north before south

Marido and I have been in Vancouver for over a month now. It has not been the mild, Canadian experience that I had anticipated. Everything is more, more, more than what I thought it would be. It is more expensive and more rainy and more sunny and more pleasant and more happy and more productive and more mountainous.

I've been using this time here as practice for life on the road, but it's far too comfortable to compare. Aside from the pared-down wardrobe and lack of friends, this is not what our grand adventure is going to look like. But I have been incredibly productive, something that I was worried that I would not be able to accomplish while in a new city. But in that sense, it has been a great practice. I am seeing that I work well in excursions of this length. It is enough to get to know an area while not having the pressure to sacrifice work to sightsee. When you're in a place for six weeks, you have time to settle into a new routine and then leave before it gets boring. I love it.

Of course it helps that we have a great set-up here that we didn't have to arrange ourselves. Marido gets to walk to work. The one-bedroom they put us up in is appointed with all these modern conveniences that we don't have at home: a dishwasher, heat, and a little gym in the lobby of our 22-story building. We even have a washer/dryer in the unit, which is critical seeing as we each only brought like six shirts for our six-week stay. In fact, it makes our home in San Francisco seem downright rustic.

In ten days we'll be celebrating two years of driving each other crazy. I'm humbled when I think of how much things have evolved--how we have parlayed a fleeting encounter in Buenos Aires into this beautiful, inspirational partnership that has changed me in so many ways. There are the obvious ways--like quitting smoking and really focusing on my work alongside someone who is so supportive of me--but it's the more subtle ways that I think really add up to feeling like a different person. I think my standards have shifted so that I no longer hope and pray for something wonderful to happen to me, I expect it. I expect it every day in little ways and over the long-term, as well. Some people might call this optimism, but I think it has more to do with the confidence you gain when you begin to see results. It's an overwhelming feeling that I'm not quite used to. It makes me feel privileged to expect good things to come my way, and almost a little fearful in the way that when you have higher expectations, you build yourself up for greater disappointment. But I think that this is also what develops from being in a strong partnership. Your performance improves.

In this way I have to say that Vancouver itself is inspirational. The city is highly functional. It's not a party town where people get drunk and stay out all night. It's a place where people are respectful of themselves and each other and the environment. And maybe that has something to do with why my work is going so well here, too. It's not as self-indulgent as San Francisco. It encourages you to work hard and to be humble. I don't know what it is about this place, but I like it and I hope that I can make the most of the next two weeks--and somehow learn to take this sort of focus with me on the road. It looks like things are about to get interesting.

boiled amphibians

I'm happy that November is over, aren't you? It wasn't the easiest of months for me. But now that it's December again, I can celebrate little anniversaries. Like it's been a year since I left for Argentina. It's (almost) been six months since I met Marido. And it's been two months since I quit smoking--all reasons to celebrate.

Everyone I know seems to be struggling with their relationships. Relationships are always complex and interesting, but lately they seem to be taking more from us than giving, which I suppose is only normal during the jolliest time of year. Things with me and Marido have been no exception. I really thought we were over, but we aren't.

I think this conversation sums it all up:

ME: I think we have communication problems. It's obvious to me that you've been unhappy for more a little while, but you insist nothing is wrong. Then all of a sudden one day you say you don't want to spend the holidays with me, can't live with me, and don't see a future for us. Of course I freaked out and thought you were breaking up with me. It was the most you'd said in a month. Why didn't you say anything before?

(long, thoughtful pause)

MARIDO: Well, it is like boiling a frog.

(Figuring this is some sort of cultural thing, I wait for him to continue. But instead there is an even longer pause during which I stare at him wondering if he is making an ill-timed joke about our communication problems, or if he is just insane.)

ME: Um, boiling a frog? I don't understand. You're going to have to explain that to me.

MARIDO: (genuinely surprised) Really?

I've never heard of this allusion, but it apparently is so widespread that Little Brother understood it immediately (of course) and it has its own Wikipedia entry. If you're too lazy to click the link, the "boiling a frog" reference is an allusion to the myth that if you place a frog in a pot of temperate water and then slowly bring it to a boil, it will not react to the gradual rise in temperature and boil to death; whereas if you place a frog in boiling water, it will jump out and save itself. Whether or not it's true, this idea is a reference to people's abilities to tolerate extreme circumstances when subjected to them gradually.

Classic hilarity!

Anyhow, it's obvious we need to communicate a little better. Last week was pretty fucking dicey, and I packed up all of my stuff and came home, unsure of whether or not I would return. It is a hard thing to have my confidence in a relationship shaken, when I see that as mainly what keeps me attached to someone--my belief that they will love me and protect me and be a new source of awesomeness, not a source of infinite strife, and vice-versa. I want to make Marido happier by amazing him with love and people and new possibilities for adventure. I don't want to make him feel like a boiled frog!

When I left San Francisco, I was unsure of if we were boiling each other or making each others' lives better. Our lives have changed a lot with the addition of each other. We are both intense people and diametrically opposed in a lot of ways. My first step after leaving San Francisco was to consider whether I wanted to ask him to come to Chicago for Thanksgiving (as planned), because it meant a lot to me, or if he should hang back in San Francisco for a breather (as we both knew would be beneficial in other ways). While discussing this with my mother, he texted to tell me he would still come, if I wanted him to. It meant the world to me that he came.

I love Thanksgiving. This year, I am especially thankful for:

1) Delicious food (no boiled frogs!), particularly pie, ice cream, and turkey;
2) the miracle of aviation;
3) my friends, who amaze me with their patience, wisdom, and incredibly diverse range of relevant advice;
4) my family, who sometimes bring out the worst in me but love me anyway;
5) love in general, its resilience, its optimism, how it makes everything and everyone better;
6) Marido, for believing in us, for continuing to make memories with me, for giving me keys to come back to San Francisco, for destroying a dictionary to send me a love letter, for his pasta carbonara, and for his little-boy smile which makes me believe that we will grow old together;
7) the ability to step back and see where improvements can be made in one's life;
8) the ability to make those improvements with the help of all of the above.

I'm excited for my New Year's resolutions this year. Aren't you?

treading water with guns

This photo is from a story about training police officers in Missouri to wrestle with criminals in the water.



