Indulging myself.

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.

"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.

Motherhood Smotherhood.

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...

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.

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.

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.

Fall Equinox

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.

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

Back on the Wagon.

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.

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.

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...

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?

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!

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...

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.

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

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

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.

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?

And the guitar player, too.

It's like Three Posts in One!

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...

...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.