My family has to love the Novelist because...

1. He quotes Monty Python AND So I Married and Axe-Murderer, avec accent
2. He has the following on DVD (to ensure his pure and lovely geekiness)
a. Highlander: The Series. My brothers and I spent way too many summer nights watching this on USA.
b. Season One of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes starring Jeremy Brett.
3. We have gone to the following Favorite Places of JoBiv and Novelist with mutual glee
a. The MFA
b. The Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum
c. The Long Wharf - where he could actually tell me what all the buildings were because he was a reporter in East Boston for a while.
4. He reads! Voraciously! Historical non-fiction, some sci-fi, the news, any fiction he feels he should catch up on... Smarty McSmarterson!
5. He chews with his mouth closed, opens doors for me, is unendingly polite, but can still joke around in a dry, crazy, ridiculous but pleasing manner.
6. He is completely goofily in love with me and isn't afraid to show it.
7. I love him back.

Did I mention he's coming to Victor for Easter?

JoBiv v. Opening Day

I survived, I guess.

Oddities number one and two: My schedule for the Tuesday instructed me to go to the optometrist, do laundry, and go up to Newbury. I got out of bed, showered, ate something, and set out in record time.

As I headed out to the appointment I was forced to walk around a skinny dude putting up huge lights and camera equipment, right outside the laundry room.

"Hunh," thought I, "I hope I'm not in his way when I do my laundry."

I bravely marched onward, made it to the correct floor at the correct time, announced myself to the secretery of the Boston Eye Group. "That's with a B?" Yes. "10 o'clock?" Yes. "With Dr. Moss?" YES. "Jo Hannah, I have you scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10 am." Good God damn!

I trudged back to my apartment with laundry on my mind. As I came up the steps I was surprised by a full cast in full '50s garb, the skinny camera guy busily setting up shots. I had to walk aall the way around our hedged-in courtyard, realizing that laundry would not be an option. SO! I decided instead to...

Oddity number three: Walk to Newbury Street. On Opening Day. Yes, in fact, I AM a dumbass. By St. Mary's I began to realize my blunder. For some reason I'd thought the game wouldn't start 'til seven or so. I was WRONG, I was wrong I was wrong. By Kenmore, I was getting overwhelmed by the crowds, so I...

Oddity number four: Hid by the banks and listened to a pack of old white men playing New Orleans jazz. The drummer caught me watching an winked salaciously. JoBiv + old men = not so mutual adoration.

Now, realize that I then managed to walk all the way to Arlington without dying or buying anything. Proud of me? I went to this Needlepoint shop where I bought some frickin' expensive yarn for a baby blankie for Baby Boy Biviano (due in late June). Since I bought my yarn there, they let me know I was welcome to return for lessons or guidance in my blankie-makin' process. Nice peeps, yo. By the time I was ready to head back,

Oddity number five: the game was letting out, and I couldn't take the T without crying, so I had to walk back. I guess this isn't an oddity so much as bad timing on my part. And of course, walking was nearly as bad because I had to duck and weave through drunk people. Drunk people + glaring sunlight = SAD. But the Sox won, so all's well. I got home in time to eat a quick dinner, fill up a water bottle, and head off to Good Choir. As the rehearsal came to a close, some people from the Concert Committee looked suspiciously organized for 10pm post-Mozart rehearsal. They invited me to join them for a quick meeting regarding concert venues. (I am on the committee - by choice? Unclear.) So we walked out and tried to figure out a place to meet, when finally it was decided that we should...

Oddity number six: Meet in Honor's car. FIRST of all, yes, her real name is Honor. SECOND of all, it's lucky there were only four of us. We sat, cramped, the dome light on, as we meticulously went through pros and cons of about 13 venues. After this wonderful torture, I finally got home by 11:30.

WHEW!

EXPAND. contract. EXPAND. contract.

Tomorrow I have my second drawing open studio with Gentleman Ben. I need more paper, bigger paper, and I need it by ten a.m. tomorrow morning. I will have to actually wake up tomorrow and face the world, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

The first week I was out of the partial program, I was puking. My lounging and self-pity were, therefore, justifiable. Two weeks later...

Okay, I have made some progress. I have:

1. Seen my doctor and allowed her to touch me in awful places (first pap smear. Icka)
2. Found an optometrist
3. Discovered that Masshealth doesn't care if my teeth rot out of my face
4. Moved some writing files around so I can access them on this laptop
5. Researched this editor lady at Roaring Brook so she won't reject me too quickly
6. Jobsearched on HigherEdJobs.com
7. Updated my resume, contacted registrars, played with cover letters
8. Experimented with a few gyms in town, imagining a day when I can afford them
9. Resisted the urge to turn off my phone and hide in my bed until I shrivel up into a sinewy mass off gray nastiness

I've left the house once a day, at least! For spans of 4 or 5 hours at a time on occasion!

I've gotten back into reading! I wasn't able to concentrate before. Now I'm zipping along happily (although guiltily, imagining that I could be working for pay somewhere in the world).

I've been able to enjoy the Novelist's company without overanalyzing or denying the positives (until way later, that is).

But then, once in a while I have a day like today. I couldn't quite focus on anything, hated myself for being inside on such a pretty day, hated myself for hating myself, eventually had to leave the house for therapy, was ripped apart (by myself, not the LSW) in therapy, cried my way home, sat back in my Cheap Chic brown chair and watched Gilmore Girls until my eyes buzzed, looked at my phone to see there was a voicemail from my mother which said, with quite a lot of spunk:

"Hi Joey! I'm just calling to tell you we need four tickets for your concert in May. It'll be me, Dad, and the C--'s. We're coming in on the 17th and leaving on the 21st. Everyone's really looking forward to it, and we can talk about it more later if you want to call me. Love you..."

Hmm... 17th, 18th, 19th - Whoa, three days! That's my quota! But no, it get's worse... 20th... 21st!!!

I'm not gonna lie to you; I cried. I had a nice little hissy fit right in my bedroom, threw my phone into the pillowy abyss of my comforter, allowed my throat to close up and my hands to clench. I just let it come. I tried to be gentle with myself, per therapist's orders.

It's okay, Jo. Get angry. Get scared. Get sad. You need to feel all of this now and let the big wave pass. Feeling is NOT self-pitying...

Et ceterAH, et ceterAH, and so forth.

I think it will be good to get out of the house early tomorrow, hike up to the Landmark Center for some art supplies, meet Ben at the open studio, let myself drift and drown a little in the intensity of the world closing in around the point of my pencil.

The curse of the white shirt

It happened AGAIN.

I just searched my own blog for my entries about my demon white shirt, but I couldn't find them. Nonetheless, I want you to reach back into your encyclopaedic memory and recall that whenever I wear a certain white shirt, the rain comes a-pourin' down.

I am, however, getting sharper in my old age. The sky looked clear, the world seemed sunny. But I knew better. I was wearing The Shirt. I had to run errands in Coolidge corner - RadioShack, CVS, hither and thither... I was trying on sandals in Simon's shoe store when I noticed the world outside for a moment. The sun disappeared. People scurried through crosswalks to the safety of awnings. A mist sprinkled the window, tiny specks of water in a huge constellation.

I did not curse my shirt this time. Oh no, I looked upon the gray day with perfect satisfaction. My white shirt has a new, automatic accessory: a blue umbrella. Take THAT, Mother Nature! I am a GENIUS!

Swingin' from tree to tree

Oh how happy I would be
If I were a monkey-key
Swingy-swing swingin' from tree to tree

- copyright JoBiv, thirty seconds ago


I am indeed swingin', from the happy tree to the hopeless tree. Last night at Good Choir, I saw I had a message from The Novelist and went downstairs to check it at our break. The message was an overly dramatic rendition of "You Are So Beautiful" accompanied by his brother yelling at him to shut the hell up. I will save it forevor.

I laughed quite heartily for a minute, then made my way back upstairs to the rehearsal space. And there, near the top of the stairs, my whole body seemed to rock with the swing from that happy warmth into something much more scary. I looked up; there was Gentleman Ben, the 60-something man who attends both choirs and suggested I try out for Good Choir. Ben is a psychiatrist and knows a little about what I've been through, because I knew he was safe, and he worries about me.

Gentleman Ben was shuffling by the door and saw me come up the stairs. He froze, his eyebrows dipping in concern, and I walked over to him.

"What do they have you on? Are you taking Ativan for panic attacks?" he asked.
"No, I told them I was on it before..."
"And they thought you might be addicted."
"Yeah." My eyelids gained forty pounds each. I wanted to close them. I was sure I could sleep standing up.
.
"You look... like you're having a tough time."
"I do?"
"You look tired."

I could feel the tears rising in my eyes and throat. "Yeah," I said. "It's still tough. Not having the support from the hospital, all my days empty..." I backpedaled then, telling him about the opportunities arising in my life, my plans for getting myself back together.

"Have you seen your friend from Singapore? The Indian girl?"
"Meera? No... I haven't."
"Hm."
"She's doing pretty well, happily married, taking photos..."
"Don't you do something artistic?"
"Yeah, well... Yeah, I paint, draw, collage, print..."
"You paint?"
"Yep."
"With what?"
"Watercolors, acrylics, ink..."
"I use watercolors, too!"

At this point I recognized a few things that I love about Ben. He can absolutely nail things on the head, and then he can ease away from the distress if he causes it. A professional.

Ben told me about a figure drawing open studio in town. $15 to just show up and draw, Friday mornings, ten to one. He expects me to be there.

Swoooooosh... A tree of serendipitous ease...

I used to be able to whip up words for any celebration, tragedy, or current drama. People would call upon me for Occassional poetry, a speech, a few words of advice or pith.

These days... I can't find many words to soothe myself, much less soothe others. I try to push away this feeling that any good thing in my life is just a precursor to a kick in the figurative balls, but honestly...

So, Gary Thomas died. No one can tell me how. His memorial service is next Sunday and I won't be able to make it. Besides pure logistics, it's too much - seeing all the ghosts of my high school, Shane's death day (today), my general state of mental unhealth.

