went to USM, this is why you came to me. Everything has led you to this. You are going to help millions of people heal, Amber."

I am still alive.

2008-07-30T16:43:00.000-07:00

My friend, Jen, wrote, "I hope you're so busy with wonderful things in your life that you haven't had time to write." Yes, Jen, wonderful things. I'll catch you guys up:

* I quit my job at the apartments. Hallelujah, Jesus! That job was killing me, literally. I finally realized that I was shooting myself in the foot by living with that much stress. I let myself off of the hook, decided it didn't mean that I was a total lame-o for not being able to "manage" my two jobs, toddler, finances, housework, and my emotional, mental, physical and spiritual well-being without some help. So I quit.

*I packed up all my stuff and moved in to my childhood home with my parents. Now, for some of you, this may sound like your personal hell. And it would have been mine not very long ago. But words cannot express how happy I am to be here, in this beautiful home in Eucalyptus Hills without a single person mad at me for not having their maintenance request completed. Ahhhh... Oh! and Jack is so entertained here with the yard and the pool and the grandparents! I come home from work and Mom has made dinner. When we're done eating, mom and dad play with Jack while I clean the kitchen in solitude. Then, Jack and I will go for a walk or play outside or swim in the pool because... TA DAH! I can! I don't have a second job! YEAH!

* My brother and his wife returned from Japan and took over my job at the apartments. July was kind of a big jumble fugazi because their stuff was at my parents house. My stuff needed to be where their stuff was and their stuff needed to be where my stuff was. And did they need my silverware or should I sell it in the yard sale? What about my bookshelves? Should I keep my lamps? Will I ever fit into this dress again or should it make its way to the thrift store? It was fun to watch the reunion of Jack and his beloved Uncle Corey... those two are so powerfully connected. Corey's been gone for a year, leaving shortly after Jack's first birthday. I wasn't sure if he would remember my brother, but Jack immediately recognized him and started playing a peek-a-boo game with him. Moments later, he ran into the house and pointed at a photo of Corey's wedding, and then pointed to Corey. My smart boy!

*My good friend and her son moved into my (Corey and Janna's) apartment as she goes through the ending of a relationship. This, of course, made everything even weirder on the moving end of things. However, it really confirmed that I am destined to live in community someday. Lisa, I totally want you at my radish commune.

*Jack started a new daycare. The searching process was much easier and less traumatizing than last time, thank God. And, brilliantly, his daycare is just down the street from our new home.

So, you'll forgive me if I missed out on your blogs and failed to keep you dazzled and entertained here, on mine. I'll be making my rounds to yours as soon as I get the boxes unpacked in my bedroom and figure out where my toothbrush is.

NSF

2008-06-24T13:45:00.000-07:00

I think the thing I'm most looking forward to when I'm rich and famous is never seeing the words, "New Overdraft/Non-Sufficient Funds Notice" in my email inbox again.

Sigh.

Jesus and the Dinosaurs

2008-06-18T14:52:00.000-07:00

My friend Billy sent me this with the caption, "I didn't understand evolution until this simple graphic explained the truth!" To me, this just perfectly captures the illogical weirdness that otherwise educated and intelligent people make room for in their belief systems that, when drawn out, just don't make sense. For instance, my friend has a master's degree in organic chemistry and she believes that there really were two of every kind of animal on Noah's arc. Really? Two of every animal? On a boat for forty days? That Noah built? Because God wanted to destroy all humans? Really? Or there's my friend, James, who still believes that we have never landed on the moon. And my friend, Cara, who believes that everyone is gay. Everyone, but we're all in denial.

I know I've got some too. I know that there are some really illogical ideas that I hold as truth simply because, if I question them, I'll realize that they're crazy. And then there goes my whole belief system. Like the belief that I need everyone to like me. And the belief that if someone's mad at me I'm to blame. And the belief that every relationship problem I've ever had is my fault.

This, of course, flows over into my parenting. I already know that every problem Jack will have in his life is because of me. I didn't prepare him well enough, I didn't model setting boundaries for him, I should have stayed home with him, he should have eaten only organic foods... I am your classic guilty parent.

Here's another one: conflict is scary and bad. Maybe this is the biggest one. Maybe this is the belief that I hold onto that drives my crazy behavior. I avoid conflict like the plague. You know that cooking show, Hell's Kitchen? Can't watch it. Or Jerry Springer? Nope. Even most court TV shows like Judge Judy send my anxiety through the roof. I can't stand to watch people in conflict.

Being this afraid of conflict is kind of like my friend, Cara, being angry that her mom won't admit to being gay. Which she isn't. And maybe conflict isn't bad. Maybe conflict is just something that naturally occurs when two or more people are placed in the same space. And maybe it feels bad but that's what gets us to communicate about it and reach an agreement. Or change our minds about the position we're holding. Or agree to disagree and still respect one another.

So maybe I need to rethink my illogical and weird views on conflict. Maybe my ridgid belief that conflict is bad and should be avoided at all costs is absurd. Maybe it has other people shaking their heads in disbelief, thinking, "You know, Amber is a bright girl but she still believes that conflict is bad. Can you believe it" Maybe this belief has been the big dinosaur in the room of my life... which, by the way, we don't know if Jesus ever rode them. But he probably did.

Invitation.

2008-06-07T22:38:00.000-07:00

I feel like its time for me to step into something. My grandeur. My potential. The reality of who I am. My fullness.

This scares me, somehow. It feels a little bit like walking down the aisle with someone that I don't really know, but have a hint of. Can I count on me? Can I trust that what I see in me is real? Am I really going to be there for myself? What if what everyone said about me was true?

I can stay at the back of the church, scared and stuck. That's where I've been for a while, now. Scared and stuck, not ready to commit, uncertain about what it is I'm getting myself into. I feel a beckoning, an invitation, a proposal, if you will, to own my greatness. To claim it. To claim my portion of Life and live it to the fullest. It's mine, after all. No one else can use it. It'll just go to waste, otherwise.

But I'm scared. I'm scared to let go of convenience and safety and the norm. I'm scared that I'm delusional and will fall on my face and that I'll have no place to go. I'm afraid that my dad will shake his head at me and say, "Amber, you should have just gotten a job and sent Jack to public school, like everyone else. You had to be a dreamer, didn't you. Well, look where it got you."

Which is so stupid because my dad would be the first one to encourage me to go big in life. In fact, I think the reality is that he's sitting around, shaking his head, wondering why I haven't been on Oprah yet. He believes in me. It's me who's still unsure.

The hesitation place I've been in, the stuckness, is getting so uncomfortable that I'm listening to that invitation with perked interest. "What can you promise me?" I ask it. "Will you guarantee my happiness? Do you promise that I won't look like an ass?"

It shakes it's head and says back, "Silly girl. I love you."

What does it mean that I'm attracted to this guy?

2008-06-04T21:45:00.001-07:00

And the guitar player, too.

It's like Three Posts in One!

2008-05-28T22:38:00.001-07:00

It seems that, most days, something occurs that prompts me to think, "I have to write a post on this!" There's just a lot going on these days. Good stuff, shitty stuff, painful stuff, laugh-out-loud stuff. I like having this space where I can document my what I'm all about in a given moment of time, like a snapshot into my consciousness that I can share and remember. So, for posterity's sake, I thought I'd show you my photo album of the most recent experiences, ideas, interests, and moods I've had in the past few weeks:

Conversations with Bod, part II
Remember how I said I was going to take me and my body into couples counseling? Because we had turned into a nasty, bitter, abusive old couple who doesn't remember how to say nice things to one another? Well, I did. For the past 10 weeks, I've been attending a process group called Conscious Eating. The philosophy (and one I whole-heartedly agree with) holds that women (and men, for that matter) will often use food to nurture, take care of, and soothe themselves when they are experiencing some kind of distress or disturbance. These disturbances are usually unconscious (we aren't aware that we're feeling scared, worried, angry, overwhelmed, whatever) but our body takes over and says, "Feed me! I need to be soothed! I'm freaking out over here!" So, we end up experiencing HUNGER when we really aren't hungry for food, but comfort.

Friends, family, readers: Whoa. Now, this may not seem like the neuroscience to you, but to me it is fucking shocking and AWESOME. In my work in this group, I am actually learning to distinguish between real hunger and anxiety. I am able to stop myself, mid-stride to the fridge, and say, "Wait a minute, I'm not even hungry! I'm feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated right now! It's not food I want- it's solitude!" And, even better, I'm starting to give myself this stuff that I need. Like, today, I came home from my day job and laid down on my bed for 15 minutes and gave myself a little moment of rest and breath. Normally, I would have come home and stuffed my face with nachos in order to calm myself down. And yesterday, I closed my door at work, sat on the floor of my office, and listened to Cold Play on my Ipod for awhile instead of hitting Jack in the Box for an Oreo Shake.

There's this whole notion in Conscious Eating that we're overeating in an attempt to feed the other hungers in our lives. Like the hunger for meaningful friendships. Or creative expression. Or to feel passionately about anything, like our work or our husband or our hobbies. Me? I hunger solitude. And down time. Leisure is a thing of my past, a treasure I took for granted before Jack, before single parenthood, before two jobs. I am never alone and I crave it like a junkie.

But what really shocks me is this: I have been living with anxiety for as long as I can remember. But I didn't know it! I didn't know that the nagging, jittery, frantic and unsoothed energy in my abdomen that has been there forever was anxiety. I just..., well, it's just always been there. And people, that feels like hunger sometimes. Or, I interpreted it as hunger because food is soothing and numbing, like a hard shot of whiskey, and it quiets down that nervous energy.

Nerpal
About a year ago, my tortoise, Nerpal, who has lived with me since he was just a baby, ran away from home. Well, not ran, but you get the idea. I was super bummed out since he's lived with me for about 10 years now and I always anticipated that he'd be this 137 year old tortoise living with my kids' kids some day. He's an odd little guy because he's barely grown in the ten years I've had him, leaving tortoise experts puzzled and saying only, "Maybe he's a dwarf tortoise." Seriously. And even using the pronoun "he" is a bit of a misnomer since his size makes it impossible to determine if he really is even a he. Anywho, he ran away.

A few weeks ago, I was at one of the tenants apartments doing some move-out paperwork with them. The wife casually mentions that they're almost totally finished moving out except they can't figure out what to do with their turtle. The one they found in the parking lot. A year ago.

So, Nerpal and I have been reunited. I was so excited that I called everyone I knew who knew Nerpal that night, even though it was late. Jack nearly shit a brick the first time he saw him; I hadn't really considered how a two-year old would conceptualize the crawling-rock-with-eyes coming toward him in his back yard.

Join My Radish Commune
I'm becoming a communist. Or, I want to. There's so much to say about this that maybe I should save it for another entry. Let's just say that I'm over this notion of living separated and disjointed from one another, from the earth, from our children, and from ourselves. I am longing for community, a sense of togetherness and support and common purpose. I think we are all dying from disconnection; everywhere I turn I see overwhelmed, unsupported, unknown people who have no one to reach out to. No place to plug in. No place to feel useful or wanted or meaningful. I see this especially in children who feel herded from one place to another, from school to the after-school day care to the TV at home. We are outsourcing the parenting and soul-development of our children to others. I'm guilty, too, but not for long. It's my intention to live differently, in intentional community.

Jack

Which leads me to Jack, who colors my world and my walls and without whom my life would be so much easier. But who wants easy when they can have this:(mascara)

Something's gotta give...

2008-05-08T23:21:00.000-07:00

...Unfortunately, it appears to be my blogs. And my housework. Oh, and my exercise. Smoking, I still have time for.

As most of you are aware, I just went back to work as a therapist after taking two years off to be with my son. And by taking two years off I mean worked as a nanny for three kids plus my son. This was grueling work in the most rote of ways: endless diapers and games of hide-and-seek, constant searching for sippies and blankies and teddy bears, holding two and sometimes three babies in my arms, sending kids to time outs and rushing them to toilets... It was nonstop, all day long. But it worked for Jack and me. It allowed us to be together and gave him some kids to play with and learn from. And it allowed me to take every Wednesday off to be alone, to recoup on the beach or on my couch with a book, Jack safely at Grandma's or Aunt Lisa's or Aunt Mirna's.

By February, however, I began to hate all things toddler and the family (either sensing this in me or by a random stroke of good timing) decided to place their kiddos into preschool. I was out of a job. It was time for me to re-enter the work force, to place all of my fingerpaint-stained and macaroni-and-cheese tinted clothing in the dumpster, put on some heels and head into the adult world.

Somehow, and like it always does, everything came together. I found a job and a daycare that I felt good about and have somehow transitioned from Stay-At-Home-Mom to Working Mom. Jack and I have somewhat created a new routine to our lives: wake up at 6:00am, snuggle in the bed for a half hour, try to get showered, dressed, and coifed while Jack is begging to be held all morning, eat breakfast, pack a lunch, drive through Starbucks for my caffeine fix, and arrive at day care by 8:30. I usually stay for about ten minutes and get him acclimated to his day at Chrissy's, a mom who just recently decided to create a daycare in her home so that she could be with her two kids.

I spend the day in one-hour therapy sessions with children and families whose lives are incredibly challenging and complex. It's good work and I love it and I feel honored to be a part of their lives in this sacred, special way. I love how focused each session is, how still and clear and connected I feel throughout the day. I am doing what I love and this is a good, good thing.

By the time Jack and I usually arrive back home, it's after six. This is where my day goes to hell. I would love to just come to our home, fix us some dinner, and play with my son on the floor until bedtime. I would love to just relax with him, maybe walk to the park or play in our back yard. But the moment I come home, my second job begins. I am an apartment manager.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck goddamn fuck fuck fuck. I hate this cock-sucking job so goddamn much. FUCK. Fuck.

Every night I come home and it's phone calls adn people at my door, complaining about the maintenance guys or the pool filter or yelling at me because I charged them a late fee because they didn't pay their rent. They're upset with their neighbors or with the guy who parked in their space. They want to know if they can change apartments. Their garbage disposal isn't working and it's the seventh time it's broken since they moved in. And they want me to come take a look at it.

I get phone calls at 3 am. The roof is leaking. The couple in 205 is fighting. There's a possum in the backyard. I get strangers at my door wanting to come in and use the bathroom. I have old ladies who call me and can't hear me on the phone, or worse: they want to tell me all about their most recent surgery. I have tenants who want new carpet because "I've lived here for four years." I have tenants who constantly lock themselves out. I have tenants who find the most random shit to be upset about: the spiders in the palm trees outside, the noisiness of the garbage truck, the postman not coming on time.

And then there's Carlos. My maintenance guy. FUCK SHIT GODDAMN MOTHER FUCKER. He's the owner's brother-in-law, which means that I can't fire him. Which I would have done two years ago. Because he's a cocksucker. The tenants are always infuriated with him because he'll take three weeks to respond to their maintenance request, then forget to come when he said he would, and then do a shitty job when he finally does make it over here. And who are the tenants complaining to the whole time? Yup! Me! Yippee!