Last week was a really hard week. My PMS was compounded by a severe lack of nicotine, and I felt like a failed human being and especially a failed friend, which is usually the most solid thing I have going for me. But yesterday that all went away, and left me feeling so liberated that I confronted my old novel. I "finished" the novel before leaving Argentina, but am not satisfied with it. It has been giving me heartache like an ex-lover who lives across the street and plays terrible music through his open windows all day long. I try to ignore it and chalk it up to failure/learning experience, but it is impossible not to sing along with the sappy lyrics.

Well, I let the novel sit for four weeks and then I started revisions. Only they are not revisions; it is a big 'ol rewrite, which sounds completely crazy and daunting but it is exciting more than anything else. I thought I would just give up on it because I lost faith in it, but now I think I can save it. Maybe I am just wasting my time betting on a dead horse, but it is *my* dead horse and you can't really reason with sentimentality.

It is one thing to tread water...and another thing to tread water WITH GUNS.

circling

My tolerance for stress seems to have dropped dramatically. Yesterday I had to send in three cameras for repair: my camera, my back-up camera, and the camera I had borrowed while both of the other ones weren't working. And now all three of them are gone, and it made me feel sort of depressed. The silly thing is, I know you can't really get "depressed" over three cameras being in the shop; that's a gross misuse and exaggeration of the term. So either my life must be really good or I've forgotten what it means like to be depressed. Either way, it's clear that my threshold for pain has sunk incredibly low.

The other day I was the recipient of second-hand stress and it led to a weekend of smoking. I've since gotten back on the wagon, but I think that the little retreat back into nicotine-land hit deeper than I expected. For one thing, I sat down to write this post about writing and how I have been struggling to find an agent and instead I have ended up writing about smoking and all the excuses I have for smoking. Like massive equipment fails and being unable to live up to expectations, your own or those of commercially-minded literary agents.

Like the people I most admire in my life, I secretly believe that I can achieve most anything I put my mind to. The biggest setback for me is that I get quickly disenchanted with many things I want, and decide they are not worth my efforts--like making lots of money, running a marathon, and holding any kind of public office. I was a little worried that this growing disenchantment with an increasing number of things was more of a sign of failure and defensiveness than actual cynicism and maturation of tastes. I thought I would become all down-and-out about the publishing industry, but instead I am just becoming more determined to figure out how to do this. It is both discouraging and encouraging at the same time.

the waiting game

I have only three things on my mind this month: (not) smoking, (being away from) Marido, and (being frustrated with) my book.

Time moves very slowly when you begin to either measure it or stop measuring it. This month I am trying to do both, which is making it feel like time is standing still.

I am playing the waiting game of passing four weeks while being in love with someone who is approximately 1,900 miles away. It is not so bad because I know that I will see him, and that the wait is officially half over. And while we wait, we are both okay with acting like lovesick adolescents, which also helps. It would be another thing entirely if we were trying to be stoic about it.

The other part of the waiting game is the not smoking, which is strange because waiting and smoking go very well together. And time seems to be going very slowly because of that, too. But it is pointless to count how long I have gone without smoking, because that seems to indicate that at a certain time, I can smoke again. And the point of quitting is that you suddenly begin a new era that is infinite, the era where you do not smoke...ever.

And in the meanwhile, I am supposed to be working on my book, but all I can do is sit around and think about the missing morning cigarette, the missing afternoon cigarette, the missing evening cigarette, and missing Querido.

It is entirely annoying, and does not make for very inspired writing...as you can see.

evolution and devolution

Something has been happening to my body lately, and I am wondering if any other gals out there have ever experienced the same thing.

My periods have always been very regular and pretty fast: 23-day cycles, sometimes less. It sucks bleeding so much and so often, but one thing that is good that I always know pretty quickly that I am not pregnant, and the window for impregnating me is pretty slim. But ever since I met Marido, the cycles have been getting longer and longer. I have only known him for a little over three months, but my last cycle was 32 days, meaning that each cycle added almost 3 days. This has been throwing me off, but I sort of chalked it up to all the moving around I've been doing. Then this morning I was jogging and trying to coax myself into believing that oxygen is a suitable substitute for nicotine and thinking that I can't believe it's already been a week since I stopped. A week, just like that! I have started to think about how stupid it is to quit smoking. Yesterday two of my parents' friends died in unrelated events. They were both health freaks, and younger than my parents. If I could just drop dead tomorrow, why not smoke? Ordinarily I would cave into these bursts of withdrawal-reasoning. But somehow I have made it through this first smokeless week pretty painlessly, mostly by concentrating how much I miss Marido, which is so much worse than missing smoking. And instead of wanting to smoke to cope with missing him, I am just...jogging and drinking water--which has never really worked before, especially with the I-can-easily-justify-smoking thoughts. And while I was jogging, I remembered my friend Z who told me she quit when she got pregnant and it was not a big deal at all.

Suddenly it occured to me that maybe my body wants to be pregnant. Is it because I am in love? I feel like my body is increasing my chances of getting pregnant by prolonging my cycles. And the relative ease with which I stopped smoking this week also feels like another way my body is whispering "Baby me!" This worries me deeply. I am not on birth control and have not been for about five years. I don't want to go back on it, but I also don't want to be pregnant right now, and since I have never been pregnant before, I feel like I am nearing the end of using up all of my odds. Who knows, maybe my uterus is bouncing around seven eggs at a time now. It is probably like a multiball pinball experience in there right now. Is this what my biology is up to? Even though I am making myself healthier, my body's seeming desperation to pass on my DNA is making me feel like I'm nearing the end of my life span.

But I don't want to procreate at the moment, because I have other things to do--the biggest one being getting rid of this goddamn novel. I have been working on my completed novel, by un-completing it. I am not sure if this is a good idea. I feel like I am making it better, but at the same time I kind of just want to seal it up, let it go, and continue sending out pitches. The more I work on it, the less I like it. I really need another good editor to look at it and tell me exactly what it needs. But I keep cutting things and adding things and I am reminded of these cherry-orange-walnut muffins I made last week, and how long it took me to make them with all of these special ingredients like almond paste (which I made) and orange juice (which I squeezed and zested). The muffins were fucking terrible. And then a few days later I made blueberry muffins with about seventeen less ingredients and they were delicious.