Of course I've had more than my share of self-pitying moments this... year. But add this to the list and let it be a kind of eulogy. I always thought that if I ever got talented enough or someone could possibly risk thousands of dollars on me on the faintest whim and I got myself recorded, Gary Thomas would be numero uno on my dedication list.

Why? It's occasionally easy to explain and occasionally... odd. I mean, there's the obvious fact that he was a music teacher, and I spent half my high school career in his room, learning, singing, letting him watch our small dramas unfold. But then I think of the times he wrote me lesson passes so I could get out of study halls or math class because all I needed to do was cry. He let me hide myself in his room because he caught that look in my eyes some mornings. I would drag my sad body into school with tears encrusted onto my face from the previous night's sleeplessness or nightmares. He would ask, "JoBiv, are you okay today? Will we see you at lunch?"

When I was really, really losing it my senior year, there was a carnation sale for St. Patty's Day, raising money for some club. I remembered that day because it was god-awful. My mother had taken me to physical therapy that morning. I had stayed home for a part of each day that week. I had spent so much time in the bathtub, floating, hating myself, wanting to drown. I got school that day, and Mr. T had bought me a carnation. No one else, just me. The message that came with it was appropriate (surprising for him, really), but showed utter faith in me.

Two thoughts cross my mind now - how sad he'd be that I'm still going through all this, and how proud he'd be of my successes. If he could even hear my voice, how strong I can be remembering his faith in me... Does that sound saccharine?

Little. Yellow. Different.

My tears have broken new ground today. I had to talk about things I have never, never, ever, EVOR had to talk about before. It feels like someone dropped a subaqueous mine down my well, and any movement, any scrape, could do me in. And yet, I feel like I have to wait. It may just sit there. It may diffuse itself.

But that's not how mines work, is it?

I am so tired of fragility.

K and I had talked about how she could recognize all her friends by their hands. I wanted to prove it, somehow, and never got the chance.

K's hands are strong, broad, and elegant at the same time. Not to mention immaculately clean.

jLiz's hands seem to pose, but are actually simply graceful on their own. She handles everything as though she were performing a Japanese tea ceremony, but never so static.

Sus's hands are dry, expressive, and capable, nearly naked of rings and things.

Meera's are small, unnecessarily hidden, and a little dry, too. They are happiest while holding something - a pen, a book, a camera.

Sarah's hands are quick, long-fingered, narrow, and always beautifully self-manicured.

My hands are short and wide, sometimes dimpled, very soft except for the hangnails which I can't leave alone, often shaky these days. They're dangerous to me.


I'm thinking of Sarah's hands, though, and her mother's. I stared at this photo for quite a while, seeing the shape of Sarah in them. I thought of my own mother's hands, and how I don't get homesick much at all, except for missing her hands and the sweet way she used to run her them through my hair just to say, "hello, I'm here for you." I can't imagine. I can't imagine. My God Sarah... I'm aching for you.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Turn and face the strain...


On Wednesday, my clinical coordinator told me that I'm now on half days at the program. I panicked. She said, "Oh no, oh please don't panic..." She's a very lovely woman and we get along swimmingly, so she told me how much she hates telling people they're going to have to leave.

I'm really, really worried. I had half days on Thursday and Friday, which means I missed the morning group and leave before the last group. This is difficult for one big reason - I'm not so good at having time on my hands. Mornings are especially threatening. I'm alone in the apartment, able to sleep in and hate myself for it, able to indulge in my harmful behaviors with no one to stop me. My tactic: I show up early anyway and just sit in their lobby, knitting or trying to read or wandering around the room.

Getting out early is also a problem. I don't really know what to do with myself at two in the afternoon. Usually I get a call from Becca around 3:30, which used to mean I could do some errands and then she'd suck up the rest of my time for three days straight. Now I have too much time by myself, my brain whirs, I think about all the missteps of the day and, surprise, hate myself.

I'm planning ahead, now, with help from therapists. I am going to:

1. join a gym
2. start up my novel project again
3. do something artistic every day
4. join another group for therapy
5. schedule an hour to work on job hunting every day

Only an hour, mind you, so I don't throw myself out my ground-level window. Cuz that would be silly.

I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying... But what will happen when they discharge me next Friday?

Ambivalent about my love life? Well, yes and no.

The Novelist and I, in case you were wondering, are now officially involved. This came as quite a shock to me, to be honest. How could I possibly start a relationship when my life is so off-center, unraveling, disappearing... How is he having a relationship with ME when I am essentially not here? Not me. Not anyone.

And how can I let him be this good to me? That's the main question I come back to over and over again.

I will now spew the following sad and stereotypical statements that self-effacing women often spew when they find a good guy:

I don't deserve him
I'll poison him, bring him down to my level
Once he REALLY knows me, he'll reject me
He's only being nice because he wants some fine JoBiv ass
He doesn't deserve sick JoBiv. NO ONE deserves sick JoBiv.
He must be a complete freak if he wants me.
I only like him because he likes me.
Someone's paying him.
I don't love myself enough to give love to someone else.

I could go on...

But when I'm with him, I enjoy him. I enjoy everything; the flutters of anxiety at the newness of it all, the compliments (since when do I get compliments from boyses?), the closeness, affection, the opportunities for ME to give affection, the conversations, the surprising commonalities, the concern for each other on our bad days, the pull of attraction, the sweetness of growing familiarity...

I have to allow myself to be healthy for him. Can I?

bowl of sad

This is my bowl of sad. It looks small here, but it's actually pretty frickin' huge. It is full of nasty sad things.

F'rinstance, I ran into Pea with her new nanny the other day. That's in the bowl of sad.

And then Uly called me up wondering where I've been. I told him. He changed the subject. That made quite a splash in the bowl, I can tell you. I thought we were at least friends. How silly of me.

Last week my temporary psychiatrist asked me about job prospects and I couldn't control my tears enough to tell him I had none. He said I may need to put it off for a while. There was enough for a deposit in the bowl of sad AND that bug jar of self-loathing.

And the staff at the Program keeps asking why I haven't called AL-Anon. I can't tell them that just thinking about it, diagnosing my father so formally... just the thought makes me think I have to get a much bigger bowl.

News. Plural.

New roommate who brought cat for whom I have a
newfound love - didn't know I liked cats, and while we're talking about my ignorance let's discuss
new boyfriends.
New boyfriends? Are you sure about that JoBiv? Not really, have to take it slow, considering
new therapists,
new doctors,
new people in the program who are too much like me and freak me out! As freaky as a
new job search, which hasn't really started but needs to. Speaking of need, I need a
new briefcase for interviews and I bought
new shoes and a
new suit. Yikes. Oh! Also expecting a
new nephew! In June, hooray! But will I be able to go home then? Will I have a job? Love these
new anxieties,
new fears,
new doubts... Even positive things are scary as hell when they're
new.

Briefly, my Wednesday

10:00 - First time I was asked by many group members, "Whoa... are you okay today, Jo?"

12:12 - Could not control tears. Had to leave the room so I could sob properly. The discussion: What happens when the people who are supposed to protect you harm you instead? That thought is pertinent, but this thought upset me more - What if you don't let your protectors help you; do you then deserve all that's happened to you?

12:30 - Sniffled through lunch and noticed everyone's discomfort with me too weak to entertain them.

3:00 - Booked my ass to Beacon St. for intake at a certain psychotherapy practice. Withstood intake as well as can be expected. Cried s'more. Withstood compliments as gracefully as possible with snot threatening to drip onto my shirt.

4:40 - Made it to Cambridgeside mall to look for interview clothing. Found it, bought it. Decided that I felt grimy and went to a salon to have my hair washed. "Only washed?" they asked. "Yep," sez I. "Oookay," they said. The washer and the receptionist couldn't figure out what to charge me, so I just gave the washer a tip.

7:30 - Walked into English Jo's apartment exactly on time, very proud of myself. We went out to dinner at a place called Orinoco that had lovely food and strange service. Flan = HEAVEN.

10:00 - Wandered to Wally's to catch some jazz/funk fusion. So good. So tired.

10:50 - Slugged myself to the T and knitted all the way home. Except when I was walking.

11:50 - Took cold medicine and sleepy-time medicine. Will pass out shortly.

JoBiv's endless numbered days

Ready? If you need to, take notes or breaks as you see fit.

1. One week of partial hospitalization done! The doctor said something about me being there for only one week. That was untrue. They want me there for three weeks.

2. Yes, I went to Vermont - TO SKI!! J to the Bivvo on skis? Sounds like a bad idea, unless you know that I'm an undercover jock. It's true! After two days of dawdling and blaming the weather for my pokeyness, Mel and I decided to take a beginner's course in skiing. Turns out that I didn't need it. Everything came back to me from when my Dad first traumatized me on the slopes of Gore Mountain at the tender age of nine. It felt so good to swish my way down the slopes, to control my body and my speed, to get comfortable with the chair lift. Mel had a hard time, though, and tried to be happy for my success.


3. Baby Mama asked me to meet with her, remember? I did, in fact, meet with her and the Baby Daddy at Pea's last night. They were awkward, letting me hold Pea and play with her, conspicuously quiet between brief spouts of smalltalk. Pea fairly leapt into my arms as soon as I walked in, and wouldn't let me put her down for a good forty minutes.

Eventually they got up the courage to tell me they're letting me go. This, after all, is a perfect time for a transition for them. Y'know, while I'm sick. They're looking for someone who will cook and clean for them as well as watch Pea. And yes, I did cry right there in their kitchen. I thought I had prepared myself for this... I was not at all prepared for the smack of emotions while I watched the baby move a magnet from the refrigerator to the washing machine - something I taught her.

I'm heartbroken.


4. Today I stopped my tears long enough to make a follow-up call to an agency that has seen my resume and actually wants to talk to me. After a week of phonetag, I spoke to the woman who emailed me. She said, "This is how our process works. We do an initial interview of about three to four minutes on the phone..." And then my brains shot out my ears and I was dead on the floor.

Okay, not really. Then we had a phone interview, which was fairly easy since I'm excited about this agency and had lots to say about how my experiences fit the job. This woman will be in touch with me "soon," which, in non-profit terms, could be a month.