So, going home is never what I want it to be. And after getting bitched at by a tenant for not taking care of them, the sound of Jack's whine is enough to send me through the roof. And poor Jack... it's SO not his fault but he gets the brunt of my frustration. I hate that I am this person when I'm at home: bitchy, annoyed, frustrated. Jack deserves more. I deserve more. I would SO drop this job if I could afford to. But, it pays the rent (literally) and until I marry a man solely for his money I'm stuck here.

Something's gotta give. We can't live like this. I won't live like this.

Lisa, Mirna, and Aunt Melissa

2008-05-04T21:10:00.001-07:00

I thought I was adjusting well to this whole going-to-work thing, but after this shit-hole week I'm certain I'm headed for the Betty in no time.

I'll write more about that later. But today, I just want to write about how supported and loved I am, even though I threw an orange across my kitchen today in frustration and in front of my child. My anxiety levels are..., well, a wee bit elevated these days and my tolerance for frustrating and annoying things is at an all time low. I kinda feel like a four thousand pound python is wrapped around my shoulders and squeezing at all times, ready to squeeze the last living breath out of my chain-smoked lungs. And my son, wh0's been sick and feverish and needy all week, is missing his normally attentive and loving mother as she has been replaced by this woman.

I'm not good at asking for help because I really do believe that I should be able to do everything myself. There's also a bit of "you-made-this-bed-now-lie-in-it" mentality going on inside my religiously-trained and guilt-ridden mind, making it super hard to ever ask for a hand when my life feels out of control. I really feel like I don't deserve to get help and that I need to find a way to manage my responsibilities on my own. Nobody got you into this mess, nobody's gonna get you out.

Whoa. Nasty voices in my head.

But today, after the orange throwing, I decided I needed some help. I was quickly unraveling and obviously going insane and Jack needed the safety of an individual who was not hurling fruits and cuss words across the room. So, I called Aunt Melissa who agreed to take him into her shelter. Shortly later, my friends Lisa and Mirna called and offered to drive out to my part of town, pick my overwhelmed and anxious ass up and take it to the movies with them. They paid for everything: tickets, popcorn, sodas, and Korean barbecue for dinner, afterwards. Mirna's husband, who had learned through the grapevine that I had lost my ID and my debit card and therefore have no access to money, insisted that Mirna give me cash for gas money. She refused to let me pay her back.

Internet, I cannot begin to express how overwhelmingly grateful I am to have somehow manifested these amazing people into my life who unconditionally support me and take care of me, even when I feel so undeserving and horrible. Thank you, Mom, for doing my dishes on Friday. Thank you, Craig, for the tank of gas that I don't have to worry about anymore. Thank you, Lisa, for an afternoon of feeling taken care of. Thank you, Mirna, for never making me feel undeserving of help. Thank you, Melissa, for giving my son a day of fun and snuggles with you and the dog. I am so lucky and blessed to be so supported and loved. My cup runneth over.

Shit and Shat

2008-04-09T19:36:00.000-07:00

Jack loves to look at pictures of himself. Often times, when I need him to be occupied, I will play a slideshow of pictures of him and he loves it. In fact, he goes ape shit. He thinks it's hilarious. He points at the computer screen and says, "Is Shat! Shat!" Oh, and he calls himself Shat. Which I love.

Shat and I were in my bathroom today doing the usual try-to-get-dressed-
and-put-on-makeup-before-Jack-gets-bored-and-totally-unravels tango when I hear him say it. "Oh, shit." Now, I've heard him say it before but it's never been very clear. In the past when I've heard him say it, I just assumed that I was imagining things. I mean, Jack's entire catalogue of spoken words is only four words strong. No way there's a four-letter word in there. However, this time there was no denying that Shat was saying shit. He had dropped the bag of Q-tips (again, by the way. I've picked these mother fuckers up so many times that I am beginning to recognize them individually) and then let the words fly, like a pro. No horseying around. No baby talk. Just a good, solid, "Oh shit."

And since I don't have him swearing on video yet, you'll have to settle for this video of him "chatting" on the toy cell phone. My favorite part: the random bursts of laughter throughout his "conversation." God, he's so cute.

For more Jack videos, go here.

Arise, Awaken.

2008-03-31T21:53:00.001-07:00

I miss my son. And when I say that, I mean that I am choosing to not be present with him and am missing out on him. I am choosing to be overwhelmed by life. I am choosing to value what other people think of me, value what a total stranger's opinion is of me to the point that I am an anxious, depleted wreck and then lashing out at my son for being "another thing to take care of." I am consumed by my ego, consumed by my need to fit in, to be accepted, to be okay in the eyes of others. I am driven to be enough, to be worthy and this need is exhausting me and leaving my son abandoned in my presence. I am always in my head, worrying about the conversation I had yesterday with my new coworker (did I sound smart enough, I wonder what she thinks about me), worrying about what my parents think about me (I had to borrow money from them again, I'm such a fuck up), still obsessing about what me ex boyfriend said about me three years ago (...your body is deformed). I worry, worry, worry. I have compusive, obsessive thoughts that keep my distracted from what is really happening in my life, right now, in the moment. Like, "They're going to think you're a total anxious wreck, Amber, if you write this," and "Don't you want to come off sounding like you've got it together?" I can't stop the thoughts and they suck the blood out of me, draining me of all energy. And then my son comes into the room and I'm annoyed because he wants me to play with him.

I hate to admit it but I have to admit it. I have labeled him a nuisance. A mosquito, flying around my head, buzzing into my ear and disturbing my stupor. I swat him away but he always comes back, wanting to drain the life out of me. I'm so ashamed that I've decided to see him this way. Oh, Jack, I am so sorry I've done that. And now you're almost two and I don't remember much of this year with you except that it's been hard. I remember wanting to get away from you and I remember wanting to just sleep. Sleep. But you always wake me up.

When you were tiny, Jack, everyone said to me, "This time is so precious and it goes by so fast. Treasure this time with him while he's small." And I did. I really made an effort to be present with you, even when it was hard. I guess hearing people say it, over and over to me, "treasure this time, treasure this time, treasure this time," I really got how important it was to resist the urge to be overwhelmed and instead savor the moment, every moment. I guess I still need to hear it said. Amber, treasure this time. I have missed an entire year with you, Jack.

Where did it go? To worrying about what people think about my messy house. To wishing I was thin. To complaining about my job and traffic and finding things to feel miserable about. And you were there, the whole time. In your carseat. In your crib. In your pajamas in my bathroom as I put on my makeup. How did I miss you?

You have always called me to be awake, Jack. You have refused to let me sleep and I have resisted you. But tonight I will accept your invitation, once again, to stay awake with y0u. I am so glad you're here to pull me out of my slumber, to slap me into awareness where you are, where vibrancy is, where Life is. I don't want to go through life sleepwalking. I don't want to miss out on you anymore.

I don't want to miss out on Life, anymore. I want to be where you are, where spontaneity and joy erupt without thinking, where a seashell holds great wonder and mystery, where there is no fear of what others are thinking so no experience is scary, where sharing my cookie is fun because I don't know lack. Where taking a bath is the biggest delight of the day, next to brushing my teeth. Where I'm free to squeal with delight when I see someone I love. And likewise, I can totally unravel and know that I am loved, still. Where unconditional love isn't my reality and only constant, unending love, is.

It's my intention to go there with you, Jack, and to help you stay there. Maybe we all have to step outside of it to know that we want it, again. And when you do, I'll be here waiting for you.

Cute, cute, cutity cute cute cute!

2008-03-25T23:02:00.000-07:00

This precious little baby will some day be on American Idol and this will be the "flashback" video they show before she gets on stage and blows the entire nation away. I want to eat her, she's so cute.

Dear Jack

2008-03-19T20:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Jack,

I cried while putting you to bed tonight. As we rocked in the chair, your little bundle of a body in its tight, red pajamas all cuddled up into my arms, I cried knowing that tomorrow you go to daycare and tomorrow I go to work. We will be going our separate ways for the first time since you were born, 21 months ago. Tonight was the last step on our path together and before us the road divides, a fork taking us down our individual journeys as two souls. I have been carrying us a long time and I have been so proud to be the one who has brought you this far. I have loved every aching moment of it, even when I felt alone, even when I felt afraid, even when I felt lost. You were with me all along and look... we're here.

I'm not afraid. I'm not worried about you, Jack, because I have done a good job in getting you here in the condition you're in. You're miraculous and brilliant and so totally equipped to meet your path. You are confident and compassionate and you light up every room that you are in. You bring your blanky to kids who are crying and you dance like a mofo when the music kicks in. You are a bright light, a light that I have fostered into brilliance, and I am not afraid.

But I am sad that this part of our journey is over. I am sad to see your littleness go away; lean, muscular legs now stand where chubby poofs used to be. Your fingers, once gasping and erratic, now form themselves easily around toys and tools as you maneuver your way through the day. And I am grieving the moments that I missed because I chose to be out of the now, out of the moment, worrying about some negative future fantasy that didn't even exist. I am ashamed of how I resisted your constant invitations to be present with you, in the moment, and instead became angry and called you a nuisance. You have been calling me forward into awakening and I have resisted you. I am sorry, Jack. Please forgive me.

I know you're not going away, and it's not like you're leaving for college tomorrow. But you are leaving my arms for eight hours a day to experience the world in your own way. This is where it begins...

I love you, Jackaroo. And I always will.

Mommy.

Be the Change You Wish To See In The World. -Ghandi

2008-03-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Ms.Kern,

I feel compelled to write to you and express the deep sadness that I experienced when listening to you speak with your constituents about other human beings who have a different sexual preference than yours. I am not going to try to change your mind about what you believe or tell you that you are right or wrong. I'm sure you're getting plenty of hate mail about this and I do not wish to contribute to the hatred. I do encourage you to look at how your behavior may contributing to the hatred in our country. Do you want to be contributing to the sum total of hatred in the planet, or to the sum total of acceptance, loving, and peace?

You are in my thoughts and prayers and I am sending you, your constituents, your state, our country and our planet light now.

Amber Rice. San Diego, California

This is the letter I just emailed to Sally Kern, the Oklahoma State Representative who delivered a speech over the weekend in which was devastatingly toxic, demeaning and hateful. Apparently, she was confronted about it and she defended her stance and did not apologize. A part of me becomes so enraged and wants to tear her a new asshole for spewing such ignorance and poison across the planet. Another part of me felt such compassion and sadness for her and I was compelled to sit in prayer and send her loving light. One of my professors at USM told me the the only way to peace is to let go of any "against-ness" inside of myself. I think he might be right. So, I have chosen to embrace Sally Kern not because I condone her behavior but because I choose to be what she has not yet become: accepting, compassionate, and embracing. Send her your loving thoughts, and send up a prayer that we may come through this more enlightened, more loving, more accepting, and more embracing than we were before. And so it is.

If this issue matters to you and you feel compelled to take some action, here's the contact information for Sally Kern:

Capitol Address:
2300 N. Lincoln Blvd. Room 332
Oklahoma City, OK 73105
(405) 557-7348.

District Address:
2713 Sterling Ave.,
Oklahoma City, OK 73127.

Email: sallykern@okhouse.gov or srkern@cox.net

My baby daddy

2008-03-09T22:39:00.001-07:00

Meet Jack's siblings!
Can you guess who the father is?

To check your answers, go to the comments.

By the way, this website is SO addicting.

Squirrels, Nerf Bats and Chicken Curry.

2008-03-03T21:11:00.000-08:00

The first place I went to was so hot and the air so stuck that I felt like I had walked into my second grade classroom, but decorated like a Persian woman's home and with the spicy sweet smell of chicken curry hanging like cigarette smoke. I was trying to be open-minded, overshooting my "I'm not prejudice" bounds by going to Azizah's home, the first name on the daycare provider list for my area. I was ashamed at my first instinct to skip over her and move on to Melissa Jones, and over corrected by immediately imagining Azizah and I becoming best friends after she teaches me to belly dance and I drag her out to a karaoke bar. There was also some rich fantasy of how Jack would grow up in this fertile soil of multicultural boundlessness, all worldly and appreciative, and someday decide to become the President of Earth, the One who embraces all. Turns out that her house was just too damn stuffy. That, and I didn't like the way the kids at her house all had such vacant eyes, like they had been ignored all day and fed melaril for lunch.

The second place I went to I was greeted by a woman with a mullet wearing her keys on an "I love Jesus" lanyard around her neck and a tattoo on her right forearm that was so fuzzy and faded that it must have predated me. She opened the door for me to reveal a whole slew of children in her living room, several of which were crying, one that was jumping on the couch and another that was sitting two inches away from an episode of Spongebob on TV. There was a general feeling of anarchy and lawlessness that was confirmed when I watched one boy whack another boy with a nerf bat and nothing was done about it. Okeeeee....

The third one I went to I didn't even make it in the door. They had their garage door open and what appeared to be about 75 years worth of hoarding old scraps of furniture, clothing, and newspapers crammed inside. Sending my child to be raised by someone with OCD, I am not.

Choosing who is going to raise my child for me while I am at work is freaky shit. I mean, this is who is going to be standing in for me from the hours of 8am to 5pm. Are they going to hold him when he bumps his head? Are they going to teach him that he doesn't deserve to be hit by another child with a nerf bat by placing that child into time out? Are they going to kiss his nose before he takes his nap and tickle him when he wants to wrestle? How do mothers do this?

And as if I don't have enough to worry about, now I have to be leery of squirrels:

Get on Board!

2008-03-03T20:53:00.000-08:00

This is one peace train that you don't want to miss. It's not too late to go get the book, watch the first webcast of Oprah and Eckhart, and see what all of the buzz is about.

Sorry to disappoint you, babies...

2008-02-26T21:08:00.000-08:00

Many of you have been requesting- nay, begging me to do a sultry, seductive web-cam show for all of my loyal readers, and while I totally understand your desire for this I am going to have to decline, once and for all. Let me apologize, in advance, for letting you all down. And in order to squelch all attempts to convince me otherwise, I am going to give you the reasons why I cannot perform a show for you, my beloved reader. I hope this puts all future requests at bay.

#1. I want to be seen as a respectable blogger.
#2. Postpartum breasts.
#3. I have to protect my son's dignity.
#4. I haven't "groomed" in a while.
#5. I didn't want to compete with this guy.
#6. And lastly, this is what happened the last time I put on a show. I'm still in negotiations with workman's comp...

Daddy.

2008-02-24T19:59:00.000-08:00

I want to be showered with confection.
I want powdered sugar to land on my face like snowflakes from a Sweet source.
I want to lay down in fields of cotton candy daisies
and eat them, petal by petal.
You love me, You love me not.
I want to bask in the sunshine of your loving
as if it were only for me
and to feel it soaking into my skin
like a suntan.
I want to wear skirts made of pink tule
layers and layers of pink tule
and tiaras that you bought for me
at the state fair.
And I want you to hold my hand and notice that I
am by your side.
And want me there.