But, artistic integrity aside, what I really need to do is sell this goddamn thing. It might not be the best it could be, but I think it is publishable. And I think this because I have read some terrible books in my life. On the other hand, I definitely don't want to add to the pile of awful published jetsam out there.

Who am I kidding? Being published in any form would be so awesome that I can't even think about it. Maybe that is why I keep revising--so I don't have to think about the publishing aspect.

cigarette cigarette cigarette

How many times do you have to do something before you A) stop trying or B) do it for REAL? I was thinking that today when talking to my friend who is maybe trying to break up with her boyfriend. And also with me and smoking. I sort of quit quitting a few years ago. It was getting to be bad for my self-esteem. Yet here I am, 2 days in again, and all I can think is "This is good for me cigarette cigarette cigarette because I was getting all out of shape and wheezy and cigarette cigarette cigarette will make this better."

This time I am doing it cold turkey. No patches, no gum, just me and my bitchiness locked in my house for three days.

I am okay with the withdrawal headache. I am okay with hacking up gross shit for three days. I am even okay with the constipation, constant thirst, and munchies. What I'm not okay with is the weird mind games that start playing out during the Critical Time when Logic and Addiction collide. That is a truly frightening battlefield. I basically have to not listen to anything that is happening in my brain for the next few days, things like "You would probably die from something else anyway, like a car accident," "Do you really want to never smoke ever again?" and "Even though your risk for lung cancer is tripling, it is still relatively small." No, it is best to just loop the quit mantra in my brain. The quit mantra, by the way, is: I don't need to smoke. This craving will pass. And until it does, I will not smoke.

But talking about quitting is boring. Lately I would rather talk about love, since I am in love, and somehow being in love makes quitting not such a big deal. It actually feels very selfish to quit, because part of me is just hoping that I will live longer so I can be in love longer. That should be reward enough, but actually I need some intermediary reward. In the past I have liked to buy myself nice things for achieving quit goals--a nice jacket, a nice pair of boots--but then I start smoking again as soon as I have my coveted object.

Changing your life is hard. But I look at the people in my life who are going out of their comfort zones and I feel inspired. And thirsty. Very goddamn thirsty.

on turning 30

I had sort of a birthday fail and spent the day traveling, largely alone, in the middle of nowhere. There was a big chunk of the day where things were getting a little desperate and I was feeling like a lost, pathetic, idiot. Fortunately, I was able to pull myself out of that zone and give myself what I needed to rescue the day: a shower, a movie, a soda, a joint, some dinner...who says I don't know how to take care of myself?

Have you ever seen the movie Lars and the Real Girl? I liked it so much that I have probably mentioned it before. While I was coddling myself into a better state of mind, I found this movie on the television of my creepy but life-saving hotel and I lay in bed to watch it. There was a particularly poignant scene that was about growing up, "what it means to be a man." They concluded that becoming a man is about making decisions that aren't just about you.

It would have been easy to just let the day pass me by completely and it kind of did. I drank a liter of beer and ingested a huge sandwich composed of a flank steak, an omelet, cheese, ham, and, I think, another egg. I smoked cigarettes under the Pepsi sign of the restaurant in this small town and watched the townsfolk greet each other. I thought about the movie, about growing up, and how to grow up if you are by yourself. If you don't have a family to take care of and are kind of a drifter, it must be that you never truly grow up--or that growing up means finding your meaningful place in society. Which I have not done. I am a single, unemployed woman now in her early thirties. So hot, right?

Last night I went to party where I engaged in a pattern I am becoming used to now. I try to be social for a while, but then I get tired and bored, and kind of drift off on my own. It's the language thing that becomes tiring, that and the not understanding men here and feeling done with casual sex for...forever maybe. I had a dream about the party, a flashback to when I was dancing with a boy I should have dated but instead the first time I went out with him I did a bunch of coke and went home with someone else. I opened my eyes this morning and this thought crossed my mind: I am only attracted to men who expect nothing of me. It was such a weird thought to wake up with. I wondered why it was there.

Turning 30 is more than just brooding over the typical thoughts of some of the things that seem to make a person whole: a partner, a job, and a home. It is also a time to say, "Well, what kind of person do I want to be in this new decade?" Because really, by now, we are pretty much fully-formed beings with personalities and sufficient life experience to know ourselves. And with all that, what kind of person can we choose to be?

I would like to be a non-smoker. Not because I don't like smoking anymore, but because turning 30 was my ultimate deadline for quitting and I am so unbelievably addicted that the only thing to do is quit. I would also like to be thinner. And really, I would love to return "home" but I don't know where that is anymore. I would like to have a home, but that requires commitment. I am not sure what to do about that.

diagnostics

This week I had a terrible headache for about 168 hours. And I do mean 168 hours, and not 7 days. I would wake up in the middle of the night with my head aching, and in the morning my first thought would be, "God, my head still fucking hurts." It was awful.

The mosquitoes here are something fierce. My first day here, I was attacked by so many mosquitos in the nature reserve that I had to come home to wash up because my hands were covered in blood from swatting them. Naturally, I came to the conclusion that I had dengue, and just rested a lot and drank lots of water. But I didn't have a fever.

I thought it could be the red wine, so I stopped drinking red wine. I stopped drinking white wine. Then I stopped drinking beer. Still, headache.

Then a fellow student asked if I was eating anything different. Like any frugal traveler, I've been making some meals in my hostel, namely powdered soup. She suggested to check the soup ingredients; maybe it was MSG. I checked, and yep, they all had MSG. So I stopped eating the soups, but the headache still persisted.

My teacher said, "Maybe it's the cigarettes." I thought about this. The first day or two, I was still smoking my Winstons from home. Then I bought a pack of Camels (which give me a slight headache, even back in the States), and then switched to Parliaments. It seemed like the only thing left. I thought, "Good lord, what if I have to quit smoking?" I resolved to quit smoking and lasted six hours before I thought I'd switch brands again and see if it helped. So I found a store that sells Winstons and continued on my merry smoking way. I also drank a bottle of red wine.

After 168 hours, my headache disappeared.

