Um, this is so awesome.

I am enough.

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

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

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

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!