Hematoma

2008-02-23T22:14:00.001-08:00

This thing appeared on his head immediately, all blue and alarming, after taking a header into the coffee table. I held him and tried to soothe him as he wailed and wailed and wailed, his legs kicking me as his body twisted in pain. My friend brought me the bag of pees and I pressed them against his head and realized that in doing so I had become my son's torturer. He looked at me with eyes full of confusion and terror: Why is my mother hurting me? Why is she doing this to me? I released him from my lap and he backed away from me, a good four or five steps. Big, thunderous sobs still wracking his little body, he surveyed the faces of those in the room, searching for safety. He looked at my friend and then at her husband and then back at me and fear registered on his face. "Everyone in this room is out to get me," he thought. "They ALL want to hurt me! They're all crazy like my mother!" He ran over to his diaper bag and tried to find something to comfort him there. He settled on his knit beanie since I had forgotten his blankie at home and stumbled back into my lap. And as I scooped him up again to rock him in the comfort of my arms, my friend's seven year old daughter said- with such genuine compassion and tenderness that it took my breath away- "Poor Jack. I wish I could take his place."

You Know What the Monty Python Boys Always Say...

2008-02-23T13:12:00.000-08:00

My backyard looks like the Easter Bunny went on a bender last night and threw up all over my patio. But it was just Jack, feeling his artist wings and doodling with sidewalk chalk. He has been totally engaged with this new expressive medium, chalk on patio (and walls and chairs and slide and sandbox and sliding glass doors and Berber's curtains and couch), and loving it so much that he's been eating it. He's now ingested so much sidewalk chalk that I called my pediatric nurse friend just to make sure he wasn't going to develop some crazy chalk-borne disease. No, she said. Just purple poo. Which he had. Which was weird.

I know it's been pretty depressing around here lately, my blog becoming a place where good moods go to die. But I'm deciding to shift gears a little bit and take a word of advice from my friend Traci who- in much nicer words- said, "Shut the fuck up with your whining already!" And as if I needed to hear it again, I pulled some cards for myself the other day and one of them read this:

Stop isolating yourself and dwelling on your misery and go outside. See the Divine all around you. Focus on the beauty, power, and holiness that nature affirms. Breathe in the Divine. You are in God and God is in you.

So, this post is my attempt to move out of the dwelling on the misery part of things into more of the beauty, power and holiness part of things. Or, at the very least, to the funny part of things. Funny, I can do.

I mean, purple poo is funny.

Bloom.

2008-02-19T12:18:00.000-08:00

It's cold and gray here in San Diego, like my mood. I lost my job and my crush and I feel uninspired. I'm finding it hard to trust that if I just keep pushing I'll hit sunlight. I'm growing tired of hitting my head against a rock.

I want to feel the sun. I want to unfurl and grow tall, open the soft petals of my heart toward the world and allow myself to be seen. I want to be embraced and loved and caressed, scooped up and my scent inhaled into the body of another.

The effort of life is making me weary. I am tired of efforting. I want to be tugged along by the natural flow of a life of ease but instead I flail and thrash around. I'd like to find that current, the one that I can maneuver and stay afloat in, and feel myself hit my stride. But maybe that's a fantasy fueled by motivational speakers and spiritual infomercials. I don't know.

I'm ready, God. I'm ready to really take off. I'm tired of this small town living. I'm ready for my big break, that one role that gives me the leg up into the industry of my life. So go talk to your people and then get in touch with my agent.

Thanks,

Amber.

Best Comment Contest

2008-02-14T18:07:00.000-08:00

Guess what, everybody? I found Jesus! He was in my inbox.

This was posted in response to my Dear Jesus letter:

Dear Amber:

I can't help you, because I don't exist. If I did exist, it would probably be a much nicer world. But, you should you get out of incredibly small mindset, look around, and realize believing in a deity makes absolutely no sense at all. Intelligent people don't believe in god - amber, are you intelligent?

Sincerely,
Jesus

Here are a few of the ideas that I went through my mind in response to Jesus:

Jesus,
Como Estas? Tu Ingles is muy bien. Puedes cantar, tambien? Mucho gusto Tijuana por tequila barato y los discos. Te gustas tequila? Gracias por leyendo mi blog, Mantequilla de Cacahuete y Cigarillos.

~or~

Jesus,
How can you be writing me if you don't exist? Maybe if I wasn't so unintelligent this would make sense...

~or~

Jesus,

Welcome to my blog. Maybe you should take a quick look around to get to know who you're shooting off at the mouth at before you spread all of your issues around. Because, if you had you would discover that I employ something called irony every once in a while in order to make my writing a bit more interesting and fanciful. You should look it up- I provided a link. Furthermore, to state that one is small minded and unintelligent to believe in a deity is, well, small minded and unintelligent. While there are god-believing people who live their lives with little self-awareness and stubborn ignorance (like this guy and this guy and this guy) who would easily prove your point, there are also people like this and this and this who have changed the world through their brilliance, consciousness, and their belief in-yes- God.

Yet, I know that there are so many more brilliant responses that could be made to Jesus and to have just one or two or even three just doesn't seem to be enough. So, I have decided to host a Best Comment Contest to allow all of you to join in on the fun! Please submit your comment to Jesus and allow the creativity (and profanity) to flow! More than one submission is encouraged! A winner will be chosen and a grand prize awarded! Comment away, bloggers!

Bite me, Alpha mom.

2008-02-10T18:43:00.000-08:00

I just got should on all over by an alpha mom in the parking lot of my favorite Mexican food market. She ambushed me as I approached my car, totally unaware of the surprise attack hiding in the minivan. And she got me, right where I am weakest: in the you're-a-bad-mother-artery. It could have been a fatal blow, had I not come off of a great day with Jack.

This was not the post I had anticipated writing this evening. I was going to write about how I took Jack to the beach today and how we played in the sand. I was going to write about how I realized that I live a charmed life where days like today exist; days where the sun is shining a glorious 75 degrees in early February, where I have a whole afternoon to waste burying my son's feet in the sand, where I wear long, flowy skirts and flip flops and feel like I am part of the earth, itself. I was going to write about how, in a moment of inspiration, I realized that I am living the life that I want to live and feelings of not-good-enough and lack were chased away by gratitude.

I drove home from the beach, sunkissed and sandy, and it dawned on me that the perfect ending to this summery winter day would be to bar-b-que carne asada in my backyard. So, Jack and I ran a few errands (including three movie rental stores to find the very coveted Elizabeth, the Golden Age) and then stopped by La Tortilleria, a convenience store by my house that always has perfectly marinated carne asada and just-ripe avocados. Because I found a parking spot right in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and because I knew I would be less than five minutes, I decided to leave Jack in the car. I have done so before, like every other mother I know, because I understand that the difficulty of getting Jack out of the carseat and into a stroller and then back out of the stroller and into the carseat is greater than any risk there may be of leaving him safe in my locked car. However, momma bear parked next to me felt otherwise.

I came out of the market to find her craning out of her minivan window and looking at Jack (who, by the way, was happily playing with a toy). "Is that your baby?" she asked when she saw me walking to my car. "Yes," I responded, ready to hear the usual Oh, he's so cute or I remember when mine was that small... Instead: "You really shouldn't leave your baby in the car."

"Oh, I know-" I started, jovially.

"It's illegal," she said, with false concern and very sincere superiority. "Not only is it illegal, but it's very unsafe. She could suffocate in there!"

I stared at her, dumbstruck. Was she really doing this to me?

"Ma'am, I know you love your baby, but someone could come and kidnap her and you would never see her again. She could be in Tijuana before you knew it!"

Feeling defensive and very annoyed, I threw my avocados and carne in the passenger seat and said, "Okay, thank you. Goodbye."

She continued. "It's illegal to leave your baby in the car, even for a minute. You just never know what could happen."

I slammed the passenger door and walked away, shocked by how condescending this woman was. Who the hell does she think she is? And what the fuck does she know about me? Does she know that I have spent the last year and a half of my life giving up everything I am, everything I know, everything I do to be available and present for my son? Does she know that I spent eleven months not sleeping so that my son would feel safe and cared for in the middle of the night? Does she have a fucking CLUE that I gave up my career and became a nanny so that my son could spend the first years of his life with his mother nearby? Does she know what kind of mother I am? Apparently not, because if she did she would have stopped to shake my hand.

"Don't get mad at me because I pointed out that you are doing the wrong thing to your child! It's not safe to leave her in there," she shouted. "It's ILLEGAL!"

"It's none of your business," I said back, leaving much unsaid. "Goodbye!" She let out a big sigh of exaggerated frustration, rolled her eyes and drove away. I got in my car and realized I had a choice. I could let this superior-mom-mugging ruin my day or I could say, fuck you, you crazy bitch and go home and eat some carne asada with my son.

It was some good carne.

I'll have another long island, please.

2008-02-04T17:12:00.000-08:00

I don't miss Jack. I've been gone for five days and I could stay gone a lot longer. Now, I don't mean to beat a dead horse, but I am sure that this means that there is something wrong with me as a mother. I know mothers who had to come home early from their vacation because they missed their kids so badly. I know mothers who refused to take jobs that required that they travel becuase they didn't want to be away from their children. I was just reading a post about a woman who was "dying to get back to see my kids" while she was on her vacation.

Me? Not so much dying to see my kid. More like dying to extend my travel plans. I know I shouldn't compare myself to other moms but I'm just trying to find my way here.

Being away from Jack these past few days has made it clear that I am ready to go back to work. For those of you who don't know, I have been working as a nanny for a family with three toddlers and bringing Jack with me to work. So, it's all day, every day, babies all the time. I believe that this is greatly contributing to my insanity. The idea of putting on nice clothes - a suit, heels, and jewelry as opposed to yoga pants and spit-up Tshirts - and driving to my office to sit across from clients sounds SO glorious. No Dora the Explorer. No Candyland. No looking for snails. No diaperchanging. No kissing of booboos or explaining why to a three year old. Going back to work as a therapist sounds so civilized.

So, in between the glasses of long island iced teas, sleeping in until noon, and taking naps at three in the afternoon, I have been sending my resume all over San Diego county, begging for someone to employ this burned out momma. It's been a great week, and I'm not ready for it to end. But I have faith that the tides are turning, that I will once again like my son, and that all will be well. All is well.

Lisa and I wrapped as Carrie's birthday presents, deliverd to her door.It was a fantasy fulfilled to pop out of wrapping paper and yell, SURPRISE! (Hey, notice the dystonia hand)Yeah! Cheerleader clap!The ladies, out on the town. Becky, Lisa, Carrie (looking quite royal, or bridal, maybe), me and Jhyle.Mandy and I gettin jiggy with it. It's hard to look at this picture. In my head, I looked a lot better.I have no idea.

Praise Report

2008-01-28T21:21:00.000-08:00

So, as some of you know, I went a little homicidal momma last week and threw my hands up to the Lord in supplication and prayer. And Jesus heard my prayers. The next day, I got a phone call from my best friend, Carrie's, brother's girlfriend who said she wanted to fly me out to Virginia as a birthday gift to Carrie. SO, I'm getting a free, all expense paid, seven day vacation!

WITHOUT JACK!!!

Jesus, I love you.

Dear Jesus...

2008-01-22T18:35:00.000-08:00

Dear Jesus,

Today has been a hard day. I know that you know this because you saw me kick my TV and throw my sunglasses. I know you saw me crying in my kitchen because Jack wouldn't leave me alone. He just won't leave me alone.

I hate that I want him to leave me alone.

Does this make me a bad mommy, Jesus? Does sometimes regretting having a child make me bad? Because sometimes, when I think about never being able to feel carefree again, never being able to sleep in again, never being able to spontaneously decide to go somewhere without the hassle and cost of finding a babysitter I feel very, very sad. I feel trapped by my own motherhood.

He follows me around the house, whining, saying "Up up up." When I hold him he kicks and squirms to get down. When I put him back down he says, "Up up up." Sometimes I get very angry at this and yell, "What the fuck do you WANT?" I'm sure you wouldn't ever say fuck to your kids, let alone yell at them.

I am convinced that I am permanently damaging him.

Why did I do this? I can barely take care of myself, let along another human being. I feel exhausted and overwhelmed and so, so tired. And I don't see any reprieve in sight. It's not like it's Wednesday at work and Friday's a comin. There are no weekends in parenthood. I could use a weekend, Jesus.

I don't want to be a bad parent. I don't want to not enjoy him. I don't want to feel trapped here inside my apartment, inside this small space of life where I am alone with a very needy child. I don't want to be angry at him for needing me but you saw me today, Jesus, pacing in circles in my kitchen, doing anything I could to keep from screaming at him.

Jesus, I could use a little attention. I could use a little being taken care of, a little nurturing, a little support. Please send me some. Thanks.

Yours truly,

Amber.

You must immediately go and view this.

2008-01-20T11:43:00.001-08:00

My blog best friend's (BBF's) best friend's blog is giggle-during-church funny. This is his most recent addition. Click and laugh!

Why did I EAT that?

2008-01-14T23:05:00.000-08:00

Alright. I just ate an entire bag of Cheetos. Followed by (oh god, this is embarrassing) frozen Cool Whip with chocolate flavored Magic Shell. And I wasn't even hungry. WHY?!

I'm on the verge of something new, but altogether familiar. I'm calling it conscious consumption. Of food, of things, of information, of environment... I'm beginning to notice that I consume stuff entirely too unconsciously, barely awake, reacting to a mood or a fly-by thought. I eat because I'm anxious, waiting for a boy to call. I go shopping because I want to avoid being at home. I buy stuff to feel important, lovable, okay. I know that we all do; I know I'm not hitting on some new concept here. However, I do believe that I'm seeing a way out of it that I have never seen before: through consciousness.

Conscious consuming, to me, looks like asking the question, "Do I really need this right now?" If I had asked myself that question prior to eating the Cool Whip, the answer would have definitely been no. So then I can ask myself, "What is the Cool Whip doing for you?" To which I could answer, "It's providing a distraction." "From what?" I would ask myself. From what?

From feelings of aimlessness, dread, unworthiness. From a sense of isolation. From the incredibly overwhelming feeling of responsibility in taking care of myself and of Jack. From despair. From the nagging voice of my mother who is always telling me that I'm not doing enough.

There are a lot of things that we all do to avoid feeling this stuff and letting it wash over us. We watch TV, smoke cigarettes, drink a few beers, call a friend, shop, eat, check up on the latest Britney news, check our friend's blogs... I know I'm afraid of stillness. I think I'm afraid that all of those feelings are real and that they will overwhelm me. and that I might not ever recover from it. So I eat Cheetos.