Then, during class today, I suddenly had a random nosebleed.

regression theory pt II

The 970-mile drive from New York was surprisingly fun and fast. I was worried that I'd get bored and fall asleep and wake up dead, but with a stereo and a pack of cigarettes, I am pretty set. I think I'd be a great trucker. I drove a brand-new Ford Escape with 2 miles on it, and the second day I realized it was equipped with Sirius satellite radio. Pennsylvania seems like an absolutely beautiful state, full of rivers and green hills and little towns. Ohio and Indiana...mmm...not so much--although Ohio has some bitchin' metal stations. But I'd still love to do a photo series on the Midwest--with a larger format camera f'sho.

So: this brings me back to tha 'nois. All of my worldly possessions are, for the first time in 11 years, under one roof. The fact that the roof belongs to my parents is somewhat disturbing, but for some reason this isn't as alarming as it was, say, last year. Moving back home? Swell! I am the dog's nanny. It's hard to be upset when you are surrounded by pie and dinner in a rent-free environment where the landlords can be stressful and moody but in the end think that you're just the best, even though you don't do a damn thing.

The hardest thing for me is to restrain myself from telling my parents how to do things. Obviously, they've made it this far in life without melling them what to do, and of course I can appreciate that if they try to tell me what to do, I'd probably throw a 10th-grade-style tantrum. 10th grade was the last bastion of insanity, because you didn't have a driver's license, so there was never a good suburban escape plan; all you could do was scream. But sometimes I listen to my parents complain about things, or see the things they put up with, or the things that I feel like will destroy them, and I want to say something. It takes a lot of reserve to respect their lifestyles sometimes, or to understand the seeming contradictions in their lives. And then I kind of know how they feel when they see me doing stupid shit as well, things they don't understand, and I see why they are totally unable to restrain themselves from saying anything. They don't have to--they're my mom and dad.

And instead of changing things, you're just more likely to hide the things that other people find contentious, because you're sick of the same discussions. For me, it all comes back to smoking. This is something we will never be okay with; it is beyond discussion. And particularly as long as I'm living at home...nope. It does, however, mean that I am moving back into my early childhood bedroom, the one with a bathroom that has a window.

But seriously, what am I thinking? I'm not moving home. This is temporary. I gotta get myself on a boat right quick.

I miss New York. I always do.

I Love New York madonna
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the lighting of the candles

I am so stressed that: (a) I went to the driving range to hit golf balls with my dad yesterday even though it was snowing, (b) my period is so late that I'm beginning to think I'm pregnant and (c) I searched "stress" and when this link came up, this photo to the left came up with a caption that said something along the lines of, "A severely stressed person will find many differences between these dolphins jumping out of the water when in fact they are identical," and it took me several moments of severe inner reflection before realizing that some people out there think it's funny to toy with people who are on the brink of losing their minds.

I have embarked on my 8 days of serious business. It is that time of year when I want to give up on things like (a) the five classes that compose $chool, (b) attempts at self-reformation, and (c) geniality. I become generally unpleasant. I don't know how I got through this last year...and last year I had quit smoking at this time. I have lost a lot of faith in myself I guess. When I looked at that cow and that dolphin and really doubted myself, I knew I was in trouble. It's funny when you go through big life changes and instead of feeling proud and strong, all you can think of is that you sure weren't as smart as you thought you were. It makes me wonder if I know anything at all.

I have been thinking a lot about Joe lately, but I can't call him or anything. Of course not. This is part of the lack of self-trust that's happening lately. In the absence of any high for my mind to latch onto, it seems to want to glom onto Joe really fucken badly. When I think about him, it kind of has the same effect on my brain as the fond recollection of a seventh beverage. I'm starting to really miss the love-inducing feeling of The Booze. Without it, I guess I get like this. All self-doubty and dolphin-and-cow-y. I'm getting all weird about everything now. Everything feels strange. Dolphin. Cow. Dolphin. Cow. Dolphincowdolphincowdolphincow.

I have decided not to go to Miami with ACLU lawyer. The dates turned out to be a weekend off kilter, and I want to try out being good to Joe now. I know I said that I thought I was going to marry the lawyer, but like I said, dolphincow.

Or, like this dude said to me on the plane last night, "I'm trying to be honest in my relationships now, and part of that is giving relationships an honest chance."

serious fiending

I am at the branch of the New York Public Library by my apartment, attempting to do work. Unfortunately, I left my cigarettes at home and I refuse to go to the store and shell out $8.fucking.50 for a whole new pack, so right now it is a question of how much longer I can continue to be effective on a deficiency of nicotine.

It's an experiment. I'm going to aim for two more hours before I accidentally gnaw through my tongue. If I were working on something other than $chool, I think I'd be okay. But it's been so rough lately...wah wah wah. This is why I cannot be in therapy! Once I start thinking about problems and whining about them, I cannot stop. It's like someone has given me license to be a whiny little bitch.

bits o' blab

In my few minutes of working Internet, let me just holla from the rooftops that

I LOVE SUMMER '08 IT IS THE BEST!

Just got back from a lovely weekend in The Cape. Bet you didn't know I was so glamorous did ya? Well I'm not. I just happen to have glamorous friends who are okay with me showing up looking like vomit. The weekend involved many seafoods dipped in butter, cheering from the sidelines, feeling like an outsider, feeling beloved, and boating with the yellyfish. How did I find this life?

The better my life gets, the more afraid I get of losing it. And by "it," I mean both my mind and this awesome life. I know it's coming--this awesome life, not my mind--because summer is drawing to a close, and I am already thinking to myself "ohmygodnextyearihavetogetajobohgodihateworking!!!!" But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Right now I gotta concentrate on fixing the things I promised I'd fix when I got to The NY.

Some of this came up when I was in The Chi last week for my little brother's birthday. Moms likes to ask me what I'm doing with my life, which makes me sad because I don't know. Then I decided to unburden myself by telling her My Dirtiest Secret, that I'm still a smoker, to which she just sighed and said, "I know."

Talk about anticlimax. I told her partially because I was fiending and sick of lying about it, and then I was able to go and enjoy the company of my most cancerous friend. But then the rest of the time I smoked significantly less. I think I'm on the road to recovery.