5. The Novelist took me out last Thursday. The first thing he said was, "Wow, you look really amazing tonight," and he blushed. Ding ding ding! We have a winner!

I'm seeing him this Thursday, too, and we have tentative plans for Saturday. Trying to move a little carefully just now, with all the world spinning away from me these days.

And I have to learn how to take his compliments graciously... I'm not accustomed to such flattery.

The bends

I'm surfacing, but maybe too quickly. The weekend and today's group therapy left me dizzy and disoriented, and a bit antisocial. Becca took me out to dinner Friday, then I met up with Norah Saturday, and then I had a date with The Novelist on... er... yesterday. Jenny and I also met prospective roommates Saturday. Action-packed, I tell you!

All of that stuff kept me busy, but the anxiety comes rushing through my body because of a few other incidents. My brother Smacks texted me (I keep forgetting my phone can do that) yesterday, saying, "Why do you suppose you were in the hospital?" What a funny question, as though I might not know. And then there's the disturbing alacrity of the rumors flying between my brothers. Cripps sent me a message Friday demanding an explanation. I don't remember how he knew, if I left a hint somewhere... At any rate, I called and asked him not to tell Mom and Pop. He didn't call back.

So I called Smacks after the text message. He tried not to sound pissed, but I could tell he was annoyed that I hadn't called while I was in the hospital. And worse, that I hadn't planned to tell my family at all. Now I've talked to both Cripps and Smacks at length, and the consensus; I should tell Mom and Pop.





Don't they look happy? Ignorance IS bliss...

Does Johanna exist?

From "Does Joanna Exist?"

... What sort of world would this be if you

(or anyone, surely Joanna herself)

were to find after a lifetime lived

otherwise that Joanna is not the creature

all had assumed, but is in reality

some weird emanation from eternity

sealed up in a mind that thinks itÂ’s Joanna,

a body that lives in Joanna‚’s house?

...Of course she exists, everyone sighs.

And you exist too, Joanna replies.

-Bonnie Jacobson

I walked myself to Beth Israel Deaconess on Sunday evening, having had a terrible epiphany that I would never get healthy on my own, and having no idea how to get help. I walked to the wrong building, which was a little funny. They took me in an ambulance to the correct one, the ER, where I cried my eyes out with unchecked anxiety. I talked to five different doctors and nurses, telling parts of my story, and then I was left alone in a room with a big glass doors looking out on the nurse's station. I was there for a total of 20 hours while they looked for a bed for me in a psych ward somewhere in Boston.

Another ambulance, another hospital... They had me strapped to a stretcher, but let me walk once we were on the right floor. The people there gave me a kit of toiletries, johnnies to wear, and hospital socks. They were frantic to get me something to eat, but I wasn't hungry. I had arrived during snack time, and all the other patients congregated in the TV room, snatching cookies, oranges, pie, milk... I sat there, trying to eat, looking at the people, hoping they weren't looking at me and I wasn't in anyone's way. Someone poked me with a needle and got a blood sample. Someone else took my blood pressure and temperature. I took a shower with my tiny shampoo bottle and hospital towels, tried not to look in the mirror, went back to my room and put myself to bed.

The next four days were strange. I had meetings with doctors, a nurse assigned to me every shift (and different nurses every day), medication to help me sleep, some slight choice in food that I gradually felt like eating, and bizarre conversations with legitimately crazy people. I showed up for every scheduled event. I monitored my reactions to drugs. I managed stilted friendships with the less debilitated. I made phone calls without completely losing it.

I had to call the Baby Mama on Monday morning, early, to tell her I couldn't work. She asked if I was okay, asked if she could do anything. I told her I'd probably be out all week. I told her I'd be in touch when I could tell her more. She was pure sympathy.

I got a call from her on Tuesday asking if I could work this week. I called her back to tell her I couldn't. She, again, offered her services if I should need them. I said, no, no, I'm fine, thanks... She said, "When you get back home I think we should sit down to talk," in a very serious manner. In other words, I may have gotten fired for getting sick.

I'm back now, but not completely back. I have a day program to go to for the next two or three weeks. My symptoms... well, they were aggravated for a week, so I think they can only get better now. But, it turns out they're not just symptoms; I actually have OCD. Awesome.

I didn't have to be honest about this, but how could I leave it out? I'm trying to be more honest with myself. This was a pretty big event in my life. I didn't disappear completely for a week. I do exist, most of the time. I think.

A moment of unexpected boldness

Unexpected, but not unrehearsed.

I wanted to go to Rami's for dinner today. Well, that's probably not true. I wanted to pass by J. P. Licks. He was working. I passed by, proud of myself. But, of course, I eventually went in.

We flirted while I chose ice cream. I sat, he came out and flirted. He had customers, came back out and flirted. I felt this antsy energy fizzing in me. Finally I got my jacket on, wrapped my scarf around me for an extra defensive layer.

"Yo," I said, calling him to the swinging employee door.
"Yeah?"
"I have to ask you something."
"Yeah?"
"C'mere, though."
He wandered over, his eyebrows peaked in open curiosity.
"Are we ever gonna make out?"
"No," he said, no hesitation. I wasn't looking at him, for that second, but that was silly. We made eye contact.
"Then you need to stop teasing me," I said.
"Okay."
I nodded.
"I'll try to stop being so charming."
"Har."
"Was that fun?"
"Oh yeah."
"Tons of fun..."
"Bye."

A block down Harvard I wanted to run back to give him another order. "Don't ever tell me why." Boys like him seem to love to tell me why, and the list grew in my head as I walked.

You're too crazy, too much to take on.
You're too big... my roommates would make fun of me (Seriously heard this one before.)
I can't be in a relationship right now (until the next girl comes along)...

Fuck this list. Nevermind.

Foood is goood

Over the past few weeks, Norah, Melissa and I have gotten into the habit of cooking on Fridays. Chris the Giant often helps out, too, but he's in LA this weekend. Poo on him.

Tonight we attempted dinner in my apartment. This marks the SECOND time Melissa and Norah have crossed my threshold. I've noticed this of late; my lack of guests. People don't tend to hang out at my apartment. But then again, I don't tend to hang out in people's apartments at all, except for Friday night dinners. I tend to see people at choir rehearsals, out for dinner, at movies, etc. Plus, I haven't been too terribly social.

BUT, I'm proud to say that my apartment can be very homey with people cookin' in it. We made a super-peanut-saucy thai-ish noodle thing. It was frickin' amazing. The girls were kind enough to split the recipe so my portion wouldn't burn my tongue out of my mouth. Sweet, aren't they?

It's funny, I haven't quite felt at home here. That's not so surprising, considering the rapid change of venue. Anyway, tonight felt nice, cooking in my place with friends, knowing where all the dishes are, finding a peeler I didn't know we had, lazing around the living room til we got sleepy, tucking away the clean dishes and the leftovers... It's home.

Coats of many colors

The snow of two days ago melted, and most of it dried up as well. Today was a warm day with blue sky here and there. Pea was as eager as I was to get outside. She actually stood still while I put her many coats on.

Here's the thing about Pea's outerwear -- all her clothes are hand-me-downs, and none of them are warm or unstained. Thus we layer. First, of course, is the onesie, long-sleeved for super cold days. Then the shirt, then the sweater or sweatshirt. That's her outfit for bopping around the house. When we go outside, I say, "Pea, get your jackets." She tippy-taps over to the dining room chair where we hang her many worn coats, drags them off, brings them to me, then runs away when I go to put them on her.

Jacket numero uno: actually a fleece from Gap circa 1999. It's thick, though, and big enough to fit over her sweater. It's a deep, sporty blue color and screams BOY BOY BOY, evidenced by the many, "Oh he's so sweet" comments we get as we stroll down Harvard.

Jacket numero two-o: a once-downy, lumpy patchwork with disintegrating cuffs. This coat is probably her warmest, but it's officially ratty. It's also got the Brookline Hippie thang goin' on - androgynous color scheme set off by fairly-traded shell buttons carved into the shapes of little bunnies. I call this one Pea's Starfish Coat because it's puffiest in the arms, which means she can't put her arms down when she wears it. Funny, but cruel.

Jacket numero trio: The Ugly Coat. I have two words for you: color block. Add in a third - NEON. Are we done yet? I actually have a song for this coat. The melody is unimportant. The lyrics are uninspired, but state my opinion clearly.

"S...'s UGLY coat
Let's wear the UGLY coat
Go get the UGLY coat
Zip up the UGLY coat"

Now, the ugliness is offensive enough, but it's just plain disturbing that this has become our go-to coat considering that it's about as thick as two-ply Scott, it has no hood, and it's two sizes too big. Why does she wear it? Because it has snap-on mittens. Yep, that's the whole reason. It's impossible to keep mittens on her fingers, and so she gets the ugly coat instead.

Did I mention the color block? When a certain ice cream scoopin', sex shop hoppin' friend of mine saw it, he summed it up like so: "That's a fly coat."

And the cherry on top? Her hats are hand-me-downs, too. She has a baby BOY blue one with white bears knitted in and a pom-pom. That one's fairly cute, especially when it slips over her eyes and she has to wrestle with it. (Is it cruel of me to think that's cute?) The other hat is from Old Navy. The boy's section. It's navy blue and grey fleece and fits her well, but when I put it on her she is completely incognito. People who know the bright green stroller doubt themselves. "Is that... Pea? I thought that was a boy in there."

Now I'm not one for enforcing gender roles, but it's really frickin' annoying to correct people all day, and slightly concerning to correct people who know the family. I tend to make sure she's wearing purple or pink or ridiculous flowers on the bottom to give people an indication, and they're still confused.

Gah. Anyway, take a moment now to close your eyes and imagine the combination of all three coats. With either hat. Egads! The effect is horrific. Lucky for Pea, her cuteness outshines the egregious wrongs done her by such a fashion faux pas.

Of sex shops and sci-fi

I set out for Good Vibrations with every intention of being a little late. I wondered if he'd artfully choose something to look at so I'd find him with something incredibly sexy... What would that thing be? A book would probably be the least threatening. Ah, yes, I'd walk in and he'd be thumbing through something deliciously erotic, thinking of me.