At least, this is what I have done up until now. I'm setting an intention to be still. I'm setting the intention to ask myself the questions: Do I need it, What is it doing for me... Most importantly, I intend to ask myself, "What do I really need right now?" Most likely it's not Cheetos or something from the dollar spot at Target or another VH1 countdown. What I could use is my own company, my own presence with myself as I feel whatever sadness or depression or anxiety that I may be feeling at the moment. What I need is to be able to listen to myself fully, completely, as my best friend would, and then say with the utmost confidence, "You know what? This will pass. It always does." I need to give myself permission to fall apart, to throw a tantrum, to be in a bad mood. I need to trust that I won't get stuck in it as I go through it.

I have been exceedingly lucky to have people in my life who, through their loving friendship with me, have shown me what it looks like to treat me with compassion, grace, and unconditional love and support. It's as if Carrie and Billy and Melissa and Donovan and Lynette and Craig and Mirna and Lisa have been my guides and teachers, demonstrating to me how to be more loving with myself. I am truly grateful for having been shown the way.

And now I want to share with you what spurred on this whole shift. My friend, Kate, sent this to me a few weeks ago and I avoided it for a while because I knew it shake the ignorance out of me. Given my penchant for extremes and black and white thinking, I kept all of my radical reactions in check and have not, so far, decided to sell all of my belongings and live with Jack on a commune raising Alpaca. I did, however, rent some of the suggested books listed on the website from the library. This is just an excerpt from the actual, 20 minute video that you can see in it's entirety here.*** I highly recommend it.

The Story of Stuff

***update: The story of stuff website (http://www.storyofstuff.com/) appears to be out of commission, which sucks because there are great links to resources and easy ideas on how to get out of this cycle. I think Big Buisness had something to do with offing the website, if you know what I mean. You can see all seven chapters here. Mahalo!

Have you guys seen this?

2008-01-12T10:48:00.001-08:00

I always hesitate before sending videos I found on youtube to my friends because inevitably they've seen it twenty times already and then I'm that friend who sends outdated, overplayed video links to their inbox. So, with that risk fully understood, I am posting Drunk History.

I cannot wait for their album.

2008-01-09T14:53:00.000-08:00

The Clark Brothers.

What to do, what to do?

2008-01-07T20:15:00.001-08:00

It is so hard to admit that I am not strong enough to hang out with my ex and his girlfriend and my ex's ex and her boyfriend and their kids. I just don't want to be there. I don't really like any of them and I know that they don't like me. I wish that I was able to rise above it all, like some sort of Mother Teresa who hovers above all of the awkwardness and ugliness and remains rooted in her worthiness.

But this is not me. When I am around them I look more like Britney Spears, tweeked out and angry. Being in the home of my ex and his girlfriend is like hanging out in a torturous dream where I am sitting on my old couch, looking at photos that I took and framed, playing board games with the girls that I used to tuck into bed at night. My old bed, at that. With the comforter cover that I sewed. That matches the lamp I bought. And so on.

I am not good at this. I would like to be. I would like all of this to not bother me, to be able to participate in this very non-traditional family system where half of us slept with the other half and we're all okay with this, where there are multiple stepmothers and half siblings and grandparents. I would like to be like Bruce and Demi and Ashton, but I'm just not. And I don't think I ever will be.

I've been judging myself as weak for being unable to rise above it all for the sake of the kids. I've believed that it means that I have some big character flaw, or that I'm too traditional, or that I don't love my stepdaughters or that I never did. I've bought into this belief that I shouldn't still be affected by my ex and that I should be able to be around him without walking away totally wrecked. But oh well. So I'm weak. So I'm traditional. So I'm not done being hurt. Okay.

And so I am faced with asking myself, "Is it serving me to stay involved?" The answer to this is not as simple as it may seem. First of all, it is not in my programming to serve myself or to take care of myself very well. I have been programmed to believe that to serve oneself is selfish and quite un-Christlike. I was taught to put others before myself, to place my needs to the side and ensure that everyone else around my is served first. In the past, I have done this to such an extreme that I have almost died from my own lack of self-nurturing. To give myself permission to help myself first feels nearly impossible, but I am gaining in my experience of doing so the few times I have had the courage.

One of these times was when I left my ex. Getting out of that mess of a relationship was one of the most self-serving, courageous things I have ever done. Being around him was like being around a toxic poison that I had somehow devloped an addiction to. He was no good for me. Yet, I feel a deep obligation to stay connected with his children. I truly believe that to fully remove myself from the situation would be traumatic for them. And so the dilemma emerges: take care of myself or take care of them.

I would give anything to just walk away from him completely. I would love to just have the leisure of deleting his number from my phone and never, ever having to be around his toxic energy ever again. But there are other people involved with whom I feel a duty to remain connected to. It's just not as simple as I would like it to be.

Finally, grace.

2008-01-05T14:28:00.000-08:00

Just a moment ago, I sent off an apology email to a couple of people that I have been avoiding for over six months. I've been avoiding them because I said hurtful and ugly things about them which they overheard. I've been avoiding them because I have been too ashamed to say, "I was hurt. I was angry. I was bitter. I acted this pain out on you because I wanted you to hurt, too. And I am sorry." And by avoiding them, I hurt their kids who now believe that I don't care about them and have abandoned them.

I feel lighter, now. Sending that email was really a big gift to myself. I forgave myself and Compassion came in, soothing me with understanding and grace. I had been punishing myself ever since the mean words came out of my mouth in July and it's nice to hear myself say, "Okay, you've done your time. You can come out of that rotten prison cell of self loathing and shame now."

I understand that those I hurt may not be able to forgive me as I have and I am okay with that. I get that they may choose to protect themselves and their kids from me and this is okay. It really is. I realize that it really is my own forgiveness that I require. I need to tell myself, often, that I will make mistakes and I will hurt people and I won't be perfect in relationships or in life but that this is all okay. I am still okay. I am still worthy of my own compassion and grace, even when and if others decide to deny me theirs.

It's as if I have finally given myself permission to be imperfect. I have held myself to a standard that is quite impossible for anybody to reach. It requires that I not be human, that I never act of out fear or insecurity or anger or hurt. But I am all of these things sometimes. I am scared and I am insecure and I am angry and I am hurt. To deny these feelings is to live a smaller life, a locked up life, a constricted and stinted life. I am not interested.

As of today, I am embracing my humanity in all of its fumblings. I am human. I am silly and serious and scared and stained. I am hairy and bumpy and I don't look like the girls on MTV or in fashion magazines. NOT EVEN CLOSE. I have rolls that hang over the sides of my pants and I hate them. I am often jealous of others, especially people who seem content with their lives. I am convinced that sex with me is extremely disappointing. I am messy and inspiring and disappointing and likeable. I truly believe that if I were skinny I would be happy. I hate that I believe that. I will probably say or do something someday that will offend or hurt you and this is okay. I get it now. It really is okay.

And when and if I do, I will send you a letter asking for you to show me the same grace that I have shown myself. We're all just trying to figure out this life thing and we will bump into one another along the way. I think you're doing the best you can given what you know right now, and if I were there I would give you a high five.

Um, this is so awesome.

2007-12-20T21:54:00.000-08:00

I am enough.

2007-12-19T23:42:00.000-08:00

So, I tried out a new therapist a few weeks ago in the hopes of finding someone who could say to me, "Oh, silly Amber, here's the problem. You just need to do this and you'll feel better." Which is crazy because, as a therapist myself, I know that this rarely happens. But still. I wanted him to help me unearth this thing, this deeply rooted thing that creates so much discomfort in my life and help me kill it good.

Instead, we talked about a lot of things, about this sense of urgency I have to get a job that supports myself and my son, about how I hate my line of work, about how I get both excited and depressed at the idea of leaving Jack at daycare. We talked about how I have irrationally believed that we are all on a sinking ship and that Jesus left me in charge of fixing it. He told me that I was anhedonic- that I have an inability to experience pleasure- and that I need to learn how to let go of this idea that if I am good to myself then others will suffer.

I told him to try growing up in Sunday School and not get that idea. I also told him that he has never seen me in a karaoke bar and if he had, he would not describe me as anhedonic.

I also told him that I do experience pleasure in my life, but then I immediately experience anxiety about it. Pleasure is something I was taught is bad, is not to be trusted, is sinful and indulgent. Be ye not of the flesh, says the Bible and about every youth pastor I ever listened to. Week after week at Bible study I would sit amongst my peers and listen as some girl the youth pastor had recruited to share her "testimony." Head down, voice filled with shame, tears falling down her cheeks, she would recount her story of debauchery and flagrant hedonism. She would tell us about how Satan had deceived her into thinking that using drugs, having sex, and listening to rock-n-roll would make her happy. She would talk about the abortion she had and how she thinks about her unborn baby every day, how she can't go to sleep at night without crying. She would beg us to listen to her story and to give our lives over to God, to be chaste and chase away the temptations of the flesh.

While I think that the intention of her story was to help us avoid creating needless suffering in our young lives, I think that I came away with a different lesson: pleasure = disastrous consequences. This, paired with my totally ridiculous sense of over-responsibility for other people's suffering, makes it very difficult for me to even be aware of what I might just like to do with my life.

LIKE to do with my life. Not should do. Not need to do. Like to do.

(By the way... does anyone know of any job openings for a professional ice-cream over-eater? Or a lay-out-by-the-pool-reading-Candace-Bushnell-novels-
while-sipping-margueritas-er? Perhaps you know someone who has a couch that is in need of someone to lay on it while watching marathons of Project Runway and My Life on the D List. If so, let me know and I'll send them my resume.)

Jesus, who was my Michael Jordan, was a martyr. As it was told to me, he died because the world was so shitty that God was going to kill it unless someone sacrificed his/her life. I wonder if Jesus ever really had fun. I wonder if he went through life feeling really responsible for everybody all of the time. I wonder if he ever said to himself, "You know, there's that leper colony over by Nazareth that I really should go and heal but dammit, I'm tired of sick people. I'd really rather go snowboarding today."

I'm reminded of the time when he was surrounded by needy people and he just vanished into thin air to get away from them. Jesus, I can relate. How did you give yourself permission to take care of yourself? Did you feel guilty for not sticking around?

During dinner tonight with a friend, I was describing this restless malcontent that I experience when I'm not out crusading for something big and important. I've done a lot of crusading and it appears that I have a great deal of my identity all wrapped up in being a savior. I'm having a hard time just being enough as I am right now, a single mom who works as a nanny and an apartment manager and who is exhausted by 7:30pm every night. I'm not "using" my degrees, I'm not writing a book, I'm not contributing to a cause, I'm not reading anything important. This all makes me very nervous. And yet, I can't think of anything that I want to crusade for.

What my new therapist did ask me was this: "What is the most important thing to you right now?" Without hesitation I answered, "That Jack get a good start at life. That I provide him with a solid foundation from which he can flourish." He then asked me, "Are you doing that?" And I knew that I was. I am doing what is most important to me and yet I still feel like it's not enough, that I'm not contributing, that I'm never going to feel useful again.

It's time to unravel this mess of pleasure equals hurt and usefulness equals worthiness. I'm just not sure where to start.

The Polish American Blog War Continues

2007-12-14T11:27:00.000-08:00

The Great Polish-American Blog War appears to have reached a new peak this week as hate mail from Spain and Jesse Spano hurl insults and lyrics at this site. The following missile, fired December 12th, held the following response:

Luis said...
Omg that what u wrote here is just stupid. I am from Spain, and i live in Poland 2 years now ( studies ), and i have to say that Poland is just great. Great beer, food, bread, nice people. And as u see i have computer here ( with fast internet connection ^^) Maybe your friend should move to some bigger city. For example living in some small american town also sux very much.

Analysts are having a hard time agreeing about the intent of the hate mail missile. Some experts say that it was meant to be condescending and insulting, and they point to the words "stupid" and "sux" as evidence to support this theory. Others say that Luis, the alleged hate mail sender, was simply trying to inform us of the many attractions of the country of Poland and possibly offer his advice about small town living. All agree that he completely missed the point.

The second bombing came in early today from nineties teen idol Jesse Spano who disguised her missile as a sappy pop ballad. A source close to Spano said that this song is what "kept her afloat" during her film career disaster, however it is unclear as to why she sent the lyrics to us. Analysts speculate that Spano, like many before her, misunderstood the post entirely and felt inspired to share her world peace perspective through song. While most of the citizens of PB and C will be inclined to laugh at Jesse's misuided and misinformed attempts to rid the world of hatred, we are instead encouraged to feel sorry for her:

Jessesspano93 said...

We can't go on Pretneding day by day That someone, somewhere will soon make a change We are all a part of God's great big family And the truth, you know love is all we need We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day So let's start giving There's a choice we're making We're saving our own lives It's true we'll make a better day Just you and me Words to live by.

Love, Jesse

While there have been no casualies to date, citizens of Peanutbutter and Cigarettes are urged to stay indoors as this war rages on.

For more information about the Great Polish American Blog War, read here and here.

Perfect Guy

2007-12-05T20:01:00.000-08:00

My friend, Carrie, introduced me to an incredible game. It's called Perfect Guy. Perfect Guy was created after she had the experience of going on a date with a guy that she really, really liked. He was intelligent and funny and attractive, and they seemed to share a great deal of interests. He was environmentally conscious and played the guitar and had a great job that he liked. In essence, he was the perfect guy. Carrie was feeling really good about the date until she went to his house and found this on his bed:

Yes, it was a fuzzy unicorn blanket. You know, like the ones that you buy at the border along with the glittery Aztec calendar and the Last Supper wall hanging? Carrie didn't stay the night with Perfect Guy. The blanket had creeped her out.

So now we play Perfect Guy. She describes the perfect guy that I am on the perfect date with and then -WHAM- something that totally creeps me out. So, I thought we could play.

Okay ladies... you're out on a date with that guy you always see at Starbucks. He came over and sat at your table and you discover that he's single, very intelligent, and he laughs as all of your jokes. He's really into that same band that you discovered a few months ago and you have many of the same movies in your top ten. The banter is easy and fun and so he invites you back to his house. You walk in and find this photo hanging on his wall. What do you do?

Okay, here's another one. You're at a bar and the band that is playing has a really hot guy singing lead. He keeps making eye contact with you and you're not surprised when he finds his way to you after the set. You chat and you find that he is just as intelligent and interesting as he is hot. He talks openly about his life and seems very interested in learning about yours. He's grounded and insightful and thoughtful; the perfect guy. You walk outside to have a smoke with him and start kissing. You take off his hat and find this underneath.

Good Lord.

Okay, one more. You're on your third date with the Perfect Guy. He's a professor of philosophy at the university and he does stand up comedy on the weekends on amateur night. On date number two, he took you to karaoke bar and proved that singing Barry Manilow can be sexy. He compliments your writing, pays attention to the conversation, and noticed that you got a new haircut. He's sexy and smart and sensitive, your perfect guy. Except for one little thing...

Run. Run for the hills.

Okay, it's your turn....

(By the way, what inspired this post was the discovery of this store's Christmas catalog at my friend's house with this photo inside. Oh, and this one.)