My friend Knockout, who is swapping coasts this week, also has similar boozeness issues to mine, and we have decided to do a month of sobriety, starting the day after Labor Day. Oh hell! It makes me feel like an alcoholic because just the idea of it terrifies me.

I'm just chattering while I await my afternoon at the beach with The Ex, who is visiting this week around a job thingy of his. We hung out last week and it was...nice. And by nice, I mean it was wonderful to see him but also soul-crushing, which evens out to...nice. When I'm around him I just want to climb on top of him and lick his face. This was always a point of contention between us, because he's not into my clingy tendencies. I honestly have to fold my hands on my lap sometimes to avoid grabbing him. Either that, or I chain smoke to keep myself out of his hair, another habit of mine which he hates. All in all, it is good that we are separated by three time zones, because it keeps the sadness at bay. At the end of our relationship, my biggest take-away from it is that I promised him I would always be there for him, and I am trying not to make our breakup the end of that promise.

Ya gonna eat that?

As much as I love my muffin top Polly, she doesn't fit in with my plans to not buy any new clothes until I finish grad school. It was bad enough that I had to buy all new jeans just last year, but now I don't fit in those anymore either. This means that my waist has increased by more than three inches in three years. I honestly don't think I would care so much if I just had bigger pants. But I don't, and I feel fat.

I wish I could blame it on a slowing metabolism, or American-sized portions, or the car lifestyle, but the fact is that I live in New York and I walk fucken everywhere. What I can blame it on is the incredible satisfaction I get from eating.

But no, satisfaction isn't quite the right word. When I eat, I'm never really satisfied. Basically, I have two stages: "hunger" and "ohgodifeelsick." I can't remember the last time I was really "hungry," because I eat about every two hours, and overeat about three times a day.

Like any normal girl, I spent most of high school exercising at odd hours of the day, eating reduced-calorie Snackwell's cookies, and fearing any weight gain that did not go directly to my breasts. After I left high school, though, some sort of pride in my appearance or fear of social exclusion due to fatness just completely evaporated.

It's not my fault that I have an intense oral fixation and wish I could be eating/drinking/smoking/makingout every second of the day. It is my fault, however, that I do not try to control this compulsion. It's also my fault that I allow myself to feel bad about it rather than doing something about it...

So yesterday I decided to go on a severe diet. "Severe" for me means eating only three meals a day, and having two of those meals consist of yogurt with crunchy things thrown in and, as Weight Watchers would say, "a sensible dinner." It also means that I am utterly miserable. I am one of those people that thinks about what I'm going to have for lunch as I'm making breakfast, what I'm going to have for a snack with my 11 a.m. coffee, what I'm going to make for dinner, and if there are any cookies around. And the first (and only) thing I want to do at home is eat. My happiest childhood memories are of me and my little brother coming home from horrible days at school and spending the next four hours running back and forth from the television to the microwave during commercial breaks, eating everything we could get our hands on.

I figure that if I want to lose 10 pounds I only have to do this for what, a year? Even if I exercise every day, I think it would take me forever to be able to fit into my pants comfortably. I'm so used to squeezing into tight jeans that I think I think I've rendered my uterus completely uninhabitable by any fetal matter. Maybe this explains why I've never gotten pregnant.

Speaking of feeling bad about myself, I was perusing craigslist yesterday when I came across a very hateful post where this guy was like, "what's with all the fat chicks?" etc etc and then he goes, "Why are there so many Chinese girls who want to go out with only white guys? I'm sorry, but nobody wants to go out with a stubby girl with a face like a pug." Oh god it made me so angry. You'd think that I would be over shit like this, but I guess I'm not. Every time someone says anything about Chinese people, I get pissy. It just reminds me that I'm Chinese, and that no matter what I say or do, some people will see me in whatever fucked up way they want.

Makes me so mad that I just want to bake a whole batch of chocolate cookies and eat them all.

Urm...I don't want to just post something about feeling fat and Chinese, so I will say that I had a lovely weekend, and that I hung out with a boy on Friday night who seemed to like me just the way I am, even though I tried to pick a fight with him. I don't know where all this anger is coming from lately, but I'm glad that I'm surrounded by soft boys who are willing to absorb it all.

If you're going to cook, wear clothes

I have taken the morning off after spending the last four days living at school. For once, the work isn't bothering me, it's just something that I'm doing.

Something has changed in my head, and I'm not sure what it is, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with (a) the promise of spring, (b) the slippery slope back into the land of smokeable nicotine, (c) another boy to fall in love with, (d) being on a mission and (e) the decision to not buy any more clothes.

(a) makes sense, right? I've forgotten what seasons are like. Once it got cold, I think I just thought to myself, "Well, Fuck." And subconsciously thought it was going to be like this forever. Every day I wore a big black puffy coat, and I forgot about all the other jackets that I used to wear and love. I put all my summer shoes in the closet, and was living in perpetual winter. But now it's leaving! I'm not too sorry to see it go. I didn't realize how depressed I was for most of last month.

(b) I'm sick of talking about this. We have a dysfunctional relationship, but he's just so comforting to me. Keetens told me I should pretend that smoking was like a boyfriend...who died. So, you just can't go back there. But I am not good at pretending like that. Or maybe I am, but I just dont wanna.

(c) I introduced myself to a nice PhD student at a party a few weekends ago, and I've been running into him a lot at school. It makes my day. I also had a dream about him the other night, and it was awesome. It made my whole next day so light and lovely. Who says dreams aren't real, if they affect your waking life?

This new guy is very quiet, and I always say something stupid--just to say something. Then he quickly exits the scene. It's strange when you realize that someone is trying to get away from you. You're like, "But I love you! Don't be afraid! Well, maybe a little. Be kind of afraid. All right, you're smarter than I realized. Run. Run now while you can." I secretly think that the smartest boys are the ones who run away from me. Any guy that is into me right off the bat I think is an idiot. This latest crush is a big part of the reason why it's not really killing me to spend so much time in the computer lab, because that is where I run into him.