I scooted down the wide, friendly alley leading to the parking lot behind Coolidge Corner. The entrance, spicily enough, is in the rear. The entrance also had a sign on it: "Private Party, Please come back tomorrow!"

I could see shadows moving behind the fogged glass. I could hear voices murmuring. It was all beyond my reach. Was he in there? Thumbing? Waiting for me? How'd he get in? I stood outside, dumbstruck, until another girl came up and said, "Hey, is this the sex shop?"

"Yeah, but it's a private party, apparently," I said.

"That sucks. I wanted to get something for a friend's bachelorette party."

I thought, is this what women always say to each other when they go to sex shops? Another girl came up and hovered, reading the sign.

"It's closed to the public?" she asked.

"I think so," I said. "I thought it was going to be a big open party. Not so."

A young woman with a logo-emblazoned apron came out of a side door and looked at the three of us, our faces hopeful.

"Sorry, ladies, it's a closed party."

"Awww..."

After standing there a little longer, pressing for details on the store's hours, robbing food from the catering trays as they passed us by, the girl got us some freebies and we went our separate ways.

Hmm, thought I, I bet he's in Coolidge Corner, feeling likewise dejected. I checked out his haunts. Nowhere to be found. Eventually I got dinner, then settled into a booth at J. P. Licks to await him, wondering where he could be.

And guess where he was? IN THE SHOP. He got in, saying he had an invitation, and got a WHOLE LOTTA LOOT for free! He came to sit with me and gingerly showed off his goodies. I pouted. I showed him my comparably tiny consolation prize - a pack of creepy-looking condoms and lube I'll never use - and he laughed in my face. I pouted some more. He laughed some more. I got annoyed rather quickly.

"Why are you so upset?"

YO! JACKASS! SEXUAL FRUSTRATION!

He suggested we take a walk. We walked... to choir rehearsal. I was looking for an alley to duck down, myself. After choir we had our ceremonial ice cream with other friends, and then he got on his bike and went home, renegging on the drink he'd offered earlier.

At that moment I knew I wanted two things simultaneously: to rip his clothes off, and to punch him in the neck. I did neither.

On the bright side, I had a cozy little email from The Novelist waiting for me when I got home. It doesn't compare to the make-out session I could have had, but it's something.

Just when you thought cupid was dead...

... feeling unloved, ever-so-lonely, did I mention unloved? And then this random screw-in-the-cake guy gets my email address and actually uses it. He didn't send chapters from his novel, bless'im.

And then I had another certain someone tell me about a sex shop opening in Coolidge Corner (Good Vibrations, replacing Grand Opening), on Wednesday. And not-so-subtley tell me he's going. Between the hours of 6-7. Weird? Who does that? "Hi, we've been flirting but never touched, wanna come to a sex shop with me?"

The answer, however, is yes. Because I'm easy like that.

Now all I have to do is find that contractor's number and... Oh, wait, I didn't tell you about the contractor? Two guys were rebuilding a porch down the road from Pea's place, and I'd pass them twice a day, sometimes more, just goin' about my business. One was chatty. He was the shorter, hairier one. He gave me his card. Twice. The tall hot one was flirty but, alas, did not speak English. Or Italian, Spanish or Latin. I was at a loss. Hairy didn't speak so clearly, either, but I comprehended more than I let on when he mangled something like, "Why you no call me?" the other week.

My descriptions are unfair. He's merely Lebanese; the hairiness can't be helped. He was actually quite handsome, despite the shortness. And the big gold chain, complete with overstated crucifix a-danglin'. Hmm, no, actually that's where the handsome part stopped.

And then there's Uly. We're running an abridged version of our friendship right now. It's necessary. He can't know how much I worry about him. And I don't like to think about the little slips he's made about how important I am in his life. We're already ruined. There's no point.

So let's have a vote, shall we?

Death by screw, and not the good kind

Sarah Chessman had a birthday party last night, and I had qualms about going. I haven't been super social of late and wasn't sure if I was up to faking social niceties with strangers. But, I have a rule. Some of you have heard me say it. When I'm asked to go somewhere and have no conflicting plans, I go. It's a rule that's supposed to work against my social anxiety. It forces me to flip a switch in my head that says, "Too bad, you're already going. Nothing you can do but get there." This causes the same fatalistic tranquility I get on Amtrak trains - You're on. You can't get off. Eventually, you have to arrive. What's the point in worrying?

Of course, I still get anxious, and the actual event tests my limits. Sarah had reserved tables at Big City and there were tons of people there on a Saturday night. I have a hard time at venues like this, where people you've been introduced to at prior parties lie in wait like land mines. Each face forces an extended study: Have I met you? Do I remember your name? What do you know about me? My usual knee-jerk reaction includes a few more questions: How do I make you more comfortable in this awkward situation? Who is depending on me to make this easier?

I do have room for enjoyment, of course. That's why I have the rule that I have to go to these things in the first place. I always enjoy myself in some way, even if it's a tiny pleasure. Often the pleasure comes from discovering that I'm still capable of social graces. Such was the case last night. I talked to strangers, old acquaintances, and the birthday girl with surprising ease. A friend of Sarah's even asked for my email (I fear he means to send me chapters from a novel-in-progress, but he was also flirting).

And just as I was nibbling at birthday cake, congratulating myself on a job well done, I chomped on something very hard.

"What the..."

I sucked the chocolate off of whatever it was and, with all possible delicacy, removed it from my mouth.

"It's a freakin' screw!"

The dude who was chatting me up was similarly dumbfounded. I showed it to Sarah, who said it wasn't planted on purpose. I thought it might have been a party game. Not so. It was a 1 inch screw. In chocolate frosting. In my mouth. Hunh.

I wish I cavorted with gypsies more often. They could tell me what a screw in my cake signifies.

Sadly for chatter-upper-boy, it didn't mean he was getting one any time soon. We left as soon as I got the frosting off my fingers and we'd paid our tab.

Listless

(As much as you people must love my lists, that's not the kind of listless I mean. It's pure coincidence that this post doesn't have one.)

My phone showed a missed call. It was Papabiv. Checked voicemail. He's in New England this weekend, the people he's here to see have flaked out on him. He has free time--do I have free time?

I do. Acres of it. None of it is free enough to put myself through another dinner with Dad.

Once I realized this, the tears started coming. That was about an hour and a half ago. Now I can't stop. I spent some time laying on my bed with the music on very loud, my hands uncomfortably pinned behind my back. My bald spot...

Well, I had this literary moment the other day, much like this one, when I thought of my dad's natural baldness, and how my illness is making me more and more like him. Physically. A bald spot.

I have to call him back at some point to tell him I'm too busy to see him. I can't be crying when I call. I've picked up most of the clothes on my floor, sorted them. Played Snood. Back to laying with the hands pinned. Put more clothes away. Sing along with Leela James. Still crying.

My new favorite semi-mindless game

priddy pictures

24 hrs

Wednesday:

10:00pm - Went out for a post-chorus drink with Rickety Split (J.P. Licks boy) to celebrate some person's dodgeball victory. Met roommates. Did not press vagaries of friendship. Enjoyed self.

11:40pm- Remembered I had to work next day.


Thursday

12:40am - Arrived home, got me ready for bed.

1:50am - Looked at clock, wondered why I was awake enough to read it.

3:30am - Turned clock around so I would stop looking at it.

5:50am - Turned it back around, sure I didn't set the alarm. (I did.)

7:15am - Alarm went off. Michael Bolton singing. Terrible way to start the day. Luckily, I set my clock a good twenty minutes fast and I was able to soothe that terrible start with a wee nap.

8:08am - Miraculously got out the door with wallet, cell phone, coat, scarf, mittens, ke... Waaaait a minute, where are those keys?

8:10am - Buzzed upstairs neighbor and tried to communicate the fact that I could see my keys dangling in my door's lock. She eventually let me in to retrieve them.

8:30am on the frickin' dot - Pea's dad opened the door proclaiming, "Pea, looks who's here!!" Pea looked, burst into tears and buried her head between Dad's knees. I picked her up. She stopped immediately and asked for milk.

9:40am - Cleaning people arrived. Pea refused to eat breakfast because, according to her, the entertainment had arrived.

10:30am - We met up with a nanny friend to hoist ourselves to the Children's Museum

12:00pm - Arrived at museum. Yes, an hour and a half later... Chased lil people around, had some fun, turned them around and got them back on the T.

1:20pm - Pea fell asleep on the T. I swore loudly. Several strangers rebuked me with their eyes.

1:40pm - Rewarded myself and extended Pea's nap with black raspberry ice cream. At J. P. Licks. Shush now.

2:40pm - Got Pea home, put her in her crib though she was partly awake. She whined unconvincingly, fell asleep for another hour and a half.

4:30pm - Susan P. Bloom called me, asked me to meet her at The Huntington Theatre at 7:30. I said yes immediately, filled with absolutely unfettered joy upon hearing that her grandson arrived safely at last! I hung up and wondered if I was conscious enough for theatre.

7:30pm - I was conscious enough. It was Les Liaisons Dangereuses. The set and costumes were amazing, the crowd was unresponsive despite quality acting. Bloomers updated me, asked pointed questions, received vague answers.

10:00pm - Dropped off by Bloomers, tired beyond belief but somehow sated.

11:36pm - Listened to Ben Harper. Thought of my grad school friends. Felt my eyes crossing with exhaustion.

Oh, Virgin Megastore, you cruel mistress

Now in my incredibly tasteful collection (in alphabetical order):

fiona apple, extraordinary machine
jackson browne, for everyman
jeff buckley, mystery white boy
dogs die in hot cars, please describe yourself
ben harper et al., burn to shine
leela james, a change is gonna come
bonnie raitt, souls alike

I usually limit myself to my list, only buy 6, do the punchy card thang and get a free one, but apparently one of the CDs was only $7 and thus didn't figure into the deal, so I HAD to get the Jeff Buckley CD. Really, I did.

How come nobody told me that Ben Harper would ROCK MY FRIGGIN WORLD? You? And you? Why no tell JoBivius?