Just Joey

2007-12-03T19:37:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, several months ago I went on a little adventure called online dating. Broke as I was, I decided to go the fee-less route and post an ad on Craig's List. This proved to be incredibly entertaining, if not addicting. I entitled my post, "Seeking a man who is under forty but not emotionally retarded." Needless to say, I got a lot of GREAT responses, and by great I mean a bunch of photos of penises. Why, oh why, would you send me a photo of your penis? Just because you want to see my stuff does NOT mean that I want to see yours. Immediate delete.

There were several other things that could show up in an email that would get an immediate delete. Bad spellling. Poor grammar.. Not capitalizing the word i. Any mention of Nascar or of a probation officer. If certain criteria were met, I wrote back and a banter would ensue. Eventually, I went on three dates. One was with a history professor at UCSD who took me to a jazz concert. I hate jazz. Another was with a really, really funny Engineer from India who I couldn't get enough of on the phone but who I was not at all attracted to in person. I liked him so much, though, that I decided that maybe I could become attracted to him and so I asked him out on a second date. He declined. Awesome. My third Craig's Lister was a DA for San Diego county, a really nice guy that I accidentally on purpose lost his phone number because he couldn't make fun of people with me.

Then there's Just Joey. Just Joey emailed me in response to my post asking if we could speak on the phone because he prefers the "intimacy of conversation over writing." I thought, why the hell not, called the guy and spoke with him for over two hours. He was fascinating and had lived what felt like 14 lives in just this lifetime. He was sweet and funny and courteous and intelligent. He had two kids who lived with him full time and was hoping to have more children someday. He asked a lot of questions, said really nice things to me like, "God, you are just so much fun to talk to," and "I've never met a woman like you," and "I live on the beach in Coronado." Whoa, what?

Turns out Just Joey is a millionaire. Yup, a real estate millionaire. I found this out after talking to him almost every day for two weeks. Several weeks after that, I asked him how he got involved in that kind of business (given that he's a helicopter pilot, by day) and he told me when he ran away from home when he was 16 years old, lived on the streets of Queens, and worked as a bookie for the mafia before he joined the navy that he had learned a great deal about business and making money. Um, yeah. Wait, did you say the mafia?

He kept dropping these bombs on me. BOOM, I'm a millionaire, BOOM I'm in the mafia, BOOM, I was a Navy SEAL (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that one to you. For twelve years, a Navy SEAL.). Every conversation, I would wait to learn something new about him, and not just something sorta interesting like the kind of wine he prefers, but that he was a trapeze artist with Cirque du Soliel before he was recruited by NASA for the space program (Okay, no he wasn't, but I wouldn't have been surprised).

Here's the best part of it all. At some point into our conversation, he sends me his photo. Are you ready for this? Brace yourselves....

So, this sort of freaked me out. I mean, it appears as though he bends playground equipment in his spare time. But, as my friend Carrie said, "Amber, he could toss you around like a doll in bed." Right-o, Carrie. Point well taken.

He was calling me every night, this Navy SEAL millionaire daddy, and I was intrigued but not convinced. There were a lot of red flags. He drove a Hummer. He told me that his ex-wife would get mad at him for making jokes while she was angry with him. He was afraid to let others affect him. I knew from what he told me about his childhood that he was out to prove that no one would ever, ever hurt him again. He also told me that he believed that everyone was out to get him, even inanimate objects.

Big. Red. Flags. But, what Carrie said, like a doll...

I was excited to meet him, if anything just to see this guy in person. And I figured it would be fun to date a rich guy for a minute or two. Hey, maybe we would fall in love, have a huge, Italian wedding, move to the penthouse suite of some Vegas Casino that his mafia buddies own, and vacation on the Jersey shore. Ya never know.

And then, after many weeks, Just Joey stopped calling. I left him a message. Sent him a text. Left one more message and then left it at that, bummed that I wouldn't have a better story to tell. A friend of mine is convinced that Just Joey is actually Just Steve, some middle-aged tax accountant who lives in his mother's basement and beats the loneliness posing as a millionaire former SEAL. He's probably right.

Except that he called me three months later. Apologized for not being in touch, said that work had "taken him out of the country" for a while and that he would like to get together. What? What does that mean?

Anywho, that's my story of Just Joey. I wish it had a more interesting ending, and I wish I could tell you whether or not he's real. Nothing would surprise me with this guy. Oh, and if your life ever gets boring, post a personal ad on Craig's List and let the fun begin!

Hate Mail (or, Why I Don't Hate Poland)

2007-11-30T17:40:00.000-08:00

Back in June, I wrote a piece called Why I Hate Poland. It really had nothing to do with Poland except that Poland is where my best and sorely missed friend is living for a year abroad. I, not knowing how much I would anger all of my Polish readers, thought it would be funny to blame my sadness and loneliness on the entire country of Poland, a sort of ridiculous displacement of my feelings. I also thought that the ridiculousness of this would come through in my writing, however apparently I thought wrong. Poles, it seems, are a very proud people. Just take a look at this response:

"You're a complete idiot, especially when it comes Poles and Poland. People are not friendly? Bad pickled food? Yes, I'm sorry, we seem to have embraced that exclusive dining establishment known as "Taco Bell." You're a prime example why people laugh at Americans abroad." ~Anonymous

Whoa there, anonymous. I mean, you are quite worked up about all of this. A complete idiot? I'd say I'm just 30% idiot, 20% hot vixen, and 50% astonished that you could have missed my point so entirely! Oh, and by the way, you should hear what they say about Polacks here in America.

That is what the hurt would have said. But instead, I just wrote:
"Dear Anonymous, Dear, dear anonymous. Ah..."

So, I was a little frazzled. It was my first blog hater, and I was a surprised at how jarring of an experience it was. That and how personally offended Anonymous was. And how much he/she had missed the point. I mean, he/she was really angry, and really really off the point. Eventually (and after several emergency sessions with my therapist), I forgot about it and moved on.

However, I was reminded of it when a few months later someone named Lisa wrote this:

"I hate anonymous."

...which got this titillating, if not scathing, response:

"You're a prime example why people laugh at Americans abroad."- -Anonymous You're great!!! ps. Wkońcu ludzie na świecie widzą kim są Amerykanie. A według mnie to niżej spaśc już nie mogą. And Lisa who are you? An American? I think so... you can only write: " I hate you" but you can't even defend yourself and your country. And you know why? Because you have not any arguments. And speaking of Poland, don't criticize my country, you surely have not a better one. No one really knows how it is to live in Poland, you must live here to know that. And Poland compared to America is a heaven. Sorry for mistakes.

Whoa, again. Whoa, whoa whoa. What the eff is going on? Who are these super sensitive Poles, anywho? And how are they finding my blog? There are no Poland haters in the house. Okay? Seriously. Maybe the humor doesn't translate, maybe there are entire blogs out there devoted to hating Poland and you're sick of it, maybe the Polack jokes have made their way back to you and you're furious. I don't hate Poland! I don't even know Poland! It was a lame title for a lame post. I get it. Jeez!

Okay, so, fast forward to a couple of weeks ago and, BANG! Another response to add to the Polish-American Blog War of 2007, this time delivered by yet another "Anonymous:"

It's almost hilarious how nervous Polacks become one someone complains that they don't admire ANYTHING in that HEAVEN :D And then they post their devastating anti-american criticism with shaking hands, putting in some angry words in Polish to prove they're better (well they DO know an extra language except English, wow!)... AMUSING !! GO POLACKS !! :P But seriously... those people really should chill out and abandon their collective thinking. No, Poland is not Heaven not even compared to the US, and yes, Polish food sucks. Please don't kill me for my opinions.

No, it's not you who will be killed, it will be me. Thanks to this guy, Mr. I'm Totally Condescending While Trying To Come Off as Jovial and Intellectual, I'm going to end up on some Polish Mafia hit list. Please, if I don't post for over a month, inform the authorities!

Dear Diary...

2007-11-28T20:04:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since she's come out, but it's time for another rousing rendition of

MY JUNIOR HIGH DIARIES!

March 29, 1990 (Rachel's B-day) Tuesday

There's a lot of catching up to be done. On March 6, or 7, Ruthie O. told me that Jeremy Clookie likes me. At first, it was like, Jeremy? I barely know him. But, as the days went on, I started to like him. And to this day, I still do. He knows that I like him, I know that he likes me, and we both have the same feelings about "going with people-" we hate it. We both think it's stupid. He's not too cute, although he isn't ugly - at all. He's got a temper and a half, but he's totally sweet to me.

Then, about a week ago, Ruth, Amber and Shay came up to me and told me that I was being a jerk, a stuck-up snob, and all I could do was talk, brag, and think about Jeremy. Sure, I loved (underlined) to brag about him. He's the only guy who's ever liked me, and I've liked him since Scott Kurtz. We talked about it, and it hurt, it really hurt to hear them talk the way they did. Maybe they didn't realize it, but those words were going into a girl's ears who's put up with enough hard times already.

Well, anyway, I don't even know if he still likes me, I still like him, I know that. I have a feeling that he kinda, sorta likes me, but not like he used to. DARN.

I'm getting my hair cut on Friday - real short. About to the ears (A little longer).

Well, gotta jam. It's 10:11pm.

Reason Number 327 Why I Should Not Watch TV.

2007-11-27T23:02:00.000-08:00

I now cry during every episode of Law and Order, SVU. This is one of the side effects of motherhood that they don't tell you about. So is the heart-stopping fear that comes with the realization that your kid might end up on an episode of Intervention some day. Or worse: that he won't, but will need to be.

There are times when I hold him so tightly, hold on to him for dear life while images of him being molested by some creepy babysitter go running through my head like crazed Vikings, pillaging the nicer fantasy I hold of him becoming a well-balanced and emotionally intelligent young man. Every night, as I rock him to sleep, I pray these words out loud, more to soothe me than him, more to remind me than to teach him, more so that I will be able to sleep rather than ready him for bed:

The light of God surrounds us,

The love of God enfolds us,

The power of God protects us,

And the presence of God watches over us;

Wherever we are, God is and all is well.

Living with Jack is like living with my most vital organ running around outside of my body, totally vulnerable to some angry person to kick at. My friend, Melissa, once asked me what it felt like to be reunited with him after not seeing him for a while and I told her it feels like coming up for breath after a long time under water. I can breathe again. You are here. I can hold you, safe.

My Own American Pie Moment

2007-11-10T16:49:00.000-08:00

If you are one of my two brothers, my mom or my dad, or anybody else who has a vested interest in never, ever thinking of me as a sexual person, I strongly urge you to stop reading. Immediately. Because I'm about to tell a story about being walked in on while, well, you know.

I'm not even sure why I feel so compelled to write this story. What happened today is now in my Top Ten Most Awkward and Uncomfortable Moments List, along with #2) missing a very dramatic key change during a solo in front of the entire student body of my college, and #6) talking shit about my ex's new girlfriend who, I later found out, happened to be sitting right behind me catching every word. I suppose I am hoping that telling you my gutwrenchingly shameful story will get me to the point where it is funny instead of painful, because right now it's just painful. Really, really painful.

Okay. So here goes. (Deep breath). My friends (who will remain anonymous for reasons you will soon understand) offered to watch Jack for me overnight, a gift that is so overwhelmingly kind that I feel like I should turn my life over to them with the same kind of devotion that Christians turn their lives over to Jesus. In fact, I think I could be a devotee to a guru/teacher/prophet who provided free childcare and occasionally bought me coke slurpees. But I digress.

So, on this childless day after a childless night, I experienced two things that I have not had since before I became a mom. One of these was a full night's sleep followed by a morning of sleeping in. Glorious. The other was an orgasm. Also, although I shouldn't have to say it, glorious.

Now let me preface all of this by letting you know that, since Jack was conceived, I have had as much interest in having sex as I have had in learning about cold fusion. That is to say, I have none. I'm just not interested. Let's put it this way: Sex used to be like NBC or some other major network channel on my internal TV. Since pregnancy, it's been relegated to some channel in the high seventies, like the Home Shopping Network or CSPAN, channels I just flip right through while surfing. I didn't even experience the crazy sex dreams and heightened sex drive that all of the pregnancy books talk about and post-partum mothers literally get dizzy over while recalling them ("And there was this one with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie..."). And when I say that I have not had any interest in sex, I'm not just talking about having sex with someone else. I have not had sex - any sex - in over two years.

When I tell people this, they usually seem very shocked (note: What? Do you think I'm a hussy?) and worried, like I've just told them I've been diagnosed with cancer. They try to cover their concern, saying things like, "Oh, that's normal. My sex drive took ages to come back, too." While surrounded by her children who are 11 months apart. Or I love it when my non-parent friends chime in on the make-Amber-feel-okay-campaign. It usually goes like this:

Me: I haven't had sex since Jack was conceived.

Them, trying to minimize their surprise, which is hard when one sprays soda out of one's mouth: Really? But isn't that, like, normal? I mean, you just had a baby.

Me: A year and a half ago.

Them: Oh, right. But you're single. It's not like you have a boyfriend or a husband to have sex with...

Me: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?

So, today, when I suddenly and out of nowhere felt, well..., interested, I abandoned all other plans for organizing my kitchen cupboards and quickly drew a bath. I glanced at the clock and realized that I didn't know when my nameless friends would be coming by to drop Jack off (umm, no pun intended). Wanting to time things correctly, I game them a call and learned that I had about 45 minutes before they would come over - plenty of time! I told them that I was hopping in the shower and would see them when they got here.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that it was what you might imagine it would be like if you had not had sex for over two years. And let's just say that I let my feelings out about how great this all was quite vocally. Loudly, actually. Like, think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Several times.

Okay, so I get out of the shower and am drying off when-

"Uh, Amber, we're in your house." It's my nameless friend. She pops her head inside my bedroom door, which is now closed but wasn't before I took my shower. Which means that she closed it. "We just didn't want you to freak out."

It's too late. I am freaking out. I felt like I had been caught with my hand inside the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was, well... never mind. "Oh, hey. How did you guys get in here?" I didn't ask the obvious question: Did you just hear me fucking myself?

My friend is not making eye contact with me. She is trying very hard to act interested in the carpet. Thoughts are racing through my mind as I try to assess the situation. Maybe they didn't hear me. Maybe they stayed out in the kitchen area, far away from the bathroom. Maybe they just got here. But all is shattered when she says,"Oh, I had to break in. Through your bedroom window."

Which, my beloved internet friends, is right next to my bathroom. I mean, we're talking the same room. She had been, at the most, five feet away from me.

"I'm sorry I had to break in. I really had to use your bathroom or we would have just waited outside until you were done..., er, with your shower."

There is no way to recover from this. Trust me, I have thought and thought and thought about this all day, and the only response to what was happening at that moment was to simply pretend that everything was normal. Except that I couldn't. I felt like there was no air in the room. I couldn't speak, couldn't make a coherent sentence, couldn't say something interesting or witty or clever to camouflage what was really going on. I felt like I had just been..., well, caught having sex with myself. I mean, that pretty much explains it.