(d) My mission to save the world is shaping up quite nicely. I attended the NYC Grassroots Media Conference all day Sunday and it was really like I was returning to my people. I like conferences where all of the people there--both attendees and presenters--look like refugees. I am jealous of people who *truly* don't care what they look like, because they are on a bigger mission in life than looking good. I'm getting better at containing my vanity, mostly because I can't afford haircuts anymore. This kind of leads me into

(e) my decision to not buy any clothes anymore. Okay, not EVER again, but not until I am done with school and earning a paycheck. Ever since I moved to The NY, I find myself in a constant state of coveting whatever I see, and feeling bad that I can't have it. Or, debating how I can make sacrifices in order to buy that completely unnecessary article of clothing when I already own so many articles that I love. It has greatly simplified my headspace. To digress, when I quit smoking, it did the same thing. I stopped fighting myself over whether/when I should smoke a cigarette, and just stopped doing it.

It is fun to poke at your psyche sometimes, and try to fuck with yourself. It's funny the way we impose these rules on ourselves and see how we respond. "No new clothes for a year and a half? I'll show you! I'm going to save the world then! What do you think about that?"

PS

It may sound delightful to be a naked chef, but if you ever get some splash back, your exposed stomach is probably one of the most sensitive areas on your body.

this is the brief version

I am back in New York and straight into the first day of classes. I am inexplicably happy to be isolated in my little apartment, hiding from the freezing weather. I just ate a plate full of oatmeal-coconut-chocolate chip cookies with this stellar train of thought: Oh god, I have all these cookies. I'm going to end up eating them all week. Wait! I know! Why drag it out? Better if I eat them all right now.

So maybe I'm just weaning myself off a week of eating fried oysters and po'boys. I spent the last week of my month off in New Orleans, doing a little bit of volunteer work (digging ditches, painting houses) but mostly wandering around the city by myself, feeling alternately lost/confused and peaceful. At the 11th hour, the NPO I was signed up with got its shit together and contacted me, and I didn't end up staying with my couchsurfing connection, but at a Best Western a few blocks from the western edge of the French Quarter. They hooked us up there for $20 a night--more than the free lodging with my couchsurfing friend, but less than what it was going to cost us to rent a car.

I met up with him Tuesday night, and he took us to three sweet spots around town: Bullet's to see local trumpeting legend Kermit Ruffins, the Spotted Cat to see the Palmetto Bug Stompers, and then the Maple Leaf to see the Rebirth Brass Band. He gave me a bunch of recommendations for the rest of the week, and I ended up running into him every night. He was a big reason why I enjoyed the city so much.

Other reasons why my week in New Orleans ruled: (a) When you order a drink at a bar, they ask you "for here or to go?" (b) I decided not to worry about the other kids in my class who were there, and to just do whatever the hell I wanted to do, which was less hassle, and more fun. So I picked out what I wanted to do every night and did it by myself. (c) You can smoke everywhere in New Orleans, except for Preservation Hall.

YES the music scene in New Orleans is just as legendary as you hear. Imagine live music, free, every night of the week! I saw so much music last week that I may just have withdrawal symptoms this week.

Speaking of withdrawal...I've been smoking. ARGH! I KNOW...! But I've been on vacation for the past month, and I smoke when I go out and have a drink or two. In San Francisco many of my friends smoke, and many of us are cutting back, so we really enable each other when we're out together. So by the time I got to New Orleans, I was back to my old tricks. It didn't help that I kind of ran out of nicotine patches either.

But I'm not going to dwell on my failures.

I also developed a little crush in New Orleans, on a guy who I kind of pulled into our trip from another program. Although it's true that I fall in love with about 63 percent of the men I meet, I hadn't yet developed any interest in ANYONE in our program (yeah it's real bad), so this was a very welcome development. Our trips to Nola overlapped by a day, and I had a great time hanging out with him. I was happy to see him this morning in class, and we ended up getting dinner together before a meeting tonight. It was the perfect mutual ask too, where he asks what you're doing, and then you ask him out right back. I was so thrilled at this prospect that I could hardly concentrate on my reading about the origins of phylotogenetic repression. Yay! A crush who I will see a few times a week will truly make everything so much lovelier.

Hanukkah madness, madness, madness!

Strangely enough, my eight days of go-time here at school correspond exactly to the eight nights Yo La Tengo is playing sold-out shows in Hoboken, as well as the eight nights of Hanukkah.

It's been a most invigorating week, kicked off by a Saturday gazing into the mirror of my soul, reflected in the eyes of keetens. There are some people who are so like me in such pointed ways that it makes me uncomfortable to spend time with them. At the same time, their very existence is comforting and inspiring. This is why I have this love-hate relationship with my NA groups, and why I couldn't go this week. But I thinking talking to her made me realize that change is inevitable, because without change we either (a) continue to kill ourselves, or we (b) have no conflict, in which case we pretty much cease to exist.

Then Sunday vertical writer woke me up to tell me to look outside. For a long and beautiful moment, my mind was completely blank except for the sound of myself saying "Holy Shit." Everything outside was covered in a pure white silence.

My five-mile jog in the snow and the couple of 14-hour days on campus this week showed me that I am more or less comfortably enmeshed in a manic state of finals and euphoria. It's about fucken time. A few years ago, I realized the signficance of October, during which I flicker through being depressed and acting like it, and being depressed and exhausting myself trying to act like I'm not. RLP also fears October, and one October evening we had the following phone conversation in San Francisco:

RLP: What are you doing?
SB: Sitting in the dark. Watching TV.
RLP: What are you watching?
SB: Snow.
RLP: Snow?
SB: I just realized the TV is on, but it's not on a station. I've been watching snow for a few hours now.
RLP: Why is life like this? Why does October suck?
SB: You mean, why does life suck?
RLP: I feel like we could be on an after-school special right now about how to be a depressing shame to yourself and everyone you know. It would be called "Wasted Potential."
SB: That is really funny. I would laugh if I hadn't been doing all those drugs for the past five years.

Last year, I came to terms with November being a time of intense self-reflection involving massive life changes, accepting responsibility, and quitting smoking.

This year, I am accepting that, following October and November, it is only right that December and January are times of extreme energy and excitement about everything, everything, everything! This year it is a little tempered because I am pretty much sober, so now I get to crack out on Extreme Intellectualism.