Oh yes, the perks of nannying...

I remembered the reasons I chose/fell into nannying for work; no cubicles, I get to play outside every day, and I'm laughing all the time. On most days, anyway. Even today, when I had to be there at the ungodly hour of 7am, which meant I had to get up at 5 so as to limit shower schedule interference in my apartment.

So as to. What a terrible charm bracelet of meaningless words. Orwell would be annoyed with me.

As I was saying, even today, when I could barely keep my eyes open, I had a five-minute-straight giggle fit resulting from Pea losing a shoe and peglegging around the house, marveling at her weird gait and the funny pad-tap sound of her footsteps. She kept looking up at me to grin as though she'd just won some kind of prize. "Look how clever I am!"

Also, Pea prefers reggae. WERS plays a steady stream during her dinner time, and she bops her head while she smushes avocado between her fingers.

ALSO, Pea fell asleep in the stroller one friggin' block before we got to the apartment. Usually, she wakes up when I take her out and acts like she's been asleep for four hours, ripping the place apart and making me nuts, so I tried to wake her up immediately. She was out. Limp. Useless. Halfway up the second flight of stairs, she groggily lifted her head, looked at me, smiled, and gave me an open-mouth-on-cheek baby kiss. Then she snuggled into my shoulder and let out an unladylike snore.

sometimes i feel like i don't have a partner

sometimes i feel like I'm all alone
it's the city I live in...


This past week was much too lonely. The coming week can't possibly be anything like it. I can't allow it. Nope.

I'm feeling that restlessness in between my ribs, like something is trying to stretch me or crush me there, like my lungs are forced to push honey in and out, then suddenly nothing, no air, something too light.

I walked to Comm. Ave today, to Guitar Center. I had driven myself crazy last night trying to tune my guitar, and then decied, duh, I need to buy a tuner. So today that thought served as a beacon. Yes, Jo, you have an excuse to leave the apartment. Go get the damn tuner. I planned my purchase the whole way, playing and replaying the coming transaction with each step. I walked down Longwood toward Kent, turned onto this little street called Marshal. There are brick houses on one side, brick condos on the other. I crossed Beacon and walked up to the park on Amory, walked on the grass that can't decide if it's frozen or not. A little white dog yapped around my legs and I stopped my brain to say hello to her. She seemed to smile and slid back down the hill to her owner. I thought, "You go in, there's a person on the left who stamps the receipts as people leave. You can ask him where the tuners are. Nevermind, you know where they are; to the left. You go back to the counter there, and there are always two people working. They're always just kids. Always boys. Ask one for a tuner for an acoustic guitar. You want one that's about twenty dollars. Simple. He'll be the expert, let him show you the choices. Choose one, then pay with your debit card. You can pay with the debit because you found that check in a card Mom sent in November. You'll have to tap in your PIN. It'll take a bit. It'll take a bit. You'll have to wait. Then get the receipt, but don't put it away. The boy will tell you to show it to the person at the door as you leave. You'll say 'thank you.' You'll walk over with your receipt and the bag with the tuner in it. The person will ask for it. You show it to him. He takes the receipt, stamps it, gives it back. You go out the door, turn left. It's done after that. Go straight home."

It took three revolutions of that before I reached Guitar Center. It's a long walk, but it prepared me. The receipt-stamper was a girl, and I was surprised that I hadn't allowed for that possibility in my brain. The boy who helped me asked if I wanted a chromatic tuner. I said yes, and that I didn't know why they bothered making the old kind. He laughed a little. "You want something simple, right?" I nodded. "This is your best bet. It comes with batteries, they never run out, it's chromatic... twenty bucks." "That's the one." He took my debit card when I handed it over. He swiped it for me, then I used a lil stylus to put in the number. It slipped out of my hand and onto the crowded counter. My heart raced. I felt my skin burning. The words came out slowly, though, like I'm not a freak, "I'm sorry about that." He smiled back, "Oh, no prob, I got it. Okay, make sure you show this receipt to the girl at the door..." I was nodding already; I knew that part. Nodding, turning, there's the girl, she stamps, out... The air was cold and I breathed it in sharply, like a new baby shocked into extra-womb life. There were tears bobbling on my lashes. Fucking tears.

Did I mention I have an appointment with my doctor for the first week of February? This has to stop.

Pokeroke!

Action indeed!

Yesterday I managed to:

1. Call Masshealth to update my information
2. Call my doctor (yes, I have a doctor, although I've only seen her once) to set up an appt.
3. File away all the extraneous papers in my life
4. Make it out the door for POKEROKE!

What, you ask, is pokeroke? Why, it's poker and karaoke, of course!

Ok, ok, sounds much fancier than it is. My friend British Jo had some people over at her place, and I guess they usually end up either playing poker or doing Playstation karaoke, and decided that both could happen in one night. The boys circled 'round the poker table, the girls traded the mic back and forth. It was a mixture of "we don't give a shit" maturity and junior high gender segregation. It turns out, by the way, that I suck at Playstation karaoke. It doesn't allow for artistic interpretation. Jerks.

Last night was life-affirming for your favorite JoBiv. I forget that I can be happy and social sometimes, that people are charmed by me, that absolute strangers love to tell me all about their lives. On my way to British Jo's, I stood outside the Leow's Boston Common for about twenty minutes talking to a silver-haired Haitian woman about her teenaged kids and their movie preferences. We talked about nannying a bit, her career and how it got derailed, how she hopes she can help her kids focus more than she has. I think my talk with her was my favorite part of the night. I wanted to ditch pokeroke and go have coffee with her, find out more about her.

That sunshine is working its magic, I think. I walked home from the South End today to git me summore.

Sun, quiet, action

It's been a better day.

I met a friend (an ice cream scoopin' friend) for breakfast at a diner in Allston. I told him of my amazing plans for the day, since today is a perfect day for a "JoBiv Really Does Live in Boston" walk. He had chores to do and scampered off, possibly intimidated by my genius.

So off I went. I got on the train, got off at Government Center, walked down the steps, through Quincy Market to the Long Wharf. I was concentrating hard on my thoughts - mostly, "JoBiv, you should be making phone calls and finding a job" type thoughts - when a man in a uniform jacket with a laminated ID solicited me for a donation to help the homeless. I honestly didn't know if he really had anything to do with passing out blankets to homeless people, but I thought, just suppose I give him money and it does help. That would be lovely.

As I dug in my purse, he continued his rapid-fire schpiel, interrupting himself to say, "How are ya today?"

"I'm doing well. It's a beautiful day."

"Yeah it is. So why aren't ya smilin'?"

I wasn't aware that I wasn't smiling, but just then I could feel how much effort it would take to relax the furrow of my brows. Too much effort.

"I guess I'm tired," I said.

"Well you keep walkin', you'll hit sunlight." He gestured behind him, toward the end of the wharf.

"That's my plan."

"You from Boston?" The answer should have been obvious, considering I made eye contact with him in the first place.

"No, but I've been living here..."

"Where you from?"

"Rochester--"

"OH, so you KNOW we're in for it! Enjoy the sun while it lasts!"

Chuckle chuckle.

I continued down the wharf, as planned and instructed, took a picture for a lone tourista, then grabbed the big square cornerstone that catches the most sun. I sat. I watched planes take off. I squinted into the sky to watch gulls catch crumbs thrown by a man in a sateen Pats jacket. I watched the weird brown/blue undulations of the water shouldering up to the stones of the wharf.

I felt the sun warm my right shoulder, my cheek, my thigh. I tried to pay attention to my skin. "This is your skin," I thought. "Only you are feeling what this skin feels right now."

Some kids showed up with skateboards. I watched them for a while. They wrestled with a big orange divider until they had it on its side, then practiced jumping onto it, using its slope as a ramp. Their energy gave me energy.

Well, the sun did, too. The sun and the water and the planes taking off and landing... they could lull you or spark you into action. I chose action.

The Park Dedication

Apparently, I wrote this when I got an invitation to a dedication for Shane's park. I don't know when that was, but the papers I wrote it on were sort of hidden. I found a few other poems, as well, but this one surprised me. I didn't fudge with it as I normally would before showing it. This, after all, is my blog, where I put my least finished thoughts. So, no, the line breaks don't always make sense. And the word choice could be tweaked and simplified. And it wanders. I'm strangely attached to it despite all of those faults. I'm surprised at how... I guess the right word here would be vitriolic... I had a great sense of isolation every time I had an invitation to join others in mourning.

They must have gathered

On the still-seamed sod—

Sod treacherous to high heels,

Though I can guess who wore them:

His girlfriend, first and only,

Girlfriend of two weeks, carrying her grief

Like a halo, or merit badge, surely

In high heels. His mom, a nurse,

Would have more sensible shoes—

Flat sandals, very likely. But the

College friends, the girls, all the

Fake flirtations, the girls who pulled

Him closer for effect, to be able to

Say, “you know that heart transplant kid?

I’m tight with him,” not knowing his

Mal-nourished, underdeveloped body

Produced hormones, too, for them.

I’m glad I didn’t go. Two years

Since the first eulogy, why are we

Addicted to mourning Shane? His

Death day, his transplant day, his

Birthday, his favorite holidays, we

Send each other yet another eulogy.

Maybe we feel collectively cheated,

Having listened to the priest glorify his

Christianity (which, in truth, was incidental)

And talk of his love for school, his

Academic dedication (which was

Mythical or errant). We, who knew

Him, fight his canonization, argue

For his sins and transgressions, tiny

As they were. Confessing them

For him—does it cleanse us,

Make us more holy?

I didn’t go this time. It’s unnatural

Anyway, to force this fraternity

Which, had he lived, would have dissolved

Three months after graduation. This,

The sod, is all we have in common—

The compulsion to eulogize, the feel

Of our heels piercing through, sinking

In, it’s such a comfort.

If he’d known about the park, I think

He would have rolled his eyes,

Huffed about his mom, in the familiar

Loving way we huff when moms

Straighten ties or tuck a shirt tag in. He knew

The ramifications of dying young, the hopeless

Gestures of community to shift out of the terrible

Embarrassment of having seen this coming.

So I chose to stay away as he

Chose to die—out of laziness?