"Alright, well..., I'll be out in a minute," I said. As I got dressed, every sound, every moan and groan (seriously, I really hope my brothers aren't reading this) came flooding back into my memory, each one nearly sending my out my bedroom window and down the street, never to speak to my friends again. I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room to find my nameless friend's husband, sitting at my table with his head down on his arms. As if to stifle the pain.

I felt naked. "Hi," I attempted.

"Hey Amber," he said, lifting his head but not looking at me. His wife was outside, smoking a cigarette. I wanted to have one, too, but knew I couldn't enjoy it. I stood there, not sure what to do or say or where to go and then- savior of all saviors, Jack came bounding into the room, providing a burst of fresh, non-sexualized air into the room. Man, was it good to see him.

"Jack!" I cried. My friend came inside and the conversation shifted around Jack... the time of his last poopy, how well he did at the grocery store, how much he ate at breakfast. It was a nice diversion.

My nameless friends left quickly, and without much ado. It was as if we all just wanted to get out of my house, get out of the awkwardness and get on with the business of forgetting all about this horrible afternoon. I'm not sure I will ever know if they were privy to the end of my dry spell, and quite frankly I don't think I want to know. I'm quite content with keeping up the pretense of normalcy. Hell, I've been doing it my entire life.

And if you're reading this, my nameless friend, please pretend that you didn't. Just say something like, "Well, I haven't had a chance to read your blog in a really long time." We can just keep pretending that nothing happened. Really.

I Heart San Diego

2007-10-31T09:34:00.000-07:00

Last week, I didn't hear a thing about Brangelina or Britney or Paris. For a full week we had something more important to talk about than where Jake Gyllenhaal had lunch and who is freinemies with who. For six or seven days, the media took a break from Hollywood and focused it's attention a few miles south on San Diego.

Not only did the media take a break from Hollywood, but it also took a break from the war in Iraq and the evils of Blackwater. It took a break from telling me about all of the political drama happening in Washington and it didn't attempt to persuade me to hate a gay senator. Last week, I didn't hear a single report of an attempted robbery, a drive-by shooting, a convicted sex offender being released into the community, a teacher being charged with statutory rape for sleeping with her student. I didn't hear about how the economy was slipping or what is causing the earth to die or why this or that political party is ruining the country. And I didn't miss it.

What I saw instead inspired me. What I saw gave me hope in the human race. What I saw made me want to become a better person. What I saw was San Diegans coming to the aide of one another, donating their time, money, energy, homes, land, food, tents, cots, service, skills, and prayers for those who lost their homes. I saw images of Qualcomm stadium where the evacuees were being entertained by musicians, cared for by doctors, and listened to by crisis counselors. I saw heroic acts of courage and compassion by the firefighters and the amazing acts of kindness and thoughtfulness shown by neighbors.

What's more is that I saw the reporters praising the firefighters, acknowledging the competence of the county officials, remarking about the compassion and generosity of the volunteers. In fact, I was inundated with it! All day long, all week long, images of mountains of donated goods at evacuation sites, videos of people cooperating with the police, interviews with caring people willing to give up their yard for an evacuated horse or their spare bedroom for a displaced family. The entire San Diego community, it seemed, was coming together.

I'm not sure if it was an intentional shift in reporting the news, but I loved it. The radio and the TV were filled with good news, positive news, about how people were helping one another and being in service to one another and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to be like all of these good people all around me, lending hope and support to those in need. I wanted to be a part of what my community was doing: demonstrating compassion.

And I was not alone in this feeling. Other people around me have talked about how nourished we were by the news, how it made us believe in community again, how it made us proud to be from San Diego where so many good people live. This is such a different feeling than what I usually get when I listen to or watch the news: anger, fear, despair, hopelessness...

I know that the media aires the stories of brutality, violence, and destruction because these stories appeal to our anger and fear. However, it is true that what we give attention to grows. And I believe that if we were shown stories that appeal to our compassion and hope we would see a major shift in our communities, and even the entire planet. This was proven to me last week by the people living here in San Diego who, like me, were inspired and motivated to let the best parts of us show up.

Over the past few days, normal programming has returned to the radio and TV stations and I am no longer interested in listening. I find myself wishing there was a "good news" program that I could dial into and watch inspiring stories of men and women doing what we are all capable of: service and good work. I wish that, instead of hearing about how this war will never, ever end, I could hear a story about how a woman in Nebraska found a way to support Iraqi mothers from her kitchen table. I wish that, instead of watching images of gang bangers shooting up neighborhoods in my community I could be shown a story about the afterschool community center across my street that found a way to give adolescents a sense of purpose and meaning.

Until that channel exists, I have decided to put my TV in the closet. And you know what? I'm okay. It turns out that I really don't need to know what Jake Gyllenhaal had for lunch or what bizarness Britney is involved in lately. I decided to leave my TV career on a high note, with memories of the community of San Diego supporting one another in compassion and service.

Mother Amber, full of grace...

2007-10-30T10:57:00.001-07:00

Last night, in the parking lot of Best Buy, I was unbuckling Jack from his stroller when I heard a terribly curt voice say, "I don't want to hear about it! Deal with it!" I looked up involuntarily and saw a woman walking toward me who looked like she had simply had it. I mean, if looks could kill, the whole parking lot would have blown up in a mushroom cloud. Ticked off and annoyed wouldn't even come close to describing how this woman was feeling. Walking behind her was a waif-y teenage girl, presumably her daughter, wearing a look of smug indifference to match her very short denim shorts. I immediately hated her.

Now, on any other day and prior to becoming a mother myself, I would have thought something like, "My, my, my... What horrible parenting. Clearly she needs to work on her anger management skills and learn how to communicate her frustration with her daughter's behavior in a less hurtful way. I'm so glad that I'm such a better person, altogether." Today, I just wanted to hug her and hand her a Margarita.

The worst parts of me show up on days like today. I never thought I would be the type of mother (or nanny) who would snap at her kids, say things with total exasperation like, "What do you WANT?!" I didn't expect to be able to identify, so clearly, with the parents that I have been in judgment of for so long. I'm not sure what I did expect. To be able to rise above what every other human mother has experienced? To be so enlightened that the sound of crying for an hour and a half straight doesn't make me dream about hopping in my car, driving to Mexico, and never coming back?

Maybe it's time to start accepting that being in human form is awkward and difficult and it comes with all sorts of wild emotions and experiences that can't always be perfectly contained or managed, no matter how young or old we are or how many master's degrees we have accumulated. Maybe it's time I stop making this wrong, making myself wrong, making others wrong for having a human experience. Like Lorenzo, who has been screaming from his bedroom for the past 55 minutes while I've been writing this. And me, who wants to go up there and "give him something to really cry about."

And This Doesn't Help.

2007-10-30T10:30:00.000-07:00

Meet Miss Douglas, the Tone Deaf Trumpeter

2007-10-12T23:06:00.000-07:00

I don't usually do videos on my blog, but I found this one and I decided that it was my duty to acquaint you with Miss Douglas, my new best friend. My favorite part is when she "shoots" her trumpet. God love her.
Tone-Deaf Star Wars Trumpet

Add to My Profile More Videos

Flood

2007-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

In psychotherapy, we use the term emotional flooding to describe the sensation of experiencing many emotions bursting forward at the same time, which can be a very overwhelming experience. In plumbing, we use the term water damage to describe what happened to my apartment two weeks ago when some flooding of the non-emotional sort took place. Also a very overwhelming experience.

I know that there is some sort of symbolism in water flowing out of my front door like Niagra Falls, but I don't want to explore how my outer experience is a reflection of my inner experience. In fact, I don't even really want to be present to my life right now. I would much rather numb out with TV and peanutbutter ice cream, lock my doors and turn off my cell phones and just sort of go away. I would, if it weren't for Jack, who yanks me out of unconsciousness with his demand to live life fully.

I've been angry at Jack for slapping me awake, wishing he would just let me sleep for ten minutes. Please. Just ten minutes. But maybe life knew that to allow me to do so would be quite dangerous and so sent Jack to be my EMT, always shouting at me, "Stay with me! Stay with me!" But oh, how I just want to shut my eyes sometimes.

Lauching of Just Jack!

2007-09-16T22:46:00.000-07:00

I decided that Jack needed a whole blog to himself. This is, I know, quite an over-the-top-obnoxious-mother thing to do, but it's precisely why I'm doing it over there and not here all of the time.

So, in the event that you are as addicted to really cute things like this and this and this, you might just want to pop over to

Just Jack!

Conversations With Bod

2007-09-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

I loved being pregnant. I loved it! I loved it so much that I think that the only reason I want more children is so that I can be pregnant again. In fact, if you know anyone who needs a surrogate, call me. Seriously.

There were plenty of things about my pregnancy that turn women off to the whole process forever. I was very sick during the first trimester, throwing up daily and often. My feet swelled up to the size of small cantaloupes, making wearing shoes impossible. My arms were constantly falling asleep, I gained weight EVERYWHERE, and I am still convinced that Jack had a twin sister that was growing in my newly developed double chin.

But, glory of all glories, I didn't have to suck in my belly anymore. Sweet God and Oprah. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Peter, Paul and Mary. Ashley and Mary Kate, I didn't have to suck in my damn belly anymore. I have been sucking it in for as long as I can remember. Do you understand how wonderful this is, people? Do you really comprehend the marvelousness of no longer sucking it in? Can you grasp the splendor? If so, you are probably like me and have been wearing tight, binding undergarments designed to smooth out the bumpy, lumpiness that has accumulated at your midsection. I, for one, have had a hate-hate relationship with my tummy my entire life. There has been no love present between us ever. In fact, I had come to believe that all of the bad things in my life were, in fact, caused by it. "Because of you," I would say to my tummy, "I am unloveable." I am less than. I am an untouchable. My life just made more sense as a pregnant woman. The amount of food I consume normally is justifiable when I am pregnant. People would watch me reach for a second helping of ice cream, would nod in approval and exclaim, "You're eating for two now, so go for it!," And speaking of food, cravings are totally cool, too. It's perfectly acceptable to drive to Taco Bell at 2:00am when you're pregnant. Not so much when you're not. And you know what else is fabulous about being pregnant? Maternity clothes! Oh, God, maternity clothes. How I love maternity clothes. My body just fits in maternity clothes, and I mean my non-pregnant body. So, as soon as I found out I was pregnant I had made my way into Pea in the Pod and Motherhood as if I were traveling to Mecca, my shopping utopia. I look good in maternity clothes. They are designed to show off a swelling belly and I was happy to oblige them. I put on the paneled pants (Oh, God, to wear paneled pants again...) and the blousy, empire-wasted shirt and suddenly I was transformed from an overweight, apple shaped woman trying to stuff herself into her clothes to a glowing, radiant mother-to-be. The transformation was instant. I was now allowed to have a belly. Oh, man, how I embraced this. I would sit with my hands crossed over my round stomach, as pregnant women do, and feel the freedom of being able to draw attention to this part of my body that I have loathed and hidden and hated for so long. I would rub the surface of it, feel such tenderness for it, for what it held inside. And while so many expectant women hate it when people reach out and touch their belly, I found this to be, by far, the best part about being pregnant. I absolutely loved it. Or maybe I should say my tummy loved it, for it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced such gentle, loving touch. She was the center of attention, in a good way for once. People were drawn to her, longed to be close to her, to touch her and draw from her the goodness that she held within her. Bright, happy faces would surround her and tell her that she was beautiful, that she was loved, that she was a miracle. I know that I should be able to tell her- or myself- all of this when I am not pregnant, but I just don't buy it. I don't believe it. Instead, I tell her- my tummy- that she is disgusting and horrible and the reason for all of my pain. I tell her that I wish she didn't exist, that I would like to have her removed from my life, and that without her I would be happy. Who wants to hear that? I have heard it, from past lovers and brothers and strangers, even. And it sucks to hear it. It's actually quite devastating. And yet, I say it to myself every day, over and over and over again. So I've decided to take my tummy and me to therapy, as if we were some old, married couple who have lived a lifetime together in misery, to see if we can learn how to love one another again. I plan to write about it here, but it scares me to do so, as if I am forcing myself to get undressed in front of the classroom. But I feel compelled to share my journey, my conversation with my body, no matter how ugly and lumpy and awkward it may be. And maybe as I do so I will look around and find bright, happy faces telling me that I am a miracle.

Bear witness with me.

2007-09-15T20:01:00.001-07:00

I can't take the emails anymore. I can't look at another dead Iraqi baby in the arms of a US soldier, can't handle the videos of the sobbing widow hunched over her husband's casket, can't look at one more image of a house turned to rubble, bloodied children standing outside of it with looks of horror and fear on their faces.

I just can't take it. Pictures, like this one, send me into a spiral of despair and anger and terrible fear that this atrocity is happening and there is no apparent end to it in sight. How can this be happening? For the love of God, how can this be happening?

Every time I get an email forwarded to me with subject lines like, "Support our Troops! Watch This Video and Pass it On," I am filled with dread and my first instinct is to delete it. I don't want to spend the rest of my night in a dark cloud of despair. I don't want to be huddled over as waves of nausea and panic crash over my body. I don't want to see the Iraqi mother holding her dead child and be suddenly and terrifyingly transported into her world where it is me holding a lifeless Jack. But it is too late. In an instant, I am experiencing her horror and disbelief, her rage and fear, her sorrow and devastating grief. I feel it instantly, knowing that the grief of losing a child, in Iraq or in America, is exactly the same.

It's because of her, and the thousands like her, that I open the emails and watch the videos. I watch to grieve with her, to honor the love that she had for the child that was here for so little time, to witness the loss of that which was the most valuable thing she had. I watch to honor the life that someone else didn't in the hopes that somehow this will ease the loss for her. I watch so that I can say to her, "I see your son. He was here and now he is gone. He was the most beautiful thing to ever grace this planet. I loved him, too." I watch to mourn with her because it is all I know to do.

I love you. I am with you. Peace. Be still.

Treading Water

2007-08-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

I thought that I would be excited to see Jack after a weekend away with friends in L.A., but I wasn't. I mean, I was for a few seconds. I was happy to see that he was happy to see me, happy to smell his boyish, yeasty smell, happy to see his little brown eyes and his big, apple-shaped head. But along with all of that came the panic and the hollow-chested feeling that makes breathing hard to do. Along with his sweet, musty smell came the despair of knowing that I am totally alone in the caregiving of this child, that I am responsible for his needs, that it will be only me who will change his every diaper, answer his every cry, take away every dangerous object out of his hand today. Like the plastic bag he just came into the room carrying.

I am overwhelmed by his needs and ashamed at how little I enjoy meeting them. I hate that I hate motherhood. I hate all of the books that say, "Ask your husband to do this or that when you are feeling overwhelmed and tired." I don't have a goddamn husband. I wish I did, but only because then I would have someone to shoulder the responsibility for this little being of light.