I am incredibly excited about the world that has been opening up to me as a result of Columbia-induced malaise, Eckhart Tolle, and cuz, a PhD student whose lecture on Tuesday made me incredibly happy and loud. All this brain function makes me want to be a PhD student, a thought which is alternately repulsive and awe-inspiring. How does that work? How can you possibly not work for 7 years? I just don't get it.

Yesterday I had a funny meeting with my Quit Counselor because when I am amped up about life, I don't like to talk about the past or any kind of struggle, something that I normally cream over. I was kind of in denial that I have quit smoking and that it is affecting me at all. I felt like it would never get better, and then it did, so what is there left to talk about? Let's move on.

We started talking about winter break plans, because he is going to have to give me a large supply of nicotine patches to last me the month. Last week I would have only been too happy to talk about how stressful my return to San Francisco is going to be, but yesterday the stress was a moot point, and instead I turned to extolling the virtues of Love Affair. He said, politely, "Well, you'll have to tell me what happens when you get back." And instead of saying "Fucken A, you and everyone I know is going to get a blow-by-blow account of everything we said, ate, and saw, whether you want to or not," I told him that there would be nothing to tell. Or, rather, I would tell him right then and there would would happen, because I already knew. We're going to have a good time, see some sights, and enjoy each other's company. We will have fun. We will laugh a lot about stupid shit. We might have sex, we might not, it won't matter. We won't talk about the past; we won't talk about the future, and then we'll leave each other again and not speak for a while.

Hearing myself say this was quite satisfying. Not terribly awe-inspiring, but satisfying.

Falling Off the Wagon and Into Your Arms

One of my favorite new activities is sitting in my quiet apartment in front of my computer and putting things in my mouth. I like to have fifteen different internet tabs going at the same time, three different downloads, and, for good measure, Microsoft Word running, so I can pretend I'm writing or doing homework. I also make tea, eat cookies, chocolate, ice cream, and pasta. Some people call this ADD, but the people who treat me gently, like psychics and therapists, like to call it "multi-tasking."

Tonight I'm distracting/rewarding myself by focusing all my non-eating attention on this 2-3 day trip with Love Affair. So far I want to go to Mexico, Yosemite, Mono Lake, and Big Sur, and hike in the desert, the mountains, along the ocean, get a massage and a facial, relax, drive, and not be cold for one single second. In the middle of January. I also want us to make a soul connection so deep that it is unquestionable our lives will be inextricably, romantically intertwined forever and ever and ever. Also, we are both students, so this trip should cost very little money.

Apparently quitting smoking has made me delusional in more ways than one. I also thought it was okay to smoke cigarettes four nights in a row last week, twice with the sorta predestined notion that if I got drunk enough to not remember that I had quit, it wouldn't be like cheating. My NicA meeting today was especially effective in showcasing my weakness and shame. But god I love recovering addicts; they are so positive and supportive.

At today's meeting I had a flashback when the woman next to me said her perfunctory "Hi, my name is Seriously, and I'm a nicotine addict." There are a lot of people in this city are named Seriously, and it confuses me. I feel like once a day, someone yells "Seriously!" to someone standing within seven inches of me. I've never met so many Seriouslys in all my life. Anyhow, the first time this happened to me was when I was institutionalized for one hot minute, and this woman came into the smoking lounge during one of our two 30-minute smoke breaks. She sat right down next to me, which was bizarre because she wasn't from The Ward and none of us knew her. But she knew who We were, and she said, in a parody of The Ward (from which it was obvious that she had been recently discharged), "Hi, I'm Seriously, bi-polar, manic-depressive," and she stuck out her hand, and I said then as I did today, "Uh...me too?" Moments like that act as horrifying mirrors into your soul because you realize that despite all these horrible problems you think you have that drive you to attend 12-step programs or to self-incarcerate aren't so unique; in fact they're so commonplace that they have these systems in place for a reason. And when someone says EXACTLY what you were about to say, then you feel foolish for repeating the same thing, so you just stare back at them like a baby seeing its reflection for the first time. Except the baby that looks back at you is haggard, just like you.

After the meeting I treated myself with a trip to Whole Foods, where I allowed assorted yuppies to bang into me with their miniature shopping carts, and purchased three-dollar organic chocolate bars with love poems printed on the interior of the wrapper.

In the arms of chocolate and dreams of Love Affair, I thought about two wonderful conversations I had last night with two friends from San Francisco, Sharp and Sleepwalker. Sharp is an old co-worker whom I almost want to name Too Sharp, because the things he says to me are so on point that sometimes I wonder if he's just humoring me. He seems to know exactly what I want to hear. Did you ever tell someone about your deepest and darkest fear, and then forgot about it? Like have you ever been at a bar wasted, and then reveal, for example, this dream you had, then you woke up and realized your life is spinning out of control and that you're clinging onto your deadbeat boyfriend for distraction? Not only do you forget you told that person, you forget this crowning realization altogether. Then, weeks later, that person said to you, "It sounds like you really fear that your life is spinning out of control and that you're using your boyfriend as a distraction." And you look at them like they're the most insightful genius ever? That is how I feel about Sharp all the time. Sometimes I realize that he's just a very good listener to all of the many things I say, but other times I think that he's just very intuitive, and he knows exactly how I feel, and what to say to make me feel good about the world. He had so much news to tell me that I couldn't really explore any one topic; I kind of just let it all wash over me as a package of "San Francisco News." Sharp is also a very good confidante. I never realized how important it is for me to have a confidante because I'm a very open person. I kind of think that secrets lead to shame and shame leads to self-deprecation, so I try not to have any secrets. I also feel like by sharing the burden of my issues, it really lightens the load on me. Like if everyone knows that I'm slipping at quitting, it's okay, because I'm not trying to hide it, and now people will know what I'm going through and they won't smoke around me, or they won't make fun of me because they know it's hard. A few years ago, however, I ran into my first thing that I needed to share that I couldn't, because it involved someone else, and I found out the hard way that some people actually try to maintain some sort of privacy. For me, privacy is an illusion. Anyhow, that's why I wanted to have a secret blog, so I could write about anything and everyone, and nobody would get upset. But then, what use is it telling your problems to a wall? You need people to respond, and it's so much better when it's people you know, because then you actually care. Confidantes are so very important. That's why it's nice to have separate social circles sometimes. We all need confidantes. I need several. We all need support, and it's so important and wonderful when you find people to fulfill these vital roles.