More like exhaustion, too-thorough knowledge

Of how all these things unfurl if one goes forward.

The initiations, the pain of each step,

The explanations, and wondering when

The morning will come, if it will ever come,

The dawn of having all of it gone,

Behind you. I think of each of us

Like gear-work clocks haphazardly engineered—

Each gear creating new problems, each

Solution too quickly executed, filling

Us with redundant movement, the

Original problem eased infinitesimally—

Throw it away, he thought. Throw

The goddamn clock away.

I assume the mourners function better,

Cloistered against this truth—his willingness,

I mean. And I keep trying to allow all things

At once: grief, nostalgia, entropy, whatever.

Oh, I should also say relief.

Singing and Happiness

On Tuesday, NPR's All Things Considered broadcast a piece about community choirs. It's very lovely, and true to my experience. Have a listen if you please.

Ten pieded, Señor

Ten piedad de nosotros

If I ever pray again, I might be able to pray in Spanish. The way the soft d curls into my tongue feels holy, penitent, and worshipful. The way an r flips feels private, a tiny genuflection against the roof of the mouth.

It reminds me of the one song that brought tears to my eyes in church when I was younger.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Oh, Lord!

Sometimes it causes me to tremble
tremble
tremble…

Even now, I can’t sing those words without feeling. Is it in me? Is it possible for me to have faith?

Dios, estoy desapareciendo. Ten piedad.

On Holiday

I have the week off. I've spent a lil time being peeved that I couldn't get a full week for Christmas, but lo, now a WEEK off a month later... I can't travel again, can't afford it, so I'm here in Brookline, brooding a bit.

Thus the job search marches on.

My goals for the week:

1. Send out three resumes.
2. Cook well (from Sarah's cookbook, methinks!)
3. Get the hell out of the apartment (to museums? something fun...)
4. Get CDs sent out - they're ready to go, I swear!
5. Work on novel abandoned last year
6. One phone call to a friend I miss per day.

Doable, right?

I'll keep you posted.

Hello, may I take your disorder?

I should start a drive-through clinic. That would be tons o' fun.

Today was a lil crowded for me and my current antisocial anxieties. It was a beautiful day, so of course we went to the park. A bunch of nannies, grandmas, with familiar kids came out of the woodwork to see the blue skies. I just didn't feel like talking to them. I whisked Pea away, and just as she got settled into her nap, Baby Daddy came home.

"How are you, Johanna? I mean, besides tired, because you look tired."

"I'm tired."

"Take a nap! Why don't you just lie down on that couch? I'll just do some work in the back room..."

By "do some work" he meant "roam the apartment to find pots and pans to bang together."

Pea woke, her bottle was interrupted in a thoroughly predictable manner, I whisked her off to a concert in Coolidge Corner. Her music teacher just released a CD of songs for children, and it's excellent. (Vanessa Trien - it's bluegrassy, funky, intelligent stuff, for those of you with kiddles.) She had this concert at a store called Magic Beans, which has a play space about the size of my Beacon St living room. There had to be, oh, 40+ children there, with assorted chaperones. Cla-oo-stra-phobia.

It was very nice to see a mom and baby we knew from music class, who burned out just about the same time we did. I got up to leave, and lo, there was Auntie.

"Hi Johanna! This is quite a crowd! You sticking around? M- (Auntie's 3 yr old daughter), say 'hi' to Pea!"

"It's a little crazy in here... Pea's looking a little flushed."

"YOU're looking a little flushed... Here, can you watch M and hold J (3 month old) while I run out for a sec?"

I said, "sure." Because I'm the type of person who always says, "sure." Because, really, what else are you gonna say to the sister of your employer who wants to see you confident and ready to handle any lil situation that pops up?

I'm recalling Fall '04, when I tried to make myself say something, ANYTHING, to the T driver once a day. I'm swimmin' in exactly the same amount of anxiety now, and yet the expectations for my performance are much, much higher.

The thing is, when thrown in with other people (social anxiety), I begin to feel like they're all watching me (paranoia) and my throat closes up (panic attacks) and I respond by pretending I'm super-bold and exciting (multiple personality disorder) or pulling my hair out (self-mutilating), and of course, it's all TEN THOUSAND times worse with (insomnia).

12 is my bedtime. Off I go to stare at the blinds and block out the scuttles of mice in my closet with my racing thoughts. Gosh, I'm fun.

Mmmmooooan

Some of my gentle readers will soon receive an extraordinarily well-mixed cd of jazzy/funky tunes. One of them is an Al Green track (not to ruin the soooprise). He says/sings at the very end:

"Sometime I feel like I want to moan about it
and I just don't know what to say i..."

There's another song in which he says something like, "I have to cross my arms and just moan about it..."

That's pretty much my inclination these days. I want to hug myself and moan. It's partially sexual frustration, as Mr. Green conveys, and partially loneliness, anxiety, invisibility... That's the thing. I can't explain it in any real way. Sometime I feel like I want to moan about it.

Tooth loss, Dad loss

"Hey Dad, you called?"
"Hi Joey! Yeah, I just called."
"Yeah? So what's up?"
"Well I was wondering what you're doing tomorrow," he said hopefully.
"Umm, well I have choir. Where are you?"
"Still in Milford. I lost that contract..."
"The one you were working on for a week?"
"Yep, that's the one."
"Awww... Dad, that sucks. I'm really sorry to hear that..."
"Yeah, I did suck."
"... umm. It's the first one you've lost, right?"
"Wanna hear something funny?"
"... sure..."
"I lost a tooth."
"What?"
"Yeah, I lost a tooth. Right in the front. I look like a jack-o-lantern."
"What??"
"I bit into a piece of brown bread and it fell out. I was having lunch with a client."
"Wait, from the root?"
"Yeah, like a second grader. It was so weird."
"Does it hurt? What the Hell??"
"I know, weird, huh?"
"Very..."
"I got it fixed, no biggie."
"No, you don't understand. It's very, very weird. I have nightmares about my teeth falling out all the time."
"Aww Joey, really?"
"Yes! All the time!"
"That's really strange..." he chuckled uncomfortably, like maybe he'd just damned me to a life of leaping teeth.
"Wow. Very." Involuntary shudder. "Well, I have choir tonight, in like ten minutes." Was that bitchy?
"Oh honey, well, so you have choir tomorrow night, you said?"
"Yes, from 7-10." Slight exaggeration. (It's actually 7:15 to about 9 or 9:30.)
"Well I was thinking of going to this place on the South Shore, Blahdeeblahblah (don't recall what he said here, it had a name), but you said you might have plans, so..."
"Yep, choir."
"But during the day?"
"I have an appointment with the career counselor."
"Oh. Oh, right. Well, I guess you're busy."
"Yeah. Sorry, Dad."

In that moment I had a sudden vision. I could see my dad pacing with the phone in his hotel room in Milford, the weight of his business failure pushing him into a stoop, his brows creased in their expressive way, a way that says, "my daughter hates me. All I need in this world is a nice drink and some friendly conversation..." But I hadn't lied. I have appointments tomorrow. I do have choir. I can't cancel all of that.

I hate this transition, from daughter to mother. I refuse to mutate.

"So when do you get to head back to Rochester."
His tone was brisk, professional, upbeat. "This Friday. I've got to open up a new client on Thursday and then I'll head back for the weekend, come out again on Sunday night or Monday."
"Sounds good, Dad." I could have asked, then, if he'd be around next week, mentioned that I have the week off. I didn't. I said, "Well, choir's about ready to start..."
"Oh, okay honey, I'll let you go."
"Alright, Dad. Keep your teeth in."
"Ha! I'll try. Love you, JoMary."
"Love you, Dad."

"Yes, but how ARE you?"

Baby Daddy wouldn't leave me alone today.

I hope you can understand how annoying this man can be. For a psychiatrist, a LOT gets by him that he should really notice. I mean, I'm a frickin' mess in general. I've been wondering when he'd pull me aside and ask me serious questions since the day they hired me.

Instead, he surfaces from his weird Monday ritual of teasing the baby with his presence behind a door that doesn't completely shut to ask me if I'm sleeping.

No. The answer is no.

He continues to siphon away my only break time, Pea's naptime, by asking about my sleeping issues and nighttime rituals and possible causes of sleeplessness. I answer politely, my responses short and guarded. I get the distinct feeling that he may not be listening because he cares, but because he has to prove to me that he is, in fact, a psychiatrist. Of course, this may be my defensive attitude kicking in, as I do, in fact, feel a bit attacked.

After a good thirty minutes wasted in this halting conversation, Baby Daddy appears to be done offering advice. He gets up, leaves the living room. I pick up my book (he'd interrupted the last chapter of my Agatha Christie), sigh a big sigh, and begin to read.

"Oh, and Johanna... I hope you don't have any anxiety about your future as pertains to us."

Huh? Can he see my heart racing?

"A lot of anxiety comes from future-planning, and Baby Mama and I both know that you're young, educated, intelligent... You won't be with us forever. So whatever anxiety you have, don't waste any on how we'll handle it if you have to move on to another job."

I plastered a teetering smile on my face, not sure what to say. Luckily, the man likes to talk.

"I mean, we feel honored, truly, to have you taking care of our daughter. You're amazing with her, and we feel so lucky to have found you, but we also know that there are other things out there for you."

"I do have a Master's to pay off."

Chuckles all around.

"So... yeah. Just don't let that worry you. If you have to go, we'll cope. We'd like to have you for ten more years or ten more weeks... whatever you can manage... but we'll figure it out no matter what you decide."

Hmm. Now I can't tell if Baby Daddy is incredibly shrewd, or a very good blunderer. Either way, I feel a bit exposed. (I can't wait to share this with my career counselor.)

in which I am a naked fish.

All the movements of my life add up to minutiae. The more I flail, the smaller the ripples become, each collision bearing tinier ripples.

I used to have the same daymare over and over when I was living in my parents' house. I would be sitting at dinner, trying to tell them something I deemed important. They'd contradict me or shush me and then I'd have this daymare. I would see them trying to eat, and their forks would turn blazing red with heat, melting their hands to the handles. I would try to warn them as the metal began to glow. I would scream but had no voice. Their hands would begin to shake, their muscles straining to keep the fork from attacking their chests. If I could just make a sound, they would be okay. My throat would close up... in the daymare, in real life. I had that same terrifying dream on Friday with my father.

He called me Thursday, asking for me to come out to Milford and use the hotel pool and jacuzzi, make a day of "partying" with him (read "drinking"). I told him I was free Friday night but wanted to stay local. Long story short, we spent three hours in his car, with his Masshole/Dad hybrid style of a driving, getting lost due to contradicting my directions, eventually eating at a Naked Fish in Natick.

Again, he gave his weird drink request before we were completely seated at our table. I don't remember the particulars. The basic concept: liquor, straight, but not so straight that you'll only serve me a shot of it. Thank you very much.

Although the conversation was painful at this point, I ordered dessert, knowing full well he had to drive me home, then himself to his hotel. During dessert he told me his plans for a trip to Orlando he'd planned for him and mom. He works once a month, then spends it before the month is out.

My throat just aches. It has to go away soon. This is only holiday homecoming aftermath, after all. I just feel so tiny and ineffectual right now. I feel invisible, insulated... I hate the worry lines etching deeper and deeper between my eyebrows.

JoBiv's Big Adult Day

Oh I am so grown up. I made not one, but TWO big girl phone calls today:

1. To Mary Ryan, my former boss at the preschool, to inform her that I'm jobsearching and ask if I could use her as a reference again.

2. To the Simmons Career Education Center, to set up an appointment.

And then, because I am lovable and capable and gosh darnit, people like me, I left the apartment and went to Simmons. I visited with Cathie, letting her know I'm looking for work. She gave me a few interesting ideas and complimented my shoes. I visited the Ch. Lit. suite and got Bloomers' holiday booktalk list. I went to see this career counselor lady and saw Jane in the same suite. I endured a brain-squeezing interview with aforementioned counselor, and came away mostly unscathed.

And because I had spent my whole day being adult-like and not doing my laundry, I went Lechmere to buy underwear.

Oh, and...

Ah-po. Pea's new word of the day. She is perfect. (She also ate an ah-po whole with her razor sharp chipmunk teeth.)

Roommates. Ugh.

So, apparently the question, "Did you notice we have mice, Maye?" translates to, "Feel free to leave heaping trash bags of food on the floor and candy in dishes all around the apartment," in Super Christian.

Hoppy Nuh Yor

(That's how the Community Choir director made us say it.)

How was your New Year's Eve? Did it SUCK? Mine didn't, nyah nyah.

Brigee came to visit just for the night and we had a swell time. I sent out an evite to a very small number of people in hopes of having a bit o' wine and cheese and a very chill night. Everyone had other plans (plural - no one ever has just ONE plan for New Year's Eve, which is why it sucks). So Brig and I got to talk and eat Thai food and haaang the hell out. Eventually we decided we should join the rest of humanity, but we didn't want to join the malicious throngs of First Nighters. Instead, we went to Bukowski's.

Now, we ended up at Bukowski's a few years back (our first year in Boston? We don't recall) after attempting to make good use of our First Night buttons. After wandering aimlessly, catching a bit of good music, catching the sad remnants of an improv comedy show, we finally stumbled into Bukowski's. Things were different there... The bouncer wore a "Fuck New Year's!" shirt, as did the guy sitting on a stool just inside the door. We took out our wallets, and asked what the cover was. He said, "one dollar." Weird, right? We both got out a dollar. "Nooo," he said, "we GIVE you a dollar. Fuck New Year's!" Ahh... home.

So this year we were banking on a very happy Fuck New Year's party. Off we went, hoorah hooray, and yes, Bukowski's had the same schtick going on. As soon as we walked in and cased the joint for seating (there was none), there were two strange young men thrusting their hands out for shaking.

"Do you wanna arm wrestle me? Left-handed..." said the guy with the ridiculous Thoreau-esque beard and knit hat. "I'm Daniel."*

"Hi Daniel. And, no."

"C'mon... you look like you have amazing muscles. Left-handed?"

"I'm not, if that's what you're asking."

"No, I mean... How about a thumb wrestle?"

"I need a drink."

Meanwhile, a very eager-looking skinny kid with WIDE OPEN EYES insinuated himself into my space.

"Hi, I'm Ian."

"Nice to meet you, Ian. Do you want to arm wrestle him, please, so I can get a drink?"

"What?"

At this point it may help to tell you that Bukowski's is a great alternative to Boylston bars except for one sticky thing: the music is waaay tooo loud. If you told the barstaff, they would say, "Fuck you, go to Whiskeys." But, since you're at Bukowski's to avoid the Boylston Bars, you say nothing. Or, you say everything VERY LOUDLY.

Ian leaned in very, very close, and shouted, "What's your name?"

"I'm Jo. And this is Brigid."

That was unkind of me. Brig smiled nicely and shook the boy's hand. It was then that I noticed he was wearing a headband in his shaggy dark hair.

Daniel reached over to the girl sitting next time, touched her shoulder... she got up and moved somewhere else, smiling apologetically - to me? to Daniel?

Brig and I somehow ended up with two seats at the bar. It was a Christmas miracle, I decided. We got drinks, we paid for them, we got settled in... I was waiting for a boy to call, Brig was waiting for her brother to call, and we were both cautiously deflecting the attentions of Daniel and Ian.

Eventually, Brig's brother showed up with a friend, Ben. I somehow ended up thumb wrestling Daniel (he had very small hands and I won), and turned back to Brig to hear something about hair bands.

"Like Poison?"

She burst out laughing... "No, no, Ian's wearing one!"

"Yes, yes he is..."

Eventually, midnight rolled around. We joined the muted celebrations around the bar (it was, after all, a Fuck New Year's party). Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I sat looking at the people in the bar who I would allow to touch me. They were all in front of me: Brig, Pat, and Ben.

Imagine my incredible bewilderment when a gaping mouth and two wide-open eyes came over my shoulder, wedging between Ben and me. I turned my head JUST in time...

"Happy New Year, girls!" Ian screeched.

In the same moment, Daniel touched my other shoulder. I turned, welcoming the interruption from Ian's attentions.

"So what are the chances of someone hooking up with your friend Bridget."

"Brigid."

"Brig... what are the chances?"

"Nil. That's her brother behind me."

Daniel registered this, turned to look at the Air Force Academy grad, not tall but certainly built, hovering defensively over his sister.

"Oh."

It seemed kinder than telling him that she doesn't go for thumb wrestler's who dress like Thoreau and mumble through their beards about living without heat and without debt and insisting on paying for drinks then forgetting when the bartender comes around... He wouldn't have heard half of that anyway.

So, after two beers and quite enough attention from our two new friends, Brig and I headed back to Longwood. On the T we reminisced about other goings-out which had ended in ransacking of our local 7-Eleven, witnessed by two stoners who thought we were also high. I had prepared for a Brig and Jo Outgoing, and regaled her with tales of the hummus, cheese, and thin mint cookies cozily nestled in my refrigerator. We sat up for another hour or so, eating and talking. And eating.

A very hoppy nuh yor.



* Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. I don't believe these characters were terribly innocent.

J to the Bivvo and Conan, bff

So no shit, there I was, eating my 4-piece chicken mcnugget happy meal, when I hear a familiar voice. I look over to my left to see CONAN O'BRIEN.

He looks at me at the same time I look at him. I'm startled as I recognize him. I turn back to my "meal" and smile, deciding that I could only dig a terrible, awkward hole if I try to say something, and it would only draw others' attention, and the man is only trying to get his cholesterol to the all-american threateningly high standard levels. So I sat there, went on reading my book, eating my crappy meal. A few minutes later, a man came up to him.

"Mr. O'Brien, I really enjoy your show, and I just wanted to thank you."

"Oh thanks a lot." I then watched in amazement as he turned the man's sincere, but necessarily awkward praise into a short, pleasant conversation. The man is from Framingham, Conan grew up in Brookline, home seeing his family for the holidays. God Bless and good bye. Very gracious, very pleasant.

A woman comes up. "It must be annoying to have people coming up to you all the time."

"Well, I knew what I was signing up for when I started out," says Conan, prepared once more to deflect all nervous chattering and direct it into a sweet, short conversation.

I watched in awe as he handled four or five people, quietly, always happily, never seeming to weary of the pattern, always sure to ask for a name, a town, make the asker feel important. It was impressive, but it had to be tiring.

I was done with my meal and couldn't concentrate on Agatha Christie anymore. I folded myself up and got myself out of my booth. I thought I'd say something, too, but decided against it. I thought of how I hate getting recognized when I'M home, and I'm just talking about High School people, not even complete strangers who know even less about me and assume much.

Still... CONAN O'BRIEN!

Addendum, for the sake of honesty

I think most of my Sitting Ducks scenarios have less to do with spontaneous violence and more to do with my sense of crime and punishment. When I had that particular thought, I was thinking of this morning, when I got to the baby's house to find her utterly ruined... All of my hard nannying work flushed down the toilet. She was a mass of tantrums and power games, and the day was not made any better by her mother's early homecoming. Baby Mama stayed but couldn't let me go, as she was on call for the afternoon. Result: wailing, uncontrollable Pea. Awesome.

I felt that this was my just punishment for two crimes:

1. Thinking I actually deserved a Christmas break in the first place.

2. Sleeping in Davis Square last night.

Don't ask me how they connect to my horrific day with Pea, because the many strands of logic are likely to entangle and strangle me. And then you'd never get to hear about me going on interviews (eventually) and getting a new, fantastic, soul-warming, career-starting job (never).

When, oh when, will I believe in my heart of hearts that I've been punished enough?

Although, having said such a dramatic thing, I have to inform you that the Big U was nigh gentlemanly last night. No moment stood out as a particularly terrifying scene. In fact, there were a few nice ones. Imagine your favorite JoBiv, newly showered, cuddled in his flannel robe and her own pj pants and a big fleece blanket, foretelling the plot twist on a particular episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Or imagine it's 3am, Jo and U swivel in their weird sleepy water ballet, trying to find a comfortable position for continued snoozing. His hand somehow glides over my hair, sweeping it back and resting softly at the base of my scalp. I kiss the soft skin on the inside of his forearm. So sleepy.