I don't know what to do or how to move forward. I need someone to come and take care of me as I take care of Jack, someone to say, "Okay, now, it's time to eat. Then it will be nap time until four and then you need to go grocery shopping and here's the list." I feel pressure to make a decision about my life, to decide what's best for me, but I honestly cannot figure that out. Every choice feels scary; I still have Jack wrapped around my ankles, tripping me up.

When I was training to be a lifeguard in high school, I was required to tread water for 10 minutes while holding two, one-gallon milk jugs filled with water above my head. This image comes to mind as I write, of me swimming wildly, my legs kicking and cramping and it's getting dark out here as I hold myself and Jack above my head, above the water. I can't set either one of us down, but if I hold on to both I'm bound to get tired.

Lost. Reward if Found.

2007-08-14T00:16:00.000-07:00

Where did my enthusiasm go? It’s been missing for a while, and in its place sarcasm and despair have made themselves welcome, nestling into my life like an unwelcome houseguest that I feel too small to throw out. And now I’m considering abandoning my home just to be rid of its ugly presence, but I have a nagging feeling that it might just follow me wherever I go.

Exuberance is mirrored to me everywhere, people who are engaged in and excited about their lives, and instead of inspired I am filled with shame and deep sadness. I should be like that, I tell myself. I used to be like that. What is wrong with me?

Tonight, like the night before and the nights before that, I couldn’t wait to put Jack to bed. Oh, thank God it’s seven o’clock. Just a half hour to go. Just a half hour before I can numb out, watch TV, smoke a cigarette, eat several platefuls of food, read email. Just a half hour left before I don’t have to be conscious anymore, or pretend to be. Just a half hour left of keeping him busy, keeping him safe, keeping him out of my hair.

But as I am laying him down I am aware that I have not looked at him in the eyes, have not savored him, have not enjoyed him, have not engaged or embraced him today. He has been a nuisance,a bother, a thing to feed and distract and do. I know that I am missing out on him, missing out on my life with him,

missing out on something very, very precious that I will never get back. I am missing out on my life.

Where did my enthusiasm go? I don’t want to play, don’t want to get down on the floor and wrestle, don’t want to look for snails or get wet in the

sprinkler. I want to watch this episode of The Real World instead. I want to numb out.

The kids try to engage me, look for signs of life. I disappoint them every day, annoyed that they won’t just go play by themselves. Just go play over there, I say. Let me be.

They eventually stop trying. I have become a disengaged adult.

Disinvested.

Enthusiasm is all around me, like in the John Denver tribute I watched on TV, or in the conviction in which the Supernanny coaches the parents that look like me, in my brother and sister-in-law as they follow their dreams to distant lands, in the voice of my friend who calls to tell me that he has passed his licensing exam. It’s in the newly engaged and energetic couple I met at the party I went to just to pass the time, to swallow up the hours of a long Saturday afternoon.

And it’s in Jack. Jack, my little mirror, reflecting back to me what it looks like to live and to love living. Jack, whom I am afraid, hasalready learned not to expect me to dance when he dances, to squeal with him as he squeals, to be delighted with him by the water in the bathtub as it pours out from the faucet.

I have become his unwelcome houseguest, living off of his energy, sucking it in like a gaping black hole.

Where did my enthusiasm go? Where are you, free spirit? Where are you, joy? Where are you, spontaneity, glee? Have you seen my positive outlook? Have you seen my good friend, laughter? She’s been missing for a while. If you see her, tell her I’d like her to
come back home.

Dear Diary...

2007-08-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

Another juicy excerpt from my junior high diaries.

(I strongly urge you to read every one of them... they're heavenly.)

January 19, 1989 (12 years old)

Today at school Amber (note to reader: my best friend in junior high was a girl named Amber Rady. We were "the Ambers," or "Amber ditto" as we liked to call ourselves. Uggh. Doesn't this just make you hate junior higher even more?) did a pretty stupid thing. I'll start from the beginning. Jayme Shephard has been having some friend problems like Michelle Tadeo and Leeanna Miller have really left her out and haven't been treating her very well. Well one day Jayme and I were kind of talking about her problems and some of mine. Melissa Maddux had just called her an A. She was crying and I told Amber about it, which was pretty stupid of me. Amber went out and talked to Miss Arend (today) or first she said to Miss A that she wanted to talk to her about it. I wrote Amber a note saying that I thought it was none of her business and she should just leave Jayme alone. If she wants help, she can get it herself. She got really mad and later Jenny Sipp told me that she went down the halls saying "I hate Amber Rice." I tried to persuade her but she went to Miss Arend anyways. Miss Arend came out and talked to Jayme. I asked Jayme what she said and she said that she mostly just said, "if you ever need help then you can come to me" and so on. But Jayme has really changed. She says that she feels God is leading her away from Michelle and Leeanna and God is working in her life. It's really neat to hear her saying things like that. I'm glad she's changed. I hope to become her friend.

January 26, 1989 (seven days later)

Me and Amber made up either yesterday or the day before, I can't remember. It was kind of lame because the thing with Amber is that she always wins. When we talk to each other about the fights we had she always has something good to say and I don't. So I sit there after she has made a really smart remark, waiting for her to say more. By the way - the reason I'm writing so sloppy is because I'm up in the tree in the front yard. Today was twins day and I was twins with Shay Nelson. We looked pretty good. Mrs. Ross and her daughter, Kristen won, though. We were second. I got my hair cut and it looks pretty good. Shay was cool about not winning, but truely I wanted to win. I thought we were real good and we should have won. My goal is to be more like Shay: not drawing attention, calm, nice to everyone, and so on. I know, this doesn't have to do with much but I think Amber thinks I'm teacher's pet for Miss Arend. She thought that way for Shay because Shay passed out papers and other stuff. Amber looks at me funny and stuff. She probably thinks I'm a trator. The thing is that I think I'm teacher's pet also. Not a lot, but a little. Miss Arend is really strict and not very nice but can give you a 1000 watt smile that just makes you feel like Miss Arend loves you!

Why I Hate Japan

2007-07-30T19:48:00.000-07:00

My brother is leaving for Japan. In a few days, both he and his wife will be gone. I can't even begin to describe how much this hurts to write. But I write because I need to write about it, need to give this grief a voice, need to get it outside of me.

I don't want to think about how empty my life will feel without them in it. I don't want to imagine the times when I will want to walk next door to their apartment and realize that they aren't there. I don't want to deal with reality that they have made living here tolerable.

And I really don't want to think about them not being here to love Jack with me. This is, absolutely, the most painful aspect of their departure.

They are leaving to create a new life together in Japan, to spend the first year of their marriage in adventure, to get a start that is fresh and exciting. And I get excited for them when I think about this. It took them a lot of hard work to get to this place, the day after their wedding, two weeks before Japan. My support for them has been unwavering, and it still is.

But I am left here in my own life without them, without the adventure, without the new marriage, without the excitement. I have dirty dishes in my sink and a shitty job to go to. I am sickeningly aware of my jealousy of their companionship, of their new start, and of their courage to follow their dreams and suddenly my life feels empty and sallow, like a white washed photo. I hate my job, I hate where I live, I hate being broke, I hate being alone. There, I said it.

So, their leaving is like a double whammy. First of all, I am losing my companions, my immediate support, my friends, my family. I am losing two individuals who stand with me in my life and love it with me. I am losing the comfort of a good neighbor, the person I can drop in on anytime, day or night, and who is happy to see me. I am losing two of Jack's most favorite people, people who he lights up around. God, that is so hard to write.

Secondly, their leaving forces me to recognize the lack of energy I have for my own life, how little I am enjoying it, and how ready I am for a change. And this isn't so hard to write. In fact, I'm really glad to put a label on the lethargic, dissociative way that I've been moving through my days. It's time for a shift; it's time for a change.

I helped Corey pack today. I hated it. But I just want to soak up every minute that I have left with him. The grief and the fear of not having him nearby came in waves as I placed his dishes into boxes, each wave just as hard as the last. There seems to be no reprieve in sight. And right now I cannot imagine ever being okay with their absence, cannot imagine thinking of them without that painful lump clogging my throat.

But I know better. I know that one day I will think of them and I will not have to wipe away tears or clear my throat. I know that I will learn to live without them and their absence won't feel like a gaping, black hole. I've done this before, with ex-boyfriends and roommates and pets. It always feels like death, those first few days, weeks, months. Everything hurts, as if I'm walking around with no skin.

So, I'm going to go do what I always do in times of deep emotional turmoil: read Harry Potter. Lumous to me.

Happy Birthday, Jack!

2007-07-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

July 10th was Jack's first birthday. He is now officially a toddler, although the United States government failed to acknowledge this with a letter or some other form of notification. I'm sure it was just an oversight.

Anywho, I made these little videos as a gift to Jack, a way of looking back at his first year and remembering it. Be prepared to cry... some of them are total tear-jerkers.

This first one is Jack's first day of life... grab the kleenex.

A little video about Jack's love affair with water. Caution: this video contains nudity.

Uncle Corey is Jack's favorite person in the whole wide world. Jack gets so excited when Corey walks through the door! If Jack were a cocker spaniel, he would pee on the floor every time. Here's a little video that shows how cute these two are together.

If you made this video, entitled Jack & Co., you know you are kind of a big deal.

This last one is a letter that I wrote to Jack on his birthday. Get more kleenex.

WWJD

2007-07-16T19:21:00.000-07:00

I’m going through another phase, as I often do. It's a phase in my thinking, one that I will think will change my life forever- once I figure it out. But I said that last week about about a diet program I saw on TV. Anyways, this current life-changing phase revolves around these two suffixes: –ish and –less.

When placed behind the word self, two new words are created that have very different meanings. Due to my Sunday School teachings and various after school specials, I learned that selfish = bad, while selfless = good. I mean, let’s face it. Jesus was the epitome of self-less: went through hell, was tortured and crucified for the world, etc. And we’re all supposed to try to be like him, right? Isn’t that what it means when it says, “Deny yourself, pick up your cross and follow Jesus?”

I heard a lot of stuff about selfish vs. selfless. Selfless people were always revered on Sunday mornings at church. There would be a slide presentation about the Walsh family in Peru who were living amongst the aborigines who would daily threaten the Walsh children’s lives by putting deadly snakes in their cribs and dragging them down to the river to be eaten by the crocodiles. And yet the Walsh family continued to be of service to the Lord and to the Tichian tribe of Peru by spreading the good gospel. And would you consider sending $20.00 – just the cost of a cup of coffee a day – to the Walsh family so that they can buy the necessary vaccines and snake venom antidotes that they need to continue their ministry?

They never did a slide show on the Stewart family that took a rejuvenating vacation to Cabo that summer after a long year of being a soccer mom and VP of sales at Qualcom. They didn’t talk about how great it was that the Stewarts flew first class and ate at five-star dining establishments in an effort to enjoy themselves and the beauty of the world around them. (Unless, of course, the Stewarts spent their time in Cabo passing out tracks and reciting the sinner’s prayer with other beach goers on vacation. Then they might get a nod from the pastor).

In fact, as a child I was often able to detect a hint of disdain from the pulpit for families like the Stewart’s. It seemed that I was warned against this kind of hedonism, this blatant soothing of the flesh that has no reward in heaven. “Do not build up your treasures here on earth,” “do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit,” “no one should seek out his own good but the good of others,” etc. I was groomed to be a martyr, to care more about others than myself, to feel guilty every time I walked past a homeless man without offering him my last silver coins. I was taught that by choosing a cup of coffee instead of sending my allowance to Peru, I was choosing to let children die.

So, fast forward 10, 20 years and here I am, still wrestling with my guilt over buying my venti iced coffee instead of sending $29.99 to end genocide in Darfur. And I’m serious, folks. I feel like I am choosing to let children die every time I enjoy that sweet, milky coffee that seems to switch me from off to on every morning. How could I be so selfish, the preacher’s voice inside my head asks? How could you deny Jesus in this way? How could you care more about your own comfort over the lives of dying women and children in Darfur?

I used to listen to this voice religiously. Out of a tremendous sense of responsibility for the world’s poor and sick and hungry, I sent my money to Compassion and Amnesty and the Red Cross. I ate a completely vegan diet for two years when I realized how the raising of farm animals devastated the earth and its resources. I’ve lobbied congress, sent letter to my senators, complained on the White House comment line. I became a social worker and a foster parent to rescue abused children. I only buy clothing made in the US in order to prevent the proliferation of sweat shops… but I still feel guilty. I still feel guilty for the amount of water I waste every day, for spending $25.00 on a pretty shower curtain, for wanting to give birth to another child instead of preferring to adopt one. I feel guilty for having what I have and for wanting more. I feel guilty for taking up space on the planet at all.

I’m tired of feeling bad for enjoying a cup of coffee. I want to be done with the anxiety that comes along with this tremendous sense of over-responsibility and I am ready to embrace the beauty of the world around me without apologizing for my first-class plane ticket. But I don’t know how yet.

Perhaps there is a clue to this issue of suffixes in the question written on the slap bracelet I used to wear so proudly: What Would Jesus Do? This always seemed like an easy question: give your stuff away, die for each other, turn the other cheek, become a doormat, etc. But maybe this isn’t accurate at all. Perhaps I had Jesus all wrong. As I recall, he did put Judas in his place when Judas chastised the woman for “wasting” expensive perfume on Jesus’s feet. Judas argued that the money could have been used for the poor, but Jesus told him, “There will always be poor, but I won’t be around long. Enjoy me while I’m here.”

So, what would Jesus do? Seems to me that he might just order the venti iced coffee, and add a blueberry scone to go with it. He might even have done so in designer sandals. Maybe there is a way to enjoy the bounty and beauty of this life without feeling guilty, without feeling as if I’m stealing from the poor. Maybe.

The A List

2007-07-11T09:13:00.000-07:00

The must-haves Amber thinks are just great:

Little brothers who mop your kitchen floor while he babysits your child. Thanks, Corey!
The VW billboards. As a beetle owner, I beam with pride when I see the fabulous VW billboards urging us to "Dare to be happy." Jaded is overrated, Misery has enough company..." I could start a religion based on this stuff. In fact, I will. Services at 11:00pm.
Cathy Griffin, My Life On the D-List. Love love lovety love love love her. Love.
Shutterfly.com. I'm going to admit something to all of you but you have to promise to still like me. I like to scrapbook. Oh god, I hate admitting that. I was never a crop-till-you-drop-diehard, but I do own a paper-cutter and a punch, or two. Shutterfly is excellent because of the amazing photobooks that you can create online. They're simple, cute, and they don't require adding on a spare bedroom for your craft supplies.
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. A smart, quick paced show that takes lots of shots at the religious right. And Chnandler Bong is in it!
The Glamazons. I found myself inspired by these ladies, although their lead singer could use a pitch corrector for performances. Yikes. OH, and watch to the end of the video for the Hoff's reactions. Fab.
Hey Paula. Oh.My.God. An hour of pure crazy. L-O-V-E. Straight up.
This photo of Jack eating a lime

eharmony dot panic attack dot com

2007-06-22T20:44:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago, I saw a commercial for perfectmatch.com and I became ~~temporarily insane~~ inspired. You see, while the very thought of dating makes my body go numb with fear, I realize that it may be a necessary evil to finding a partner to share my life with. And lately, I've been feeling as though my life just might be worth sharing with somebody.