I was a little alarmed at some developments of which Sharp apprised me involving our friend Sleepwalker, so I called her up too, and we had a great talk that ended up being a pep talk to stop being such alcoholics. At one point though, we started talking about not knowing what we were doing with our lives, and because she is facing a potential layoff, about job security. I told her to stay doing what she was doing because she likes it, and no job is ever really secure. My parents are doctors, I said, and I remember them constantly talking about moving to Canada whenever shit with the health care system was called into question. And...maybe there's no solution, there's no security, and there aren't any answers to any of these problems. We just accept the uncertainty of it all and talk about television.

Despite our lapses into alcoholism, running from crazy bitches who want to kill us for no reason, and adolescent angst about the purpose of life, we are more or less having adult conversations. It dawned on me then that maybe these thoughts about Life are what cause us not to care about neighborhood melodrama, and, addictions in mind, our individual lives. Maybe, just maybe, that's what separates the men from the boys and then the men from the Men. Boys have melodrama; men have Life struggles, and Men live life.

I don't know where I fall. I have a vagina.

Project Updates

Monday at 5 a.m. I emailed Love Affair to see if he wanted to perhaps take a road trip with me over winter break. Today he emailed me back and said yes!

This fills me with tempered elation and anxiety, the healthiest mixture of emotions that a recently quit smoker can possibly enjoy. So, sometime during my week in San Francisco, I'll escape somewhere along the West Coast with my broken-off love affair. This gives me 6 weeks to lose 30 pounds.

God, I'm just kidding. Shut the fuck up! The most I can hope for is 5 pounds. Or, with the way I'm eating lately, the best I can hope for is a maximum gain of 3.

The Quit has faltered recently, with me smoking half a cigarette last night and the night before. The NicA meetings have proven to be helpful; addicts are so nice! The other night I walked into this church basement on the Upper West Side and I felt like all two old men in there were staring at me. I've had similar feelings of demographic alienation in mental health groups of past, where it's a bunch of old white guys and me. Then they talk about the Vietnam War and I feel like I remind them of all the villagers they gunned down while listening to Wagner in a helicopter.

This one guy gave me the especially hard once-over, but I stayed, and then I loved him. He'd been a smoker for what, 40 years, and recently quit a few years ago. He said something along the lines of, "For the first time in my life I'm dealing with my emotions...I feel like a little girl sometimes! But it's good."

A lot smokers talk about the "smoke screen," using smoking as an avoidance tactic with anything from awkward social situations to extreme personal emotions. That's how I'm feeling lately, and it's weird to recognize these patterns from your past.

After the meeting this born-again man approached me after the meeting and gave me words of encouragement. "Keep coming back," he told me. "When I first quit, I came to a meeting every night."

What drove me to my first break up my complete Tobacco Abstinence was my disappointing Crazy Blind Date. The guy looked like an overweight Marv Alberts:



But with worse skin. Let me tell you how CBD works. First you create a mini profile where you answer, briefly, what you are good at talking about, what you expectations are, and what you look like. You upload a photo, but they blur it out until after your date with said person. Then you answer like 10 short questions. You tell them you're free at a certain time and can get to certain neighborhoods, and if/when (they're still in Beta) they find you a date, they text you to look at the person's profile, and then you accept/decline. I should have declined because he said he wasn't a drinker (ultimatums scare me), but I accepted because he, like me, said he had no expectations whatsoever. That, and he was a classical composer, which blows my fucken mind. They tell you where you're going to meet, which dude picked out, he told me, from a list of pre-approved locations. A half-hour before the date, CBD enables text messaging to happen anonymously, by texting through their service. Kind of cool.

Too bad there was zero attraction.

To be fair, he was fine as a person and a pretty courteous date, not too hard to make conversation with, etc. But he made me feel kind of made me wonder why I'm trying so hard to be with someone that I'll be willing to spend all of this time and energy with people like him.

He asked me if I could be doing anything at the moment, and I said: drugs.

I knew I was going to smoke a cigarette as soon as I got home. I tried to wait it out, but only so I could tell my Quit Counselor that I did give it the full 10 minutes for it to pass, but it wasn't that kind of craving. It was the kind of thing where you want to talk to that one friend you have who can make you feel better without saying a word, and I needed that hug. And you know what, I didn't feel bad about it at all.

Quitters Are Sexy

My school employs a guy who helps students to quit smoking. I went to see him last week and he listened to me bitch about how hard it is to quit and how it makes me even moodier than before. He also gave me the patch, and told me to use it in tandem with the gum.

Did you know quitting could be this sexy?

Also, did you know that the patch fucken ITCHES? At least, for the first hour you wear it, it feels like there are ten billion little mosquitoes permanently suckered onto your arm and at the same time you want to squash them dead and flick them away, you know that "skin" - colored circle is preventing you from bashing your head repeatedly into the wall.

I also went to my second NA meeting last night. Instead of going to the Gay Men's Health Clinic, I went to one in a church basement and we talked about Step 11, "Seeking through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry it out."

All the God stuff makes me a wee bit irritated, and they try to substitute "Higher Power" whenever possible. I don't know where this is leading me yet, but if I turn into a Jesus Freak, then I think I'd rather be smoking. At least then I wouldn't be delusional. For now, I picture my heart a lot, all pink and pasty, and thumping away.

My older brother came into town this weekend and we did some serious touristing. Sunday alone we went to the Museum of Natural History, the MoMA, the Knicks game, and the last night of the Django Reinhardt festival at Birdland. It was my second time seeing these very same festival performers, and the accordian player, Ludovic Beier, is fucken amazing. The last time I saw them, at Yoshi's in Oakland, I cried. It was so good.
Ludovic Beier



I fell in love with two Davids on Sunday. The first was Knicks Forward David Lee. I love basketball players--a throwback to growing up in Bulls Domination Era in the suburbs of Chicago--and David Lee is kind of goofy and pasty, which is why he is irresistible. I spent the game cheering for only David Lee, and feeling conflicted about being at a Knicks-Heat game. At Birdland, I gazed fondly at the second David of the evening, Django's grandson, David Reinhardt, who was so adorable. And, at 21 years old, just my style.