Displacement. (No really, the PLANES make me crazy.)

All air travel freaks me out, not just space travel. I realized this, too late, on Friday evening as I boarded some Boeing or other and strapped myself into my seat. The whole experience of flying... it seems like a strange way to get anywhere. I tried to analyze my discomfort, and I think I located it on my return trip while I sat in BWI's Roy Rogers.

First off, it's always ALWAYS creepy when I'm inside a space that's completely sealed. Just the thought that I couldn't crack a window is enough to make my throat clamp. It's not just the planes themselves - that's creepy in its own way, especially if you're leaning against the window and can feel the sides of the plane shuddering - but airports are also completely sealed. Breezes, weather, oxygen... all suspended outside of your bubble. It makes me feel like I'm some unwitting mouse in a vast experiment. Honestly, did you ever notice that airports have no temperature to speak of? They're not cold, they're not warm, yet they're not comfortable. Ever. It's because there are no operable windows, in my opinion. THEY think they know what you want. THEY set the thermostat. THEY don't know that they've forgotten this subtle detail; air.

Granted, I have a lot of "Sitting Ducks" style paranoia* around the holidays, but can you imagine poison gas in an airport bathroom? You're sitting there, trying to float over the seat to avoid some other kind of health hazard, and this insidious yellow mist seeps under the door. If you could crack a window, you could be saved! Oh yes! But this is an airport. They'd rather keep the death on the inside.

Another creepy thing, I think, is that I imagine the gas getting sucked away into some other space that exists for these kinds of occasions. That doesn't make me feel secure, it makes me feel like a lab mouse. It really does.

I also worry about airport security, and it worries me more that airport security has never noticed how much I worry about airport security. I must look completely incapable of crime, because they completely disregard my flushed cheeks, darting eyes, stammering statements, sweaty boarding pass... Really, shouldn't they be giving me a harder time? Instead, I'm sure they say, "Oh god, this girl looks nervous. I'll just make it short and sweet and get her through. Don't want her peein' on my good shoes." Do I not look suspicious?? If I were my fellow passengers, I'd want them to give me a hard time, dammit!

Ugh. I'm not flying again for a good long time. But then, if things work out, I'm not going home for a good long time, either.




*Other "Sitting Ducks" scenarios in JoBiv's head:

1. Mind control through cell phones. Some day a nefarious mad scientist will orchestrate a mass-calling of all cell phones at the same time. We, silly cell phone users, answer simultaneously, thinking we recognize the number. A hypnotizing voice instructs us to walk toward yonder bridge and throw ourselves off. Lemmings. Plop. plop. plop.

2. Toilet paper poisoning. No really, I thought of this the other day. I was thinking of the baby's tylenol suppositories and how quickly her body absorbs the medicine. How easy would it be to plant trace amounts of arsenic in your toilet paper? Every time you wipe your ass, you could be poisoning yourself! Eventually, you'd either build up immunity, or DIE with your ass hanging out! What could be worse? I ask you...

The Post of Revelations

Friday: Former best friend thinks another friend is going to hell because he is gay. (Didn't call her to get together. Can't imagine sitting across from her while she idly sips coffee.

Saturday: No matter how heartbroken I am for my oldest brother Tom (his gf of 7 years dumped him), I still can't talk to him for more than five minutes straight without wanting to kick his ass. (Sidenote -- I AM in love with his dog, Maxine.)

Sunday: I will not fit into my family as long as I stay sober.

Monday: Dan doesn't stick around when I'm home for one reason; He feels no need to impress me.

Tuesday: I only like my father before noon (before he starts drinking), but this is the time when he doesn't seem to like me.

NOT a revelation: I need to get back to Brookline, and fast...

But if I cry now, maybe I won't cry on the plane

Norah and I went to see The Family Stone tonight at the Chestnut Hill Theater. We were feeling antisocial. I don't know, really, what Norah's excuse was, but mine was pre-homecoming anxiety.

Which made this movie a poooor choice indeed. Ms. Norah dropped me off outside of my lovely apartment, and as we said Merry Christmas I was teetering a bit. She said, "You really hate going home that much?"

It's funny, when I actually choose to tell people anything about my family, I just choose a parent. "It's really hard because my mom..." "It's really hard because my dad..." It's silly to say anything because it's all hard. Norah suggested I scream at people before they're drunk. I didn't bother telling her that there doesn't seem to BE a 'before.'

I was just thinking about my teenagerhood in that house. I think it was last night... OH, this is what it was. I go to this salon on Boylston - very expensive, but I finally get good haircuts - and they offer a massage before the shampoo. I always decline. I don't like massages; they hurt, and they remind me of my senior year. I went to physical therapy for my back for a few months before I gave up. The pain and shame were excruciating.

Thinking about that made me remember the really bad days, when my mom would just drive me home and tuck me into bed and call the high school for me. I was absent about once a week for three months. I remembered lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, letting the tears slide into my ears and tickle there. I remembered the long hot baths, trying to soak out all the demons. I remembered my mother knocking frantically to make sure I was still breathing in there, remembered imagining all the things she imagined. When I go home now that bedroom, the bathroom, a certain chair in the living room... they're all demons. If the house were empty for Christmas, I wouldn't be alone.

That sounded a little dramatic and cliche, and I apologize. It's silly to even say that I'm anxious about going home; everyone knows this about me, right? Old news. I guess I'm just perplexed that I can't seem to do anything to help it. I've seen my parents more often, voluntarily. I spent a good weekened with my brother Dan. I'm trying to keep up. I guess I'm trying to keep ahead. It doesn't lessen this panic. My throat will not dilate.

Dusting off the resume

That's IT. I need to start looking.

Things that pissed me off today:

1. Was asked to come early. I thought it was for a reason. Apparently, that reason was so Baby Daddy's normal morning could go a lil more smoothly. I, insomniac Jo, had to interrupt my very fragile sleep schedule because Baby Daddy can't change a morning diaper without falling apart. Not okay.

2. While attempting to catch up on some much-needed-because-interrupted sleep, BD came out to say, "Wow, Pea's dead to the world, eh?" I said, "Yeah, hope she'll hang in there another 20 minutes or so." BD: "Right. Okay." Walks to end of hallway. Slams office door. Wakes Pea.

3. He then GOES INTO HER ROOM AND GETS HER OUT OF HER CRIB!

4. He then PICKS HER UP!!

5. He then puts her in MY much-harrassed arms, where she deservedly bawls her eyes out for five minutes...

6. At the end of the day, Baby Mama calls to let BD know she'll be a lil late. This does not, nor should it, affect my departure at 5:30. I deliver the message. 5:30 comes around. BD: "I guess you should go, Johanna. I think I'll be alright." Umm... that's why my shoes are on and my purse is on my shoulder.

7. BD continues after noting my barely restrained teeth-gritting, "Thanks so much for putting up with us this week... so I'll see you early tomorrow? Is that okay?"

Two items of great importance:

1. Rodney's Book Store had a whole buttload of Lisbeth Zwerger books! I bought them all! I couldn't stop myself! Can you hear my maniacal laughter?

2. Gutter lives! Once in a while I'll check into Friendster and look for people who've disappeared from the face o' the earth, and LO! There was Gutter! Excitement, adventure, discussions in Italian! (Good Italian on his side, broken or worse on mine...)

I'm hereby limiting myself to three exclamations points per post from this day forward. EVEN if I'm quite excited.

I just might hate my cell phone, too

Annoying voice: You have 1 saved messages. First message.

Mom's voice: Hi Joey, I hope you're doing well. We haven't heard from you in a while. I'm just calling to ask when your flight is. I called my doctor and scheduled an appointment for the 29th, but I can change it if you'll already be gone then. Okay, Lovey, call me back. And let me know. Love you! Bye.

Annoying voice: To delete this message, press...

JoBiv: 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7

The All American Family

"So you had a good visit with your brother?" asked Baby Daddy.
"Yeah, it was really good to see him," said I.
"That's great that you're close," said Baby Daddy.
"Well, it's taken a lot of work..."
"Yeah?"
"We didn't always get along. We hated each other in junior high and high school."
"But now you're close?" asked/said Baby Daddy.
"Yes, close enough."
"That's great. You're closest with Smacks?"
"Umm... I guess I am, at the moment. Sometimes I feel I'm closer with Cripps," I said, wondering if he had a point coming.
"Wow, that's great. You have this big house with a big yard and a big family and everyone loves each other... The All American Family."
I let out a strangled giggle and changed the subject.

I hate people, I love people, I hate people

AGH.

First of all, goodgreatgrand news: Dan actually came to Boston! He drove in on Friday (poor lad) and just left this morning. We had a lovely time running around in the slush and snow and generally hanging out. He restrung Lucretia and tuned her for me, and we didn't break out in tears or a screaming match. And he made several people swoon with his dashing good looks and alarming charisma. (I do try to warn people. They are still astounded.) It was a lovely visit overall.

It's funny, last night Dan ended up sleeping on my bedroom floor, and it reminded me of last Christmas, or Easter, or whenever it was that I came home and my brothers sat on the floor while I slumped on the couch, and we all talked about every little thing that was hurting our family. I cried, the boys cried, and when we fell asleep we were curled close to each other, none of us wanting to acknowledge the distance we have to keep from each other. Having Dan close this weekend was great; I got a chance to get used to our humor together, to remember our similar mannerisms, to get sick of him in a loving, sisterly way... It was just nice.

Contrasting with that lovefest, I feel like I'm losing my grip on my friends. I've been so crazy lately -- busy with extra baby hours, hating my extra baby hours, two choirs, dealing with family, etc. -- and I've felt like none of it is worth talking about. For the most part, I hate talking about my life (thus the sad dearth of blog entries). Now people are getting testy with me, and I don't know what to do. I don't actually have the emotional energy to fix whatever it is I've broken. Lately (er... the past many months), I find that I'm just hiding, as though some storm has to pass me over before I can attempt anything.