This notion of inviting someone else into my life crept up on me, somewhat unexpectedly. Up until a few months ago, I was singing the praises of living alone. After 28 years of roommates and boyfriends and brothers and dorms, I have been relishing the joys of aloneness. Ahhh, the remote to myself. Ahhh, I can listen to Celine Dion and nobody will know. Ahhh, sweatpants all day. I can leave the dishes in the sink for a week if I want to. I can just walk around that pile of laundry on my floor for a few more days. I can just choose not to look at that ring around the inside of my toilet. It's my house!

So, I started taking the free compatability test which reminded me of the quizzes in the back of Glamour Magazine I used to take in Junior High. " Do you tend to be more spontaneous in planning things or do you prefer a schedule." Spontaneous. Check. "Would your friends classify you as the life of the party or more of a wallflower." Life of the party. Check. This is fun!

But then it got very, very un-fun. It got downright mean and nasty. It started asking about the not-so-pretty parts of me, the parts of me that I like to hide even from myself, the parts of me that are labeled with scarlet letters of shame and odium. "Deal-Breakers," the page was titled. But in my mind it should have been, "Reasons Why You Will Reject Me" or "Reasons Why I Will Not Get a Match." I couldn't believe it was asking me to just put it all out there, that I am "Full Figured" and "Financially Unstable." It was as if they has asked me to go stand in front of the classroom and, layer by layer, take off my clothes with each little box I had to check. "Often late." Check. "Smoker" Check. "Suicidal after filling out this questionnaire." Check.

After a few cigarettes and a pep talk from a friend, I talked myself down off of the ledge and completed the questionnaire. Later on, it asked me what I was willing to tolerate in my future partner and things like "Bald or Balding" and "More Messy Than Tidy" were checked, while "Unwilling To Have Children" and "Sports Addict" were kept in the intolerable category. I realized that I just might make the day of some bald, messy guy who thinks he's totally rejectable based on these things. And maybe some guy out there thinks that being a "Spender Rather Than a Saver" is sexy! Who knows.

Happy Father's Day

2007-06-17T02:54:00.000-07:00

Quite often I get asked, "How do you manage being both the mommy and the daddy to your son?" This question always catches me off guard because I do not consider myself to be both mother and father. I am not, nor will I ever be, Jack's father. How could I be? I am totally and only his mother, and this is all I will ever be. This idea that I would try to somehow play both roles makes as much sense to me as thinking that I can fill in as the family dog, something we also don't have in our home.

And yet, I believe we are not lacking. Jack and I are blessed to be surrounded by wonderful men who support us, take care of us, and otherwise love us so much that we're convinced that life is just as it should be. And so today I would like to acknowledge the men in our lives who fill in the much needed spaces that only a man can fill. Some things are just better left to the men, like teaching Jack how to pitch a tent and make a periscope (thanks Dad), or modeling how to revere and respect a woman (thanks, Craig), or effortlessly tossing, spinning, and air- plaining my son all through the air (thanks, Corey). I truly cannot do alone, and thanks to you I don't have to.

Thank you, Billy, for giving me the experience of being loved totally and unconditionally. Thank you, Dad, for proving me wrong about you. Thank you, Sean, for showing me how a wife can be treated in marriage. Thank you, Donovan, for your very nurturing presence in the shittiest of times, as well as the joyous ones. Thanks, Corey, for the billions and billions of little things that have made my life so much more livable, from making Jack laugh when he's fussy, to creating the best toy ever! He lights up when he sees you, and so do I. Thank you for your unfailing support. Thanks, Nate, for paving the way to great parenting, showing me what an attentive, fun parent looks like. Thanks, Craig, for delighting in my son- oops, I mean, your son. I love that you love him like you do!

Happy Father's Day to you, my amazing army of men! I love you!

Boys and Their Toys

2007-06-13T23:07:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to put this politely, so I'm not even going to try. My son loves his junk. And when I say he loves his junk, I mean he loves his junk.

It is the very first thing he goes for when he gets naked. I'll barely have his diaper off of his body and - BAM - his hands are all over his shit, like moth to a flame. In the bathtub, it's one hand on genitalia, another hand holding rubber ducky.

He can't get enough of it. He just loves his stuff. And quite frankly, I'm beginning to get a little bit worried. I mean, I know that all men seem to have a sort of obsessive love affair with their penises, but I didn't expect it to begin at such a young age.

But maybe it does. Maybe it's like some instinctual, survival of the fittest, Darwinian primal urge to love and caress and revere one's "family jewels" in order to preserve the species. Maybe it's just jock itch. I don't know.

As a woman who is sans penis and raising a son who is in love with his, I need a little help here, guys. Help me understand. I mean, I have no reference for a body part that I love as much as you guys love your penises. And, if my son's fascination is any indication of what's normal, this super-appreciation for your stuff starts out real early.

So guys, do us girls all a favor and fill us in on the joys of manhood.

The Rocking Chair

2007-06-07T00:53:00.001-07:00

I am holding your entire body in my arms.

You are wrapped in the blanked grandma knit for you; your fingers poke through the stitches. Our chests, pressed together, expand and fall at different rhythms.

I can feel your heartbeat.

A pink cheek is illuminated by the dim light, inviting me to kiss its smooth surface. I do. Your ear touches a tiny shoulder, a shoulder that suggests that someday it will belong to a man, strong and angular. But not tonight. Tonight it is soft and round, like a caterpillar or half baked bread.

Music from a toy given to you at Christmastime lulls you to sleep, but it is your breathing that soothes me. Shallow, rattled breaths escape from your mouth, passing by rose petal lips that beg me to meet them with my own. Paper eyelids cover dreaming eyes, and I long to kiss these, too.

Every part of you draws me close; I could stay in this embrace forever.

Why I Hate Poland

2007-06-05T13:54:00.000-07:00

My best friend, Carrie, moved to Poland just before my son was born one year ago. At that time, my life was radically changing: I was expecting my firstborn child, I was finishing up my Master's Degree, I had started a new job and left an old boyfriend. Her leaving, while sad, was overshadowed by the excitement of becoming a mother and the adjustment to life with a baby, and I didn't really have time to notice how much I missed her.

I have never loved someone like I love Carrie. The day we met felt like a reunion of souls that had been apart for a while. What I remember feeling when I shook her hand was the comfort and relief of familiarity, like the smell of the house you grew up in. We were instantly and fiercely friends. One person we met told us that we were "twin souls..." I don't know what that means, but it sounds right.

I know that the term "best friend" is usually reserved for fourth grade girls and charm bracelets, but Carrie really is my best friend. In fact, my admiration and love for her was problematic with my ex boyfriend. He got mad at how often I compared him to her, with him always on the short end of the comparison. He suggested I just marry her, something she and I had considered before we remembered that we aren't lesbian.

When she left, I didn't realize how hard it would be for us to stay connected. We've been separated before- like when I moved to Orange County to become a foster parent and when she moved to Virginia to mend a broken heart- and we've always been able to maintain an almost surreal closeness. However, over the past year, the time difference and Jack's need for my attention made conversation almost impossible. Not that I had much to say: Jack isn't sleeping, I'm going crazy, he rolled over today, he's got diarrhea, he gained two ounces, I've gained 15 pounds. New mom talk is only interesting to other new moms. Really.

And she's in Poland, for chrissakes, living through culture shock, blizzards, and bad, pickled food. When she would talk about it, I would try to imagine her life but my only reference for cold weather is San Diego at night. And not knowing what the town she lives in looks like, only that it is "a small, country town," I am embarrassed to admit that I imagined her in Main Street, USA at Disneyland.

I'm so used to getting my support from her, but for the first time in our life together as friends we had to go to separate support groups for our individual traumas. I'm so used to calling her when I need to laugh or to bitch about my job or my tummy fat or the price of cigarettes. Our parallel lives made this easy, but our lives look really, really different now. I have a baby that I love so intensely that it hurts while at the same time want to auction off to the highest bidder on Ebay. She is living in a country where people are not friendly and do not smile, and where Taco Bell does not exist.

She sent me an email today, a rare commodity since she does not have a computer. As I wrote my reply, which is posted below, I felt the sting of her absence in my life, a hollow, empty pain that I had not realized was there. I will see her in July, at the wedding of a mutual friend, and I look forward to that sweet reunion, once again.

I miss sharing my life with you. I miss having you to call. I like having you as a witness to my life, someone who shares in the beauty and the mess of it all, someone to rejoice with me and be awed with me and devastated with me. My life is devastatingly beautiful, Carrie, and I want you to see it. I want you to witness it with me. Without you here, events in my life bounce around like an echo, unabsorbed by anyone but me. And they're such great events: Jack's smile in the morning, the way a Cheerio sticks to his cheek when he eats, how his chubby baby legs just seem to get fatter and fatter, the sound of his voice when he sings as he plays with a straw.

Maybe it's just loneliness, period. Maybe it is that I am ready to invite someone into my life to bear witness to what I am creating, what I am, who I am. I'm just used to that person being you, Carrie, and I like it when it's you. I like standing with you in the rooms of my life.

I don't want you to come home for me, and I don't want you to stop creating your own life. I support you, and always will, in your journey and in your life wherever that leads you and I want you to experience the hell out of yourself! I just miss you, am incredibly lonely without you, and I feel like you are missing out on me. And I, you.

I love you.

Amber.

Does God Talk to You?

2007-06-02T23:10:00.001-07:00

If so, could you ask him this question?

Why does everything I want have to be bad for me? Like, ice cream. Or really buttery popcorn. Or cigarettes. Or 3 Long Island Iced teas in a row.

I mean, why couldn't ice cream be just as nutritious as broccoli? Didn't he know when he created it that we would like it and not be able to stop ourselves (ice cream, I mean. Not the broccoli. I find it quite easy to stop eating broccoli).

Mom of the Year Award

2007-05-11T23:39:00.000-07:00

I have been awarded the very prestigious and sought-after title of Mom of the Year! This award came after a very inspiring day of wonderfully maternal and nurturing activities, including:

a) accidentally locking my son in the car while he was holding the keys resulting in his being stuck inside for over 45 minutes

~and~

b) walking into my friend's kitchen to find my baby eating dog food.

I am so proud.

Dear Diary...

2007-05-10T22:18:00.000-07:00

More from my beloved junior high diaries...

1/3/1990 (age 14)

I didn't write on Christmas mainly cuz I didn't have my diary. I left it at Carrie's and I spent the night at G-ma Kay's cuz I was sick.

Well, anyways, I got lots (underlined) of stuff: roller skates, LA Gear shoes, Colors perfume, new night gown, robe, slippers, nutcracker (Grandma gave me that plus book stands), new shirts, potpourri burner, gloves, socks and undies, Michael W. Smith tape, Amy Grant tape, and a pretty cow shirt.

February 5, 1990

On Friday, the 3rd, Ruth Obregon invited me and Amber Rady and Rachelle Smith and Shay Nelson and Marlena Jones to go to a Bible study at her house. Amber couldn't go, but everyone else did.

I went home with Ruthie after school, and we stayed at school after school and we watched the games and hung around.

The Bible study was really good. Ruth talked on secular rock-music. It was a lot of fun and the praying was real emotional. Shay is having some problems with Bethany Anderson, but I'm not sure what they are. She started crying when we prayed for her.

After the Bible study we went to Josh Floro's house and Jeremy Clookie was there. We played games and did the Jane Fonda workout. We wrestled, although Josh's dad told us not to. I can't believe how much fun I had. I had a BLAST (underlined). We stayed there until 11:00pm, and then they took us home.

I spent the night at Ruth's and then in the morning she had to get tutored in history by Mrs. Campbell for history. I had to go with her, but it was actually kinda fun.

Well, nothing really happened today. We had communion in church today. I wish Nathan, Corey , and I got along a little better. I hate the fights, hard feelings, tears, etc., that goes on. I try, but it never works. I just wish we were all a little more Christian-like.

Ewww....

2007-05-08T23:37:00.000-07:00

My son loves two things: pacifiers and water. Here is one example of how combining these things can be dangerous.

I was in my room when I heard a little "splash splash" so I turned around to find Jack, digging his pacifier out of the toilet. Awesome.

Can't See The Forest for the Zzzzzz's

2007-05-07T23:54:00.001-07:00

I tend to overthink things, sometimes. I mean ridiculously, neurotically overthink things. Like the time my ex-boyfriend was watching a TV commercial for orange juice and said, "Man, a glass of orange juice sounds good right now," and I immediately thought that he was disappointed in me for not having our refrigerator stocked with orange juice. Maybe this is more of an example of how pathetically insecure I am, but I think it could also point to my overthinking as well.

Symantics aside, this little trait of mine roared its ugly little head recently when I called my good friend, Donovan, in the middle of the night in a state of total despair. See, my son, who I love more than anything, even the TV show LOST, is apparently allergic to sleep. He has never slept more than a few hours at a time since the day he was born which was ten months ago. A typical night looks like this:

go down at 8:30
wake up at 10:00 - rock for 15 minutes
wake up 11:45 - nurse and rock for 25 minutes
wake up at 12:30 - needs pacifier
wake up at 1:15 - pat butt for 10 minutes
wake up at 2:30 - nurses for 15 minutes
wake up at 3:45 - wants to play; makes "bob, bob, bob" sounds; needs to be re-swaddled and rocked and nursed back to sleepy mode - 45 minutes
wake up at 5:30 - more butt patting
wake up at 6:30 - butt pat, pacifier
wake up at 7:30 - up for the day.

So, when I made the call to my friend, Donovan, I unloaded onto him about how much resentment was brewing in my body toward Jack, how little I was enjoying him lately, and how frustrated I was becoming with him during the night. I was worried, real worried, about what this all meant, about how I might be making all of the wrong choices in raising him, how maybe subconsciously I wanted him to wake up or that maybe we were too enmeshed. I started doubting myself as a parent, as a good person, and began to wonder if I had been abused as a child and the rage I was experiencing was a result of buried, subconscious and unresolved trauma. I worried about how this would all affect him someday, and envisioned him as a brooding, black-eyeliner-wearing teenager who listens to the Dead Kennedy's and refuses to open his bedroom door. I cried and cried and cried on the phone, my life looking bleak and utterly complicated, and then Donovan said to me:

"Amber, I think you just need some sleep."

Internet, I swear that this had not occurred to me. These words hit me like the proverbial fry pan to the head. Could it really be that simple?

He went on. "I could sit here and process all of this stuff with you, Amber, but I really think that you're just sleep deprived."

Sometimes I need people to just point out the obvious to me, to show me the forest amongst the trees, to give me a big helping of some good ol' fashioned common sense. Maybe I do just need sleep.

He was right, of course, and I got some (thanks to Mirna, Janna, and my Mom).

Now I need to go get some orange